T he rarity of a British Lions rugby tour (England, Wales,
Scotland and allIreland combined as one) makes it so resonant, so keenly anticipated. They kick off today against a Bay of Plenty XV in Rotorua, whiffily sulphurous hot-springsville. They play the first of the three Test matches on 25 June. The Lions seriously fancy their chances. I cannot say I do. A hundred and one years ago a haughtily cocksure bunch of Brits (mostly Welshmen, in fact) were unceremoniously dumped on their backsides by the lugubrious sheep farmers in their bibleblack guernseys. Since 1904, in nine further expeditions the British have only once won a single series (vividly, memorably, in 1971, Carwyn James, Barry John and co) and, in all Tests down there, lost 26, drawn three and won only six. In faraway New Zealand, church might still be low, teas high, and brows middling — but rugby football has been the passion since Victoria ruled. Last time I was in Rotorua there was a ‘Museum of Rugby’ tacked on to the sports outfitter’s shop, and you had to pay a dollar to duck behind a curtain and enter a carpeted, softMuzaked inner sanctum reverently displaying in glass cases the muddy old boots and ripped shirts of a whole pantheon of local rugger buggers. I was told a local b&b was still called ‘The Barry John Motel’. The Lions — who can still walk the streets of Britain totally unrecognised — are in for a culture shock all right. As well as, it goes without saying once the whistle blows, a jolly good kicking by the blackshirts if they lie too long on the ground.
Supremo of the squad is Clive Woodward, knighted for organising England’s 2003 World Cup victory. Clive has gone for the ‘cast of thousands’ approach. The first Lions tour in Kiwi country to seep into my schoolboy consciousness was 1950. They took 30 men, who ‘coached’ themselves, and played 31 matches over four months. Woodward’s 45 men play 11 matches over five weeks supported by 30 extras, including nine assistant coaches, video analysts, ‘kit technicians’ and four media officers headed by, you have to believe it, Alastair Campbell, late of the Westminster scrum. We shall see what we shall see! If Woodward brings home the bacon, then fair do’s. With knobs on. He’s a good fellow and zany with it. Back in the mists, I toured twice when Woody was a Lion, to South Africa in 1980 and to New Zealand three years later. I don’t think he enjoyed it. Certainly, pointedly, in his autobiography he does not devote a single line to his two Lions trips. First up, as a leggy greenhorn rookie and thrillingly bonny (just as zany) one-off runner, I remember he was full of the joys and his ambitions. But South Africans don’t play their rugby with a smile on their faces. Crucially, he made a ricket (not concentrating) which cost the Lions the vital third Test. I reckoned him nuts even to consider going to New Zealand in the rain in 1983 under the gloomy Celtic suits and training-drudges, Jim Telfer (coach) and Willie John McBride (manager). Woodie never came near the Test side and, in turn, in his own memoirs last year, McBride wrote bitterly of that tour: ‘Woodward didn’t count, he didn’t want to know about the tough stuff... He seemed disinterested, and played as though he was. Why? That’s Clive.’ It could be be a clamorously vengeful month down in the old southern seas.
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