I Fought The Law

THE booing and ‘fan’ confrontation of Saracens’ star Billy Vunipola on the pitch at Coventry shows the increasingly ugly side of rugby.

The England number eight has courted controversy for his apparent support of Aussie superstar, Israel Folau, who has been threatened with the sack for saying homosexuals face eternal damnation in the fires of hell.

But is that really what the jeers were for? Or were the Munster fans simply looking for a villain in the partisan pantomime, a reason to boo the opposition?

Now, let me stress, as a white, middle aged Christian I don’t agree with Folau’s views on homosexuals being cast into hell.

For me the whole point of Christianity is supposed to be acceptance, love – even for those pesky Samaritans.

Folau has already been warned about his social media behaviour, following a previous outburst and thus, should have known better. Except, his faith is strong and Christian and persecution are terms he will know are married in the Bible.

But there is a huge layer of hypocrisy in the way the authorities deal with sport. Rugby Australia is keen to make an example of Folau for his latest transgression. His livelihood might go, but not his beliefs. Isn’t punishing someone for their beliefs the way society used to treat homosexuals not so long ago?

Whatever the rights or wrong, Folau is being honest and true to his principles in his tweets, no matter how awful or difficult to stomach they may be.

Yet at the same time as his public dressing down, another Aussie sporting body, Cricket Australia, warmly welcomed back into its ranks two cheats. As captain and vice captain of the Australian cricket team, Steve Smith and David Warner knew the ball tampering they were guilty of broke the rules of the sport.

So many times cricket’s etiquette has been challenged, broken and abused by players, with Smith and Warner chief among them in Ashes clashes with England.

Back to rugby, if the Australian authorities feel so strongly about LGBT rights, and I hope they do, then it might be time to reconsider putting teams into competitions in certain countries.

Maybe a boycott of the Dubai Sevens, perhaps? Because I wonder what the attitude to LGBT rights is in Dubai? Or women’s rights, or human rights in general?

The Dubai Sevens, celebrating its golden anniversary in 2019 is sponsored by Emirates. The same company that sponsors Cricket Australia. Hmm. The same company that is so linked to sporting sponsorship across the globe.

Or maybe Folau should be a shoe in for any rugby events in Dubai and the more liberal, live and let live guys in the Wallabies squad, such as Michael Hooper, get left at home?

What about a boycott of the Hong Kong Sevens? China’s LGBT approach is hardly in line with that in Western civilisations, ignoring their human rights and animal rights failings, which, to be fair, are pretty hard to ignore.

And let’s be fair, it’s not just Australia. The Rugby Football Union, which has seen fit to chastise Vunipola Junior, another committed Christian, for apparently backing Folau, is more than happy to turn a blind eye when it suits.

It will be more than happy to send its teams to countries with an atrocious approach to LGBT rights in the chase for cash, points and glory.

Yet, let’s just focus on the game itself. The core values of rugby are supposed to include discipline and sportsmanship, yet Munster fans leaving The Ricoh Stadium were left bemoaning the lack of policing of the offside line, players being behind the kicker and blocking.

One fan on a rugby forum said it was all about being ‘savvy’. Saracens are one of the most savvy teams, making another Champions Cup final on the back of yesterday’s win. A victory for wilfully and knowingly bending and breaking the rules. Just like they have apparently done with the Premiership cap and lest we forget, their success has been artificial, bought with billionaire bucks.

And as regards all teams having to be a bit more savvy? Maybe, but I feel the game is being prostituted for gain at every turn. Players are chatting to referees, trying to tell them their business at every scrum, ruck or maul. There is more dissent being shown to referees than I have ever witnessed. The La Rochelle player who kicked out at Sale’s Denny Solomona in the Challenge Cup semi-final argued he had done nothing wrong even after several replays on the big screen showed the kick towards the head in glorious technicolour.

I’ll stress again, I don’t share Folau’s view of who will be cast into eternal damnation in the fires of hell.

But isn’t it odd that a man should be punished for remaining true to his beliefs, while the cheats march on towards success and glory?

And that the same authorities cracking down on him are quite happy to take the coin, support and do business with countries and their businesses with appalling LGBT rights?




Fly On A Windshield

SOMETIMES it seems the stars align.

I’ve started painting again. The oils are out, the canvas is ready and willing. I’m revisiting¬† projects I had sketched out last year.

One was part of a tribute series to my grandfather, the man who brought me up as his own son. A World War Two pilot, a reluctant hero at the controls of Spitfire and Mustang.

In the early stages of his Alzheimer’s, he talked more of his wartime experiences than he ever did during his post war life.

Just snippets here and there, but enough for the journalist with a love of aviation to understand more.

He’d trained in South Africa, learning to fly in Tiger Moths, then Hawker Hart trainers before moving onto the more modern Harvard.

Fast forward to my introduction to Truro Arts Society and the kind offer of a lift home by an artist skilled in aviation scenes, a member of the Guild Of Aviation Artists.

Apparently he’s working on several paintings to submit to the Guild for this year’s exhibition.

And he talked me through the process.

More unusual subjects get a better reception than the constant outpouring of Spitfires, Lancasters and other of the more popular aircraft types.

I’ve several books on aviation art and the Hart appears quite a few times, but none I remember in the yellow colour scheme of the trainer variant. I’ve long harboured the dream of painting a Hart trainer in the Drakensberg mountains of South Africa.

Because that’s where my grandfather flew those canary birds and first felt freedom.

Alzheimer’s finally freed him up to admit to the delight of flying with the gods above that portion of the Great Escarpment and I’ve wanted to craft a scene ever since.

Revisiting screenshots from YouTube videos, I found a scene that was perfect. I already had dozens of pictures of the Hart from every angle. A picture was forming in my mind.

But something was missing.

Then, thumbing through a book about Armstrong Whitworth, the famed Coventry aircraft factory, I discovered the Hawker Hart trainer variant, and several others, were built by AWA. At its Coventry factories.

A connection to my home city and the adoptive city of my grandfather.

Sometimes, I think all the clues are there.





Warsaw Concerto

STUDYING Greek Literature at school introduced me to Xenophon and all his prejudices.

History is supposed to teach us lessons so we don’t make the same mistakes.

Fat chance.

Xenophobia is alive and well in my country. Expressed by people who are often armed with comic book ideas of what Great Britain is or was.

For me, Brexit is not about taking power back, but of weakening the resolve of the population further and giving more power to the money men. Take Britain out of Europe and lose further protections for workers and British business.

It’s been happening for decades.

Remember the idea that nationalisation was bad and we would have cheaper utilities, rail fare and a better chance of our products being the most sought after if we introduced private sector attitudes?

What did we get? The most expensive rail fares in Europe, utility bills that have soared way above inflation for years, and a manufacturing sector decimated by cuts.

Millions of people made redundant because the businesses that took on the nationalised industries had to make profits. Or those who remained were forced to take on poorer contracts.

Furthermore, while Britain said ‘no’ to own state ownership of ‘our’ businesses, the powers that be have had no such qualms in selling off stakes in ‘British’ companies to state owned companies from elsewhere. Or to foreign owners and hedge funds. They’re making huge profits while the average man and woman pays much more than in nationalised days.

It’s fact. It doesn’t make me a Marxist or anti-establishmentarian. But if that’s what I have to be to recognise the iniquity of that, then maybe that’s what I am.

Best of British? It’s out there, but often in cottage industries, or sectors where workers’ rights and pay is an absolute disgrace. And often relying on ‘foreign’ workers. They pick the vegetables, clean offices, take away our rubbish, build our homes. How very dare they?

Europe had its faults and Britain’s entry into the Common Market was mismanaged from the off – incidentally, by Tory governments.

But it’s the politicians of this country that have hurt Britain far more than anyone else. That’s what Brexit is about. The continued slow death of a once proud nation.

Time hasn’t stood still. We’re no longer an empire, with armed forces to make others sit up and take notice. Or industry.

We have got the scandal-riven financial sector, that helped nearly bankrupt the country, but that’s another story.

In Truro on Saturday, there was a wooden table manned by Leave Means Leave activists. I overheard one man talk about the Battle of Britain, proudly remembering ‘This was our finest hour’ and ‘we stood alone’.

Not quite, while giving voice to his supposed inner Churchill, this man obviously showed ignorance of the truth and was more akin to Xenophon with his racist arrogance. He also repeated the common ire against the Polish, the old ‘coming over here and doing our jobs’ argument.

In terms of governments, Britain did not stand alone in those early days of World War Two. The Commonwealth Nations stood shoulder to shoulder with Mother England. In the dark days following the fall of France and much of Europe, and the defeat of the British Expeditionary Force at Dunkirk, while European governments could not ‘stand with Britain’, their people did.

In fact, Churchill talked about ‘their finest hour’, including the Commonwealth dominions, not ‘our’.

That includes those of different colours, races, religions and creeds, that so many of the Brexiteers have an issue with. Muslims – imagine that! – Hindus and Sikhs among them, people with darker skins, from India, the West Indies, Africa…

And Churchill aligned himself, the country, and the empire with the struggle of France and Europe in that famous speech.

‘However matters may go in France or with the French Government or with other French Governments, we in this island and in the British Empire will never lose our sense of comradeship with the French people…’

Then a shout out for the Czechs, Poles, Norwegians, Dutch, Belgians…

Yes, the same Poles we’ve had such a problem with since Poland became part of the EU.

For the record, while Dunkirk was propagandised as a victory snatched from the jaws of defeat, it was a disaster. But the Battle of Britain was a success.

The image of fresh faced young English pilots flying their Spitfires and Hurricanes above the Kent countryside to foil the Nazi menace isn’t quite the case. It ignores the efforts of fellow Britons from Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales.

And it completely forgets that there were pilots and aircrew in that battle for air supremacy that included Irish, French, Polish, Belgian and Czech, who fought with honour. Those pesky Poles again. Without whom…

Airmen came from America, Canada, Palestine, New Zealand, Australia, Jamaica, South Africa and Rhodesia to secure victory for Britain.

Recruits from all the above countries served in the army and navy, too.

We never stood alone. We didn’t win World War One on our own, either. We stood shoulder to shoulder with the French, Belgians, Commonwealth nations and others.

The myth we in Britain won two world wars and a world cup in 1966 against the Germans is as populist and the politics of mischief today. It might do well down the local boozer and at a Tommy Robinson rally, but then again…

I am proud of my country. I love my country. But I also love truth, balance and knowledge.

If you want out from Europe, so be it. But learn your history first. Find the truth, not the lie.

And consider why the politicians would vote for moves they clearly do not believe in.

Because this Brexit shambles is anything but ‘their finest hour’.




The Kick Inside

AS I get older, the more I look back fondly on the style of rugby I grew up with.

Is it pure rose-tinted nostalgia, or was the game better in those days?

Probably not, but then?

People talk about how the game has developed into a sport of bish, bash and bosh, but I’m sure it was ever thus.

Maybe it’s just the way it unravells on the pitch in the modern world.

Having watched quite a few Premiership and Championship games on TV this year, as well as having made it to several of Coventry Rugby’s games, I’m a bit depressed about the aerial ping-pong that’s going on and particularly the modern day love affair with the box kick.

England’s steamrollering of Italy at the weekend was good for a fan of the Red Rose, and showed some glimpses of sumptuous running rugby.

But so often this Six Nations campaign, the ball has been passed to a player yet to be in motion. It’s been the same with my club, Cov. Which is sad given the backline we possess and the history of exciting three-quarters in blue and white, from Ivor Preece to Peter Jackson to David Duckham and Eddie Saunders.

A consensus among critics remains that running rugby, partly in the Barbarian mould, is the best to watch.

Personally, I’ve always liked the creative, the players that offer something different. Peter Jackson was one of those. David Duckham, a generation later, was another. Joe Cockanasiga looks to be another. An eye for a gap, the speed, power and footwork to make it count.

Against poor Italy, England looked to throw the ball wide – a tactic they’d failed to chance too often against a strong defensive Welsh XV.

The game plan against Wales appeared to be to kick at every opportunity.

When something works, it’s not a bad move to keep repeating it until it doesn’t.

When something doesn’t work, it’s a very bad move to keep repeating it until it does.

Box kicking has become one of the ills of the English game. When it works it can be a great tactic, but so often in games I’ve watched this season, it’s simply given the opposition a chance to punish.

I recall a game when England played Fiji at Twickenham when scrum half Richard Hill kicked backwards over his head at a penalty near the Fijian line after two of their players had been sent off.

Invention, a training pitch adventure into the unknown and so much better than a box kick giving the opposition possession.

Considering it as a reason to write this rugby blog, I went in search of it.

Of course, I couldn’t find it, but the highlights reel of that game I found on YouTube illustrate the type of rugby I hold dear.

Backs and forwards in bish, bash, bosh rugby that was played at such pace that it was irressistible. Defenders sucked in and quick ball from a scrum half used to scraps and players running onto passes, players able to see space, weight their offloads and get it out to the potent runners on the flanks. Rory Underwood had a field day and Mark Bailey on the other wing grabbed a brace, too.

It’s the kind of rugby I love. It’s so simple, so devastating. And Fiji were good value for money in their attacking play, too. I recall writing a letter to the then head of the Fiji rugby union thanking them for their visit and mourning two sending offs that I felt very harsh.

I know defences are smarter, tougher and space on the pitch is less as players get bigger, fitter and faster, but I wonder if Eddie Jones, head coach of England, and Rowland Winter, director of rugby at Coventry, and their charges sat down and watched videos like this, they might be inspired to change their respective approaches.

I was a fly half/full back who kicked as much as Rob Andrew, but I can’t remember his or mine being aimless. He looked to pull players out of position, kicked for territory gains, too, and was like a snooker player already several moves ahead in his mind. I think I tried something similar.

I was very critical of his style of play at the time, despite pretty much emulating it, but the box kick and aerial ping-pong I see today is far more annoying. At Cov, I’ve seen balls kicked to some very dangerous full backs who have counter-attacked and made us pay.

Similarly, I’d not be kicking the balls to Wales’ Liam Williams. I’d do anything to stop players like him getting his hands on it, to be honest.

For me, it’s about taking players on. Running with the ball. Running forward.

Cov’s David Duckham in action against South Africa for the Baa Baas in 1970. Fast forward to 1.23 in and marvel at pure pace.


And talking of running onto the ball, here’s Cov’s Peter Jackson, in action for England against Australia in 1958. Go to 1.45 minutes in and see how it used to be done. No kicking through for Johnny May to chase on to.

And what about a Cov trio of Geoff Evans, Peter Preece and Duckham in action for England against France?

Fast forward to 2.23 and see what running rugby is about.

Of course, the electric May knows a bit of old school wing play.

He showed that against New Zealand he could run onto the ball, at pace, spot the gap and motor through.

So it’s not just old school after all.

England have the personnel to bish, bash, bosh, then spread it to the fliers. But Jones’ choice of Teo and Tuilagi in the centres will never be about that. It might not be pretty but it was effective against Italy and could cause dents in other defences.

I don’t think it would be enough to win a world cup, but in Cokanasiga, May, Jack Nowell, Elliot Daly and Chris Ashton they have the pace and guile to score tries aplenty.

Likewise at Cov, with the Bulumakau brothers, Hailafonau, Stokes, Trimble and Knox, the keys are already in place.

They just need the ball.

Coming at them as they run at pace towards the defence.


Here Is The News

I GUESS anyone who watches Talking Pictures TV loves to immerse themself in a sea of nostalgia.

Especially me. I love the old sights, sadly gone, of London, the British countryside, other cities and towns. The clothes, the shops, the cars…everything.

But watching Going For A Bundle – Evening News the other day was total joy for a different reason.

I caught the last half of it, a fly on the wall look at newspapers in the mid-1970s. The glory age of typewriters, rulers, pencils, hot metal and teamwork from advertising through to circulation, the van drivers to the newsagents.

The joyful days that I saw the tail end of as a young work experience boy at the Coventry Citizen before joining the Coventry Evening Telegraph in the days when it sold big.

When the pile of papers arriving in the local newsagent would still be warm from the printing press. When newsrooms were noisy, vibrant places of work, with cigarette smoke and the odd old hack still spiriting away a bottle of something in his desk.

When there was real skill in sizing up photographs, rewriting typewritten copy and avoiding the very real dangers of ‘the spike’ on every desk. Before computerisation spoiled it all and cuts for profits turned newsrooms into dull, library-esque boxes.

I am sure the current crop of journos doing their best on Britain’s titles, in print or online, will always cringe at talk of the golden age. But I wish they could see Going For A Bundle. It ought to be compulsory viewing for any students at journalism college.

I’m sure it is only the trick of nostalgia, but there seemed to be more characters back then. Odd, worrying, the centre of attention, easy to get on with, difficult, but all knowing their role inside out.

The days before press offices took over control of our news coming from councils or police, government or sports. When a reporter could talk happily on the record to a bobby on the beat, lowly council officer who knew his/her stuff inside out and had captains of industry willing to discuss the most difficult issues.

Before the cry of fake news for anything people disagreed with.

A very different age. When free holidays to exotic places were offered in exchange for a few lines, when provincial motoring correspondents were allowed to test drive the latest top secret model and not just those coming off the production lines at Coventry’s big car firms.

I remember my first experience of watching a film preview at Coventry’s Odeon Cinema in the 1980s. An afternoon screening of something, where I was the only person in a 500 seat auditorium. There were enough sandwiches, cakes, biscuits and nibbles for a Buck House garden party and the alcohol? Well, there always seemed to be enough to sink the Titanic.

I was glad of the opportunity to go again, despite wandering back to the CET offices hopelessly drunk.

Even then, as long as you could do your job, the booze was part of the myth. We all went across to the Town Wall Tavern for a few beers at lunchtime, or sometimes the Stag, Rising Sun or other watering hole. The social club bar would be open at lunchtime, too, for those who didn’t want to venture far, if it was pouring down with rain, for example.

In the days when the pubs didn’t open again until 5.30pm, the door to the House of Commons at the TWT would be left open and there would be a troop of scribes from Corporation Street slipping quietly through to top up the lunchtime levels.

If it all seems a bit Laurel and Hardy, the quality of writing, photography, subbing and news values were second to none.

Going For A Bundle? I hope Talking Pictures TV screen it again. The blurb suggested the programme, filmed by Southern, had been lost for decades. It deserves to be headline news again in my book.


No More Heroes

WHEN I was an impressionable teenager, I used to skip school dinners and save the money for music purchases.

I’m sure my grandparents would have had a fit, but when you could buy a single for under a quid, the money I saved on a diet of chip butties in Blue Coat School canteen went someway to bolstering my record collection.

Seven inch singles, 12 inchers for the best mixes and cassettes for the long players. All on primitive players in my bedroom. A place of sanctuary, where music and lyrics spoke to me like nothing else.

I recall this as news filters through that Talk Talk frontman Mark Hollis has died.

I heard the single, Talk Talk, on the radio. I loved it. One day after school I walked up to the old HMV store in Coventry, next to the Dog and Trumpet, to find it. The record store was a little bit dingier than they are today, darker lighting and an atmosphere second to none. A land of magic where the wide-eyed romantic could be lost in titles, album art, chords and notes and words.

It must be old age when I say music was better back than, in the early 1980s. Certainly more varied. The heavy rock brigade was putting Britain back on the music map, the synth slickers were bringing ever new and wondrous sounds to life, and pop was exciting – forgiving the sins of the Birdie Song, Shaddap A Your Face and Agadoo.

Talk Talk exploded onto the scene and I bought the first couple of singles, then the cassette album, Party’s Over.¬† Then came new, or rather older music, as I borrowed LP upon LP from Coventry Library and the group went on the backburner.

Until the It’s My Life LP came out a couple of years later. I was older, certainly not so much wiser, but that album, and the follow up, Colour Of Spring, were amazing.

Hollis’s death brought home the realisation that we are losing our music heroes at a rate of knot. And it’s only going to get worse in the coming years.

The list of A-listers, people who changed the course of music history, who are filling out heaven’s house band is amazing. Days before Hollis, Pete Tork, of The Monkees, passed away. This year alone we’ve lost Daryl Drake, the Captain of Captain And Tennille, Ted McKenna, a powerhouse drummer with the Sensational Alex Harvey Band and Rory Gallagher, among others, and James Ingram, the American singer.

Last year, it was Pete Shelley, Aretha Franklin, Jon Hiseman, Vinnie Paul, Jabo Starks, Dolores O’ Riordan, Dennis Edwards, ‘Fast Eddie’ Clarke, who were among a stellar list of musical heroes and heroines of mine.

The oft-abused phrase, Soundtrack of My Life, is unravelleing in the worst way possible.

True, some attained greatness early on and failed to build on it. Yet others have continued to impress and inspire long into old age.

10cc wrote a song back in their heyday of their own Fab Four – Godley, Creme, Stewart and Gouldman – called Old Wild Men. The musicians of yore – ‘broken men who lie low, waiting for miracles…still gonna play guitars, On dead strings, and old drums, They’ll play and play to pass the time…The old wild men’.

When music was all about youth, about reinvention rather than longevity. When The Shadows, ground-breaking rockers became establishment favourites, the rebellion of The Beatles, family favourites, the anthems of rock and roll still cherished.

How long until the original Fab Four are reunited?

And why is it in death that rockstars, unappreciated and mocked by newer generations, have a glowing reappraisal beyond the grave?

Mark Hollis was an unlikely pop star. A genius who gave the music business up for real life, to be with his family, to be a dad. I can only marvel at his musical genius.

And mourn the passing of one more stranger who had such a positive impact on my life.




The Winds Of Change

TOWARDS the end of the last rugby season, I was lucky enough to be taken into Rowland Winter’s inner sanctum and glimpse his vision for Coventry.

On a big board, divided into sections, were initials and names of players going, confirmed as coming, and targets.

Currently, I’m not a jobbing journalist and thus I’ll treat the occasion as very much off the record, but I was surprised and delighted at the ambition of Winter, his coaching team and obviously, by default, Cov chairman Jon Sharp and his management colleagues.

There were some big names on that board. Big targets. Big ambition.

In my lifetime, I’ve seen Cov go from having some of the best rugby players turning out in blue and white, to a focus on has-beens or youngsters with promise. There didn’t seem to be a balance.

And I’m sure there will be queues to disagree with me, but Zinzan Brooke’s arrival¬† in the city of three spires was a headline grabber more than a recipe for success. I’m sure his experience helped others around him, yet it didn’t translate into promotion. I’m still dubious of the wisdom surrounding it.

I’d rather have players approaching their best, hitting their best or a fraction past their best in the matchday squad. Players with something still to offer and not just on the pitch. Another former All Black, Sam Tuitopou, has proved his worth to Cov in so many ways. And he was part of a promotion-winning team.

It’s a personal opinion, but sometimes Cov, with all its financial question marks of the past few decades, seemed to throw money at mercenaries in the hope of putting together a team worthy of promotion.

There were always those that were true Coventry blue, but the mix failed to gel.

Winter has made that a goal and, with some notable exceptions, is building a team for the future.

I may be accused of being a one-eyed Cov fan, someone with rose-tinted glasses. Those who know me well will say I’m anything but. I always look for positives, but I’m not afraid to call it straight.

This season, we’ve been agonisingly close to winning more games. We’ve lost games we should have won. Hartpury College springs to mind. Some of the decision-making I’ve witnessed, by forwards and backs, has been curious at times. Some of the execution of moves has been sluggish, confused and, at times, akin to schoolboy level.

But there has been a coming to terms with the way some teams in the Championship have been used to playing. Some teams follow a boring template of possession, kicks for territory and a willingness to wait for mistakes to happen to win back ball. A cycle of repeat.

It’s not been pretty, to my mind, but it’s been effective. Cov’s all-court game, with a leaning towards attack, has come unstuck. Yet I’ve also seen evidence of improvement, almost as if early on, players were still nervous of doing what they do best.

We’ve also won games that, by rights, we should have lost. Sometimes, the blow of a whistle has gone our way. The bounce of a ball. A forward pass gone unsighted by the whistle and flag men.

That is sport. It happens. For and against.

As I’ve previously scribbled here, Cov have already performed better than most newly-promoted teams in the last decade. That speaks volumes about the work Winter and his coaching team have put in. It didn’t happen overnight.

And so it comes to the trickiest part of the season. Persuading people to stay at Butts Park Arena, persuading others to come. Maybe, even trickier, persuading some that their futures lie elsewhere.

This Cov set up is one which looks to allow players to grow. There have been so many improved performances on last season. Too many to mention, but James Stokes, Rob Knox, Pete White, Tony Fenner, Tom Jubb, George Oram and Scott Tolmie are among those who have really caught the eye among the group that clinched the National League One trophy.

The added value of the incomers has been evident, bar Jake Sharp, who I thought looked a great prospect. Having spoken to him before Christmas, he seemed to be enjoying his rugby at Coventry and working with team-mates on their kicking game, but alas, moved back to Bedford.

He’s put in a couple of man of the match shifts at Goldington Park since his return, and proved what a thorn he can be to sides in the narrow win over Cov. He may have been the one who got away in this Cov side, but it also proves there is no room for sentiment.

If a player is not happy, or the management team, changes will be made.

Having written an interview with Winter for Coventry Rugby Supporters’ Club, it’s obvious he has an eye for players that will give something to Cov, and who Cov can give something back in return.

So I’m hopeful that we see more of our current crop of players retained for next year’s tilt at the Championship.

I’m also eager to see who Winter might pull out of the hat in terms of additions.

I’d be eager to see that board again.