Northern View: Whole world 'laughing their tits off' at bang average battlers, Dupont the greatest No.9 in generations

The Germans have a word for it – ‘schadenfreude’ – which to the rest of the sporting world roughly translates as ‘laughing your tits off when England get stuffed.’

Enough of the cheap jibes. England have no need of others to lay the humiliation card on them. They will be doing that themselves over the coming weeks and months never mind days: reproachful, self-critical and wholly mindful that they have shown themselves to be down among the also-rans of the global game only six months out from the Rugby World Cup. A bang average team, at best, and that’s on a good day.

And they will have to be at their very best, at their 2019 World Cup semi-final versus New Zealand best, if they are to stop Ireland marching to a Grand Slam in Dublin next Saturday. Ireland’s spirited 22-7 win over Scotland at Murrayfield means that a simple win (and given England’s wretchedness you can only imagine that it would be so at the Aviva albeit Ireland have a horrendous injury toll to contend with) will be enough to give them title, Slam, happiness and a monumental Guinness-induced hangover.

For the thousands of England fans currently hiding in a darkened room (many of whom had reached that sanctuary long before Ben O’Keeffe had blown his final whistle, the tip-tip of many stadium seats being a cruel soundtrack to the closing stages), there is one paltry straw to clutch. The last time the World Cup was held in France, England were crushed 36-0 by South Arica in a Friday night horror show at the Stade de France, seemingly bereft and without a prayer of progressing until, glory be, a few weeks later they came within a Mark Cueto disallowed try of beating the ‘Boks in the final having seen off the Wallabies and then the hosts, France, en route to that final. Ok, put that straw back in its box. Desperate times lead to odds-defying thoughts.

It would take an enormous leap of faith for even the most die-hard Red Rose supporter to envisage anything but defeat and possibly carnage at the Aviva with Grand Slams on the line and English noses to be rubbed in dirt. England were truly abject, devoid of idea or defensive shape, not so much on the back foot throughout (a minor rally early in the second half notwithstanding) as a distant spec in France’s rear-view mirror, bullied at the breakdown, mere bystanders so often as the action whizzed past them.

For those who love the modern fetish for data driven analysis I saw one such post-match spreadsheet which had England ‘ahead’ on virtually every metric bar that curious little one that detailed ‘England, one try, France, seven.’ Stats have their place I suppose – in the wastepaper bin? – but those of us of an older age prefer to judge by the eye, by the majesty and power and grace and intelligence and brutal beautifulness of the play shown across 80 enthralling minutes by those in blue.

From Le Crunch to Les Miserables for England, maybe, but rather than dwelling on England’s misfortune for too long – stop sniggering there at the back – it is only right that we should genuflect before the magnificence of this generation of French player. In showing the wit and boldness and clarity of thought and deed to dismantle England, les Bleus proved themselves to be every bit as commanding in the field as any of their illustrious predecessors, from the Jean-Pierre Rives class of the seventies through Serge Blanco and his buccaneering mates and onwards through to the back-to-back Slammers captained by one of this class of 2023, current manager, Raphael Ibanez.

Damian Penaud’s second try was a thing of classic simplicity, crisp handling, running at pace and from the right depth. I was once rebuked by the legend that is Philippe Sella for daring to mention the word ‘flair,’ in what was meant to a compliment of French play. Sella pointed out that it was nothing to do with so-called flair, it was a matter of rehearsal of running lines, of correct passing, of holding depth, ingrained from an early age. Right things at the right time in the right way. France played to that brief on Saturday.

You would not have picked one Englishman over his opposite number for a combined XV. There were towering performances to admire right across the park – from Cyril Baille in the no.1 shirt right the way through to the points accumulator at the rear, Thomas Ramos. Lock Thibaud Flament – two tries, magnifique. No.8 Gregory Alldritt – formidable. (Returning from injury) centre Jonathan Danty – colossus.

(Photo by Jean Catuffe/Getty Images)

And then there is Antoine Dupont who is without doubt the best scrum-half I have ever seen in the flesh. Gareth Edwards was the king of the no.9 shirt but Dupont is now right up there alongside him, ahead of greats such as Joost van der Westhuizen, Fourie du Preez, Nick Farr-Jones, George Gregan, Agustin Pichot and Dave Loveridge. Dupont tops the lot, for his technical prowess (check out his chip kick out of defence and then his inch-perfect slitherer to within a metre of the try-line), his energy, his awareness, his strength, his kicking, his – you get the picture. He’s got it all. And it is one obvious reason why his mere presence has put France right back alongside Ireland as favourites to claim the Webb Ellis trophy. And England? Forget it.

Ireland illustrated that they are the masters of dealing with adversity, coming through to win no matter what. The All Blacks used to have that quality. Ireland do too now. They lost three forwards within the opening 24 minutes, saw two hookers go off to leave flanker, Josh van der Flier, having to throw in at the lineouts and prop, Cian Healy, packing down in the middle of the front-row. Chaotic ? Yes. Ruinous ? No.

Ireland pulled away in the second half despite such monumental set-backs. There have a raft of players injured and only a six-day turnaround. No problem. St Patrick’s Day on Friday, England to be beaten on Saturday for the title. What more could you ask for?

Elsewhere, there was some relief for Wales who approached Rome in danger of doubling as ancient lions pitched into the Colosseum, served up for easy slaughter to general entertainment. Warren Gatland had acknowledged ‘splits in the camp’ over the pay dispute with the well-travelled, garlanded coach was having to deal with three successive defeats in the Six Nations for the first time in his career.

A first wooden spoon for Wales in 20 years, a tumble outside the top 10 in the world rankings? From such depths came the fight-back, a heartening return to a bit of form and long overdue. In his second incarnation, Gatland has had to sift through the mess and muddle of Welsh rugby to blend a new squad in time for the World Cup.

His master-stroke in Rome was to recall scrum-half Rhys Webb for his first start in six years, the one-time Toulon exile bringing much-needed energy and bounce in the bonus point 29-17 victory. The 34 year old was at the heart of everything, aided it has to be said by a throwback Italy performance, riddled with error and uncertainty.

Italy had spells of liveliness but they botched too many chances, missing the potency of the injured Ange Capuzzo. That they finished well does indicate that their early-championship form was no flash-in-the-pan. Even so, another wooden spoon beckons.

It’s been a terrific championship. A fitting finale awaits.