Cracking the Code

It wasn't so much ecstasy as relief, as I ambled across the car park at TG Milner Field, Eastwood. Kit bag draped over the shoulder and beer in hand. I made my way toward the sheds, to remove my Petersham RUFC jersey for the last time. This time, a Kentwell Cup winning jersey. Others opted to keep the sweat sodden jersey on their person until the schooners stopped flowing at some time on Monday. I applaud that. Some twenty to thirty minutes earlier the referee had blown full time, to end Drummoyne's hopes of a Lazarus like comeback. Our pace, precision and points in the latter stages of the first half had flipped the final on it's head and were ultimately sufficient to secure victory. The pitch, itself a little dusty and in need of rest,  was swiftly usurped by Maroon and Blue, some faces familiar, others I didn't recognise. All unified by a passion for Petersham RUFC, and an overwhelming sense of pride in what the club had achieved - not only the Kentwell Cup Prem

Like a kid at Christmas.  Here we go then. Sat on the periphery of gate lounge 63 waiting to board the 1915 Virgin Australia service from Sydney to Christchurch. Where I will commence my 2017 Lions tour. Pretty excited - justifiably so, I would say. In light of the opening two games, I imagine plenty of Kiwis would find my 'Kid at Christmas' level of excitement, somewhat laughable. "Excited bro, your stocking is full of coal, bro", they might say with a snigger and maybe a few more bros. In continuing my festive analogy, they are telling me that the Lions are a turd Rugby team and that I have zero grounds for any happiness or optimism that I foresee myself deriving from the 2017 Tour. I decide to leave this fictitious conversation, it is angering me, nearly as much as paying $15 for a Peroni, pint thereof, some half hour prior. For whatever reason, I am optimistic. They say it's the hope that kills you, right now hope is everything - both for a Lions victory

1888. An Irishman, Englishman, Welshman and a Scotsman walk into a bar. They have a chug and a chinwag, before you know it they agree to create a touring rugby team that will combine the best players from each nation. Delighted with their creation, they move on to discuss who would be selected for said team. They cannot agree. Rather, they agree to disagree in perpetuity. As much as on field unity is paramount to the ability of the British & Irish Lions to be successful on field. The disharmony when it comes to selection discussion is a key indicator that the brand is alive and well in the eye of the rugby public. We value the jersey. It matters who is picked. When it doesn't, it ends. So, with that backdrop, welcome to my inaugural Lions selection meeting/monologue. Conflicts of Interest Admit it. We all have them. Whether it be affinity to players from a certain nation or being a coach who has a son vying for selection. Ok, the latter scenario is unlikely to be appl

77 minutes on the clock, Sam Warburton rips the ball in contact before putting a perfectly weighted nudge down into the French 22. France scuttle back and leather the ball into touch. Wales win the ensuing line out, retain the possession, Barnsey says time's up, ball goes off the park. Wales are victorious in Paris. Back to sleep. From a Welsh perspective, the above would have been a pleasantly mundane end to an average test match. Average at best. Instead Warburton's punt kept rollin, rollin, rollin (Durst 2000), off the green and into the drink - scrum to France back in Welsh territory. One last opportunity for Le Bleu - albeit the wrong shade of Blue, bring back Bleu de France. Stash is important. Rant required. Few phases later, France are camped meters from the Welsh line, the clock turns red and we enter the fifth quarter. The goings on of the nek twenty minutes, yes there was another twenty minutes, would be so farcical that they make the concept of five quarters s

September 15 2008, Bank of America agree a deal to acquire Merrill Lynch. A deal which came as a mighty relief to US Treasury Secretary, Hank Paulson, and the then Chair of the Federal Reserve, Ben Bernanke. Don't worry, I'll get to the rugby bit shortly. Paulson and Bernanke had watched on, as Investment Banking giant, Lehman Brothers filed for bankruptcy earlier that day. They were frantically aware that the aforementioned merger played an important role in stopping the next Domino from walloping Wall Street. The credit bubble had burst. Financial meltdown and that. To put it in a scenario with which we were all familiar, Merrill were Mufassa dangling on the rock edge. Fortunately, Bank of America had a more friendly outlook on matters than Scar, and saved them from falling into the on coming stampede. Rare that the moral compass of an Investment Bank will be given the thumbs up but Scar really was a bad bloke. This was a deal driven by preservation. And this fina

With 70 minutes on the clock, I found myself bemoaning Wales' lack of self control, whilst I simultaneously jumped up and down, trying to keep the expletives to a whisper - albeit a shouty whisper. Pot kettle.... For those of you who have followed my Six Nations journey to this point, I opted against the casino for Saturday morning's 7am KO. Instead leveraging the Hola VPN service to stream the game on my ageing laptop. Upside, I watched the game in the comfort of my bed. Downside, buffering. A word that hasn't been met with a positive reaction since the internet begun. Coverage wasn't all bad, loving the work of Paul O'Connell on comms - impartial, insightful and relevant. Fair to say that my previous offering paid more than mere lip service to George North's involvement, or distinct lack of, against the Scots. I loved the metaphorical two fingers that he stuck up to me with his two tries, and overall impact against the Irish. Get him back on that list, War

The Star Casino, Sydney, bears little resemblance to 'Taly Social' (pronounced Taleee, short for Talybont), the bar at my Uni halls of residence. It bears no resemblance. However, as I exited the gambling emporium at 3:37am on Sunday February 26 2017, vis a vis today, my face held a glum expression that perfectly resembled that with which I departed  the student binge drinking haven on February 10th 2007. The day on which Wales last experienced defeat at the hands of the Scots. As a sign of personal development, I would like to add that the 2017 dejected Welsh fan comes without the Strongbow and Black stains situated within a short radius of the mouth. So, why did Scotland win? They nailed their doubles. No, this is not a reference to the much stereotyped drinking prowess of the Scots, more a darts type analogy used to indicate that Vern Cotter's side were more clinical in converting opportunity into points. And we all know what points mean.....(the answer is prizes).

Pretty sure that I'm not the first punter to vacate Sydney's Star Casino, questioning what could of been, if that last spin had produced a favorable outcome. Certainly won't be the last. However, my disappointment had less to do with a dab handed croupier, more the fleet of foot of Elliot Daly, whose 78th minute try grabbed England a victory that either team would have been entitled to. Such was the contest. As I caught up on social media in the taxi (uber  had surge) home, it was the usual suspects getting grilled, Howley and of course Cuthbert, it was always going to be Cuthbert.  You do know that the Wales lot will blame me for this. To use a cricketing analogy, Cuthbert held down an end for nine overs before getting a walloping in his last. A loose carry surrendered possession at a critical stage before his decision to back his own wheels by offering Elliot Daily the outside proved to be a wrong'un as the Wasps gun turned on the heat to cross for the matc