Sideline Cut: It has been a strange week. Here is England, supposedly all a-quiver because of Woodward's Warriors on a glory run. And yet the streets are full of unrest and trampled effigies, writes Keith Duggan.
It hardly evokes the fabled spirit of 1966. Strange, too, that England should be confronted with the genuinely creepy photographs of the interior of Buckingham Palace the very week that George Bush came to stay. Say what you like about Dubya but you have to admit he must have nerves of steel if he actually closed his eyes and slept in that museum piece of a bedroom. I have not seen drapes like those since the last Hammer Horror season on TV.
Bush's visit has overshadowed the grand finale of England's rugby world. Maybe the reason London's damp streets got so noisy and passionate was down to Bush staying at the palace as much as it was to his political persuasions. The Dorchester may have been tolerable. But the Mall? It was just too cosy and wrong. Bush and royalty do not fit. He is too tanned and slurpy with words. He is too new. True, he does share with Philip an expression of perpetual incomprehension but there the common ground ends. Bush at the palace is like Tony Blair all got up in a stetson, silk stirrups and cowboy boots. And only Cherie gets to see that.
Bush let loose in the palace seems in itself a security risk. This is a man who after all cannot be trusted with savoury dips. The wonder was he didn't accidentally hit the secret panel in the royal library and find himself whirled into the dark, dripping room full of skeletons in shining armour, the remains of deposed princes and, who knows, maybe even Lord Lucan. Imagine the headlines. But the notion of Bush in a library is admittedly ludicrous.
Where this is leading is that I was wondering what GW thought of the rugby. Given there are several continents of whose existence he has only recently become aware, we must assume he was heretofore blithely unaware of the practice of rugby. But we cannot assume from the embarrassingly close exchanges between the two world leaders that Tony would have explained to his buddy how big a deal rugby is and how brilliant England are doing.
I think Dubya would like the English rugger style, would approve of Clive Woodward's use of the Wilkinson sword and would have enjoyed the controversy it has provoked. Yes, George would listen over brandy about the fate of the flaky French and the plucky Irish and would have appreciated this warring of the nations. He would have smiled his slithery smile, knitted his brow as if engaged in heavy mathematics and said something like, "I think the drop kick is a beautiful thing." And if he did say that, maybe Dubya would - possibly for the only time in his life - have made a valid point.
Because the complaints that England have reached today's final without playing rugby are just out of order. Bitching about Woodward's reliance on Wilkinson is like saying New Zealand should not have used Jonah Lomu because he was too big. The reason for the arguments against Wilkinson is that he kicks too well. Woodward has in his possession a player with near supernatural ability to kick a ball and what would he do other than deploy that as ruthlessly and frequently as possible?
The penalty is a problem for rugby, with three points much too high a reward for infringements that are often technical. But Wilkinson's other speciality, the drop kick, is different. As far as I am concerned, it has always been one of the most appealing aspects of the sport. The out-of-the-blue opportunism, the poise and the balance, make it so. We still celebrate Michael Kiernan's Triple-Crown-winning kick here. And again, Ronan O'Gara's epic drop goal against Wales last year is as good as the sport gets. And Jeremy Guscott will be remembered for his single drop goal for the Lions against South Africa in 1997 as much as for all the silken tries he scored for England.
Wilkinson's curse is to suck the drama out of his sport. It is, ironically, his lack of imagination - hours of mental preparation involving an oval ball sailing between two posts again and again - rather than his scope of vision that sets him apart. Johnny doesn't miss, at least when it matters; that is a dull brand of magic but he undoubtedly possesses a singular brilliance.
As a consequence, Wilkinson as coached by England can be a dreary sight. That was always going to be the way. Before the tournament Wilkinson was identified as its chief poster boy, which was a dubious marketing policy. Much better to paint Martin Johnson green, put him in a pair of ripped pants and have him scowl like old Lou Ferrigno.
It must be weird for Wilkinson to continue trying to perfect a style that has earned him the retention of the International Player of the Year Award while simultaneously finding that style derided at rugby's biggest party.
This World Cup has done nothing to alter the perception that big-time rugby is just an extended multinational club featuring a few Europeans and the three Southern Hemisphere elites. Nonetheless, the pressure the players feel is as real and legitimate as that which Ronaldo felt on the eve of the 1998 FIFA final. That Wilkinson has not cracked under the severe spotlight that has been shone upon him over the past few weeks illustrates that as far as temperaments go his is flawless.
But whether he is taking his country with him on what has been an emotional personal adventure is another matter. It is a long time since England cropped up in a world final of any nature and it is surely remarkable that the very week they reach the promised land, the country is gripped by political unrest rather than sporting fever. Part of that must be tied to the distance between Australia and England, the interminable length of the competition and the miserly TV coverage.
But it also must be partly attributable to the near certainty of winning. Wilkinson and Woodward and company have somehow dulled the fun in that.
For instance, I saw the French semi-final in a typical British bar on the Continent - you know the type, heavy on Union Jacks, HP sauce and lads who spoke like Sean Bean. It was full of maybe 100 supporters remarkable because of the fact they all wore the new figure-hugging shirts that are all the rage now. And the thing is New Zealand's figure-hugging shirt is black and therefore kind of dashing and mean. While the England figure-hugging shirt is white and kind of effeminate. Like when you see Neil Back run on to the pitch now you just think a dog collar and nail varnish are needed to complete the look. Why do you think Martin Johnson has been so grumpy for the whole tournament? He knows the jersey makes him look like a pansy. But he is a player and has no choice but to wear the gear. The consolation for all the England-bashers in Australia is that if they win, a whole generation of Pommies are destined to walk around in those tight shirts under the delusion that they look cool. Or hot.
But anyway none of my comrades in that bar seemed too excited by what they saw even though it involved roasting the dreaded French. In fact they were more preoccupied by the frequent shots of the young royal Harry, who seemed to be having a high old time at the game. "Is that young boogah touring with the team?" asked one. "Yea." "Ah well," the gent sighed, "the students grant must have come in."
That got a hearty laugh but when the final whistle went the fans seemed satisfied at best. Maybe all that will change with a victory today. At least GW Bush had the sense or timing to leave Blighty before today's party began. At least now sanity can be restored and normality can resume on the streets and in the gloomy, dusty palace. And the nation can settle down to see if England, in true Blairite spirit, can prevail in the manner they see fit, regardless of what the rest of us may think of it. And although we may not enjoy it, it would be impossible to argue that they do not deserve it.
