As you may read from the article above, Wales' national poet Gwyneth Lewis has attacked the WRU in verse after the Ruddock-'Player Power' debacle. Now to put my own thought on things, I really dont know who is to blame in this entanglelment of lies and uncertain intentions. But one thing is for sure, Welsh rugby (and just like Welsh football) has pressed the self-destruct button just when things were at the top. The WRU have acted so unprofessionally in this mess and they should be ashamed of themselves for once again putting our nation's game into the funny pages of our neighbour's newspapers. London is still laughing at us, and I dont blame them. In the recent criticism of the Andy Robinson, England coach after their defeat against France the RFU stated that:
"Andy's got a contract to the end of the World Cup. I see no logic in committing coaching suicide as per the Welsh." (Taken from the BBC)
'Coaching suicide' is perhaps the best way to put it. You can feel the condesending tones in there can't you? But they have a right to be - I certainly would, because we ballsed it up. Totally. We gave Italy their first away Six Nations point for Christ's sake. Something is amiss from that Gland Slam side I cheered for last year.
Anyway, getting back to the point, here is the peom taken from that article from Gwyneth Lewis. Enjoy!
A WOODEN SPOON FOR THE WRU
I have consulted the mistletoe, stared at starling footprints in snow: the time is ripe for your overthrow
I give you a spoon I shaped of ash because you didn't nurture the flash of play but thought, maybe, of cash
Here's a dip I turned from oak but look, in your hands, it slips into smoke.
You've made our last Grand Slam a joke
BY Gwyneth Lewis
I give you a spoon I shaped of ash because you didn't nurture the flash of play but thought, maybe, of cash
Here's a dip I turned from oak but look, in your hands, it slips into smoke.
You've made our last Grand Slam a joke
Actual rugby can never redeem your backroom moves of dodge and scheme.
It's you who need to raise your game
How can a committee always outlive coaches, players?
It's hard to forgive shadowy men with hands like sieves
Here's the last spoon, I carved it from gall: it's you, not the team, who have dropped the ball.
Hang this up, with shame, in your hall.
BY Gwyneth Lewis
1 comments:
what an absolutely terrible poem. I think that even I could do better than that. The metre and 'rhyme' is dreadful.
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