Knocking 'em down with a feather

It is no great secret that my knowledge of rugby would render worthless any view from here on whether England's try should have been allowed.

The people in my pictures, taken at an expats' club in Abu Dhabi, had no complaints, of course. But their opinions are without value for the obvious but different reason.

Even without a sound grasp of the laws and manoeuvres of the game, however, I could see that for all their valiant efforts, England's status as underdogs fairly reflected reality. Leaving aside quarrels with the referee, or the assessors who denied that "try" on video evidence, the result from the Stade de France was one of life's broadly predictable disappointments.

But this was not even the second most important English sporting occasion of the weekend. The climax comes a few hours from now at Upton Park, of course. In second place, also ahead of the rugby World Cup final, was yesterday's long-awaited clash between England and Australia on the badminton court.

I feared the worst.


John, an academic of highly competitive disposition, was my challenger. He warned that he had been a useful, team-captaining player in his school days in Oz, though his principal motive for taking up the sport was to gain access to seniors from the girls' school next door.

I am somewhat older than him. And when he mentioned his regular gym workouts, I realised I was up against tough opposition, even if he hadn't played for years. But I bravely agreed to meet up for a game.

The match arranged, John borrowed a racket and bought four shuttlecocks (plain shuttles to those in the know). Another professional touch: he had acquired proper feathered ones, not the inferior plastic variety.

Naturally, I am far too modest to dream of recording here that the session produced the following scores: 21-3, 21-2, 21-5, 21-6, 21-8, 21-4. Let us just say that despite my unforgivable complacency in the third, fourth and fifth games, it was a comfortable points victory for England.

John ducked out of a couple more games, citing an unmissable appointment with the woman who cleans his flat. Damn. I'd been quietly set on winning at least one of them 21-0. But he nobly forked out for the post-match pint, while making it clear that I could expect a swift improvement and a run for my money in future encounters.

And then he disappeared to meet the cleaner and doubtless cheer South Africa to victory.