Blue Wales
Simon Barnes
MY recent hard words in this space on the subject of Wales and the Welsh received some justly harsh criticism. I mentioned five good things about Wales; why, my critics demanded, had I not mentioned the Welsh rugby team? What greater joy can Wales give the rest of the world than by providing a rugby team that regularly gets thumped out of sight?
They were at it again last weekend: the Irish stuffed them 54-10, and Gerald Davies, one of Wales's greatest ever players, said in the Times, 'There was no hope beyond wishful thinking. ... Wales are in the grip of such desolation that it is hard to know how their morale can be raised.'
It is hard, in the face of such honesty, to refrain from uttering the words, 'I gloat! Hear me? I gloat!' as Stalky & Co used to sing at moments of supreme happiness. Flashback to Cardiff station a decade and a half back, when Wales had beaten England and the station echoed to the chant, 'We shall not, we shall not be ruled!'
It was as if the hurts and the grudges and resentments, not to mention 800 years of domination, had been set right by the result of a football match. Those of us with tickets to London, trying to look unobtrusive without actually singing, muttered that the Welsh were not only the worst losers in world sport, but also far and away the worst winners.
Oh, how the Welsh love to win at rugby union! In the palmy days of the 1970s, when the Welsh won as of right and their team was peopled by mythological figures like Gerald, anyone who could claim any Taffness in his family tree became loudly and gloriously Welsh for at least the first three months of the year, while the Five Nations rugby championship ran its triumphal way.
Rugby union was the sport of English gentlemen; of the oppressing classes. How splendid, then, for Wales to beat them at it.
Welsh rugby showed how the Welsh are smarter than their conquerors, stronger where it mattered, less hidebound, had greater spirit, greater heart. Their swashbuckling, rampaging style of play showed that Wales is a nation of poets and buccaneers, of freebooters and artists. It was boar-baiting; the clever, pack-minded dogs beating the hapless and bewildered hog. The Romans conquered the Greeks, but Greek thought conquered the Western world; and so, as the English may have subjected the Welsh, still it is the soul of Wales that matters, rising in triumph on an annual basis with the ritual slaughter of the Sais.
England slipped up horribly against the Welsh just a couple of years ago, and lost a Grand Slam as a result. But Welsh gloating at this spoiling of England's party, though sincere enough, was not deafeningly loud. This is because the Welsh are, in rugby as in political life, underdogs once again. Victory is just a freak day of warmth amid the prevailing chills of subjection.
These days, rugby union is just one more method of subduing the Welsh. The main reasons are money and superior numbers: the usual methods of subjection. But the English still feel a special frisson of delight when the Welsh are beaten at rugby; this is still a special relationship. It is only when the English become indifferent to the beating of Wales that all hope for Wales must finally die.
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