Late spring; traditionally a time when England puts its sandals on, drags out the Pimm’s and relaxes in front of the cricket as the rugby season rolls to a gentle stop. This year, though, nobody seemed to have told Ryan Lamb about this tradition, I’m fairly certain nobody told London Irish, and the RFU have had their fingers in their ears, quite determined to kick up an oval ball maelstrom, the likes of which professional rugby in this country has never seen with the sun shining. Freddie and the boys would just have to wait.

The final two weeks of the Guinness Premiership season were positively electrifying. Tries rained down with a gay abandon that belied the dour trudgery of the previous 20 weekends, as the hard grounds proved the foundation for exhilarating running rugby, personified by Lamb and encapsulated by the Exiles. Both provided the long overdue “Up yours” to the growing stereotypes of English back play with their pace, their adventure and their infectious confidence.

Quite why this happened, nobody is really sure, less still why it has taken so long. Certain self-serving Premiership clubs have pointed to Leeds’ slump and the subsequent elimination of the fear of the drop as its only explanation, while some have attributed it simply to the state of the weather. But the only way English rugby, as a whole, can benefit from this flurry of delectable offloads and outrageous dummies is to recognise it as what it is: it is the Premiership waking up. Waking up to the fact that their Rugby League-obsessed, defence-orientated, Maximuscle-driven methods are no substitute for good rugby. They weren’t in the 1970s in Wales, they haven’t been in the Heineken Cup for Toulouse and (despite a brief hiatus in 2003) they aren’t now.

By some alarming coincidence, the RFU appears to have set its alarm clock for exactly the same time; obviously after a very good, long rest and with a bottle of Ritalin by the side of the bed, because it has gone mad. With Weston Plans, Long Form Agreements, controlling stakes in Premiership clubs and ringfencing spewing forth from Twickenham at a constant rate of one controversy a day, it’s a wonder that they had the time to hire a new coaching staff. The constant contractual wrangling and mild sense of panic gave the impression of a man moving house without buying any furniture, after Phil Larder and Joe Lydon were removed from their posts at the beginning of May, but the RFU got what – and more crucially, whom – they wanted in John Wells, Mike Ford and Brian Ashton, so all was looking well.
Now, though, summer is well and truly upon us, and all is looking bleak once again. Messrs Flintoff, Rooney, Murray et al had better find some form because this summer there is not a man, woman or child in England who wants to think about rugby. The tour to Australia was disastrous. Two defeats of considerable magnitude to an admittedly resurgent Wallabies side piled fresh anxieties on the mountain of problems already faced by Andy Robinson and his new team. Although the tepid levels of intensity and backline impotence can be blamed on the players, most of them are entirely self-inflicted.

(Lies, damned lies and…) A win rate of below 50%; only 4 wins from 14 matches against IRB founder nations; no wins at all against said nations away from home; 5 defeats on the trot – the worst run for 22 years; 4 tries scored in the last 5 games. These pointless facts and figures pertaining to his tenure are nothing compared with the glaring ineptitude of Robinson. Since he was cemented into his position after the RFU Performance Review, many of his critics have bottled their vitriol towards the man who still maintains that England’s defence of the World Cup is looking as solid as Martin Johnson’s shoulders, but now (in this corner, at least) the gloves are off.

If Robinson was to make the same mistakes over and over again, it might be possible to forgive the man, to have some blind faith in his grand scheme. But it seems that every match brings a fresh batch des faux pas to the table, each more bafflingly inexplicable than the last. The pack that started the first Test in Sydney did not have a bona fide ball carrier anywhere in sight. The pack to start in Melbourne only had a registered openside through injury, and no line-out options in the back row. England’s best back from Sydney, Mathew Tait, was shunted out to the wing for Melbourne (after Robinson proclaimed that the 20-year-old’s future lay at centre) where he was substituted, presumably so Tom Varndell and Iain Balshaw could complete what, over the course of 160 minutes, looked like an audition for The Gong Show. In doing so, Robinson moved Jamie Noon to the wing where he was never going to be a match for Mark Gerrard’s pace. Even though he knew that the second half of the Melbourne Test would feature uncontested scrums, Robinson sent the immobile Tim Payne onto the field in place of Louis Deacon. Robinson actively encouraged Balshaw to engage in a long-range kicking duel with Chris Latham (just as the book of Samuel dropped from his pocket, one would imagine). All this, in the space of one week.

I will always refuse to acknowledge that all hope is lost for the World Cup, but I am on the verge. All the promise and class shown in fits and starts this season from Sheridan, Borthwick, Lund, Jones, Hodgson, Tait and Abbott means nothing if they are omitted, misused or mistreated (see Abbott for a prime example) by the man in charge. It speaks volumes that no more than 3 of the men mentioned have ever started an International match together. The supposed “Dream Team” of coaches will be of little to no use if Robinson continues to change to personnel and the gameplan that they have to work with every 5 seconds. If England’s Autumn Tests go with the form book, it will be 9 defeats on the spin, and only 8 wins from 22. Robinson and all his backers will have to find new and innovative ways to defend the indefensible.

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