Job done as England and Australia move on to the semi-finals

Day two of the quarter-finals was another long day. The final one, with two matches in two different venues.

I’ve met some interesting people throughout the World Cup, but I’ve got to admit, that I wasn’t expecting to meet the wife’s long lost cousin in Wrexham. But that’s what happened. We’d fixed up for the two of them to meet ahead of the USA v Australia quarter-final, whilst I feasted on a full English breakfast in Sainsbury’s cafe.

So whilst the two of them, who haven’t seen each other in 35 years caught up with the gossip, and boy can they talk, I made myself scarce by engaging conversation with a 9 year old boy and his mum, sat on a nearby table. He, it transpires, plays hooker for Flint Falcons U10s, and was in town for the big game, as his older brother who plays in their U17s was part of the pre-match exhibition. The family take part in a fortnightly trip to Wigan, to see the champions, whilst the boys hone their rugby league skills in North Wales. The switch to a summer season, compared to union’s winter, being key as far as mum was concerned.

So I left Mrs Davies and cousin chatting in Sainsbury’s, whilst I headed off to the Turf for a catch up with a league fan I know, who’d flown in from Belgium for the weekend. He’s a Warrington lad, but unfortunately Ryanair have altered his flight back to the land of the Eurocrats to 2pm on Sunday, so he’s going to miss probably the best quarter-final, on his own turf. Still, he’ll be back next week, as he catches an overnight coach from Brussels to London with a bunch of Greeks, to take in the semis at Wembley.

The Wrexham game went very much to plan. The Aussies are simply too big, too strong, too fast, and too good, to be troubled by a side like the Tomahawks. It was pretty low key to be honest. The fans sat and watched, rather than sang and messed about. It was a little like going to watch a play at the theatre. People sat and watched the performance. The Aussies were awesome at times. Defence to attack in a split second, with sensational skills. I guess in other team sports like soccer, or union where there are long spells with nothing much happening on the pitch, then the fans need to amuse themselves, and do so, by having a bit of a singsong or chant abuse at the opposition. In league, do that and you’ll miss some action.

So after a routine afternoon, where the key talking point was Billy Slater going off injured, we got back in the car and headed for Wigan. When Billy went off injured, the Aussies moved Greg Inglis to fullback. Not much of a hindrance to them that, and whilst I never want any player to get injured, I won’t be too sad to find out that Billy has a bad toe that will unfortunately rule him out of action for the next two weeks. Nothing serious mind, he’d be right again on 1 December. That sort of thing.

Within an hour or so of the final whistle, we were booking in to our Premier Inn at Haydock Park. “Just come from Wrexham, have you?”, enquired the guy behind us at check in. “Same as me!”

“Oh, you’re here for the rugby, are you?”, said the receptionist. “There are quite a few of you booked in tonight”. We clearly weren’t alone in our plans.

Quick shower and change and we were on our way to Wigan. We’d agreed to meet our Wigan mates and a bunch of their friends for a curry at Robin Park before the match. It was heaving, and still three hours before kick-off.

Still, a lamb dhansak and one of those hanging nan breads later, my stomach was quite happy, and we headed off to the game.

No matter who England play, there are always nerves before the game. I guess there is that fear of cock-up, I so often associate with England. In a really tight opening, it came as no surprise when France scored first. Here we go again?

Not a bit of it. The French were putting up a fight, but England had too much class. They didn’t panic, and then got on top, with tries from both wingers. In front of a very good crowd of 22,276 England progressed as expected to the semi-finals. Job done.

Day two,of the quarter-finals was done. Next up is Fiji v Samoa, and then off to Wembley for the semis and then the final at Old Trafford, which unfortunately means this fantastic journey that has been RLWC2013 is rapidly coming to an end.

Thank God for rugby league

Today is my first day off from the World Cup. Every one of the last 12 days has been centred on rugby league from the Friday we set off to Cardiff, to last night’s match in Leigh, where Tonga, coached by Charlie Tonga (you can’t make this stuff up), beat the Cook Islands 22-16.

It was another wonderful night of rugby league. The weather was pretty fair for a November night in the north of England and there were over 10,000 people packed in the Leigh Sporting Village, as the World Cup set yet another stadium record. First Rochdale, then Avignon, then Huddersfield and now Leigh. All of them have had stadium records posted by the World Cup.

It was another blockbuster, from the start of the hakas to the final hooter, but it was a match that Jordan Ropana will want to forget. Trailing by six points, 12 minutes to go, he raced over the line for the Cooks, before seemingly throwing the ball away, rather than touching down for a try.

Sonny Bill Williams would have been chuffed though, as it takes the focus off his howler against Samoa on the first weekend of the tournament.

There is no place to hide after such moments, and Sonny Bill, tweeted after his howler that it’s no bad thing to eat a bit of humble pie every now and then.

One of the things that always strikes me about rugby league and has been demonstrated time and time again in the World Cup, is how humble the players are. They spend 80 minutes trying to physically hurt each other and get bashed back. They play the game at a pace that would shatter most people, up and back 10 meters all match, never mind the 16st mound of muscle that is going to try and run over the top of you, and then at the end, they congratulate their opposition, fulfill all their media commitments and then go and thank the fans. And this isn’t some kind of churlish handshake with the opposition either.

At St Helens, the Aussies joined the Fijians in a prayer after the game. Having just stuffed them 34-2.

The same thing happened after the Tonga v Cook Islands match, where Tonga had ended the Cooks’ hopes of World Cup glory. They are going home.

And then after the game, both sets of players spent an age walking round the ground, shaking any hand that was offered to them, signing autographs and posing for photos with excited local children. There is something very special about rugby league and the World Cup has shone a bright light on those special qualities since day one.

The longest day, Avignon to St Helens, via Paris and Huddersfield

Saturday was going to be my toughest day of the World Cup. After the Kiwi’s victory over France, I headed back to my hotel. To get back home, I’d got to get the 5:50 train from Lyon to Paris. The TGV didn’t leave Avignon early enough to get me back to Paris for my onward flight to England.

As part of the World Cup planning, Google had told me it would take 2 hours 15 minutes to drive from Avignon to Lyon, so the plan had been to get back to the hotel, grab a couple of hours’ kip and then be on the road by 3am. Arrive Lyon at 5:15am, get my train tickets and be on my way.

In Avignon, I set up my sat nav, which was telling me that it would take 4 hours to get to Lyon. I was getting twitchy. I knew then that I wouldn’t sleep. What if I overslept? The alarm didn’t go off? What if I hit traffic? Couldn’t get my train ticket in Lyon?

I’d decided then that after the Avignon match, I’d pack my bags and head off to Lyon. Better to have a couple of dull hours there, train ticket safely in my sticky palms, than to risk missing the train.

So off I set at 11:30pm. The sat nav was giving an estimated time of arrival as 3:06am. Not bad, bit of slack in the system, that’d do nicely. I found my way through town and hit the highway, as the town disappeared, so too did the street lights and I realised that I’d need full beam. Having been up since about 8am that morning, after an hour or so, it became obvious that I wouldn’t be able to drive on dipped lights for the next two or three hours. Unfortunately I’d not looked to see how I got full beam.

Pulling over on the side of the road, I fumbled in the glove box for the car manual. It struck me that I also didn’t know how to put the interior light on, so by the light of my i-pad, I just about managed to work my way through the manual and to my relief, put the lights on full beam. Simple when you know how, isn’t it?

So off I set again following my trusty sat nav. She got confused by a bit of new road, which she obviously wasn’t aware of, and then shortly after, she kept on insisting that I turn right, when the signs to Lyon clearly said go straight on. And the advice kept coming. Sat nav saying go one way, road signs clearly saying going another. My time to destination was extending. Now half three, soon four and then quarter past.

To say I was getting anxious, is something of an understatement. Finally I got to a roundabout, where she was trying to get me to do a u-turn and the signs to Lyon simply disappeared. I decided I’d better follow the sat nav lady, and turned back. At the next junction, I saw the error of my ways. A big yellow sign was pointing to Lyon one way, and a big blue one the other. I chose blue. Sat nav lady was pleased. ETA dropped back to 3:30am.

How could I possibly have doubted the sat nav lady? I was back on track and safe in her hands, until a few miles down the road, where a big, and I mean BIG sign said Lyon, right, but she wanted me to go left. I was pretty certain she was wrong, and I told her as much. I followed my nose, and was relieved to see I’d entered the toll road. Lyon was just over 80 miles away.

The motorway was empty, it was dark, it had now started to rain, and I was beyond tired. I’d got the air conditioning at full blast in the car, hoping the cold air would help to keep me awake, and I was repeatedly sticking my freezing hands down the back of my neck to make sure I didn’t nod off.

French radio was up loud and I kept shouting encouragement to myself. “Come on, just 40 minutes to go. You can do it.” My eyes were red raw from all the rubbing, but as the bright lights of Lyon came into view, driving became easier and the monotony of mile after mile of Tarmac gave way to traffic lights and roundabouts. I’d arrived in Lyon and it was half past three.

Now to top up with petrol, find the Hertz car park, drop the car off, and maybe get a coffee.

No chance!

Lyon is built on a one way system, and the main street was shut. Sat nav lady wouldn’t have it, no matter how many times I screamed at her “I can’t chuffin turn right. Rue Garibaldi is shut.”

It was now five o’clock. I’d spent an hour and a half driving round and round Lyon, looking for a petrol station to re-fill the car “You must return it with a full tank”, the guy in Avignon had told me. The address on the booking form wasn’t anything my sat nav lady could find. I knew it was in the Gare Part Dieu station car park, and having driven past a sign to the Part Dieu carpark for the fifth time, I thought I’d give it a go.

It was in a big underpass in the city centre, and I pulled off to the right to follow the signs to the car park. It was a single lane, with a big concrete wall to either side. As I got to the bottom of the road, I saw it. The shutters were down and I was at a dead end. This is where my reversing practice from when I picked the car up came into its own.

Gingerly I reversed the car up this narrow road, concrete wall on either side, and mindful of the €1000 excess waiver I’d previously declined. Eventually I reversed the car back onto the three lane highway and continued on my fruitless search. Finally I abandoned the car in a back street and walked in search of the car park. I’d found it. I’d also found the entrance, but heaven knows how I was going to get the car from where I’d left it, to here. Fortunately Henri, the concierge in the Mercure Hotel also knew. He produced a map for me and showed me how to navigate the one-way system to first find a petrol station to fill the car, and then to get to the car park.

The search for petrol was fruitless. I eventually found the station he had shown me, but it was shut, and was one I’d driven past several times already. I had to abandon that part of the deal, and stomach the bill for them refilling the car at three quid a litre.

At least I could get the car back in time. I pulled up at the car park barrier, but it didn’t lift. It was then that I realised I’d driven up the exit instead of the entrance. Again reversing back up, I soon rectified that error. This time I approach the correct barrier and still nothing. It was twenty past five now. I got out, and could see the key pad, but I had no key code. Panic. Finally I saw a help button. I was desperate, so worth a go. “Oui?”, came the voice in reply. “Oh. Bonjour. J’ai voiture a retourner for Hertz”. Not my finest moment, considering I got ‘A’ level French, but to my huge relief, the barrier rose.

I shot through, and successfully returned my car. All I got to do now, was get my train tickets. Again, I had no idea how to retrieve them, and I was starting to lose it. “Grip self, then grip the situation”, they said on my training course. I did. I saw a couple of blokes in suits, with badges. Oh joy. Couple of SNCR guys coming on shift.

Over I went, pointing at the ticket confirmation email on my i-pad, and mumbling “billet” over and over again, I implored them to provide assistance. “Oh, you want some help in printing out your tickets? No problem, we just need to find a machine. Ah there’s one over here.”

Boy oh boy, was I surprised. Turns out they weren’t train workers starting their day, but a couple of Mormons. I never thought I’d be so pleased to see a couple of them, I don’t mind admitting.

Ticket printed, and hearty handshake of thanks. Have a nice day? I will now.

The TGV from Lyon to Paris was a pleasure. It was fast, no nonsense and I managed to get a bit of shut eye. I woke with a start, the station and ten minutes before Charles de Gaulle airport. Two and a half hours after leaving Lyon, I was sat in the airport lounge waiting for my flight to Leeds-Bradford airport. I had three and a half hours to wait, but the relief I felt to be here, ready and waiting to go, was something I was more than happy to spend some time savouring.

It was a quick flight back to England, where the pilot informed us, it was misty with light rain. Quelle surprise! With the time difference, it was half 11 in England, and 13 hours after setting off from Avignon, I was back in God’s own county, and Mrs Davies was there to meet me.

In the car, after a bit of a cock up with the parking ticket. This time Mrs D was reversing back up the road. “I think you should have validated this ticket love, before we got to the barrier”, was my considered advice. Still, we were soon on our way to Huddersfield. The traffic on the approach was horrendous. I’m not the best passenger, I’ll admit, and it might be possible that I get a touch grouchy when I’m stuck in traffic on the way to the match. Finally we got parked and as the heavens opened we headed for the ground. Mrs Davies knew from experience that suggesting we might wait five minutes for it to blow over, was not a sensible suggestion. Any other time or place and I’d have agreed. But match day? Running late? Don’t think so.

I was confident that our boys could do the job, and if didn’t take long before Ryan Hall put us on our way. We had a little bit of defending to do, but by and large we had it all our own way. I could sit back and relax and enjoy the 42-0 rout of the Irish. Job done. In Avignon, the Kiwis had moved up a gear from game one and so had we.

Back in the car and over the hill to St Helens. We booked ourselves into our hotel in Widnes first. We’d be back quite late after the match, so perhaps a couple of beers from Tesco to accompany the take away we’d got planned would be in order. Pulling into Tesco, I dropped Mrs Davies off. “You go, get something, and I’ll programme the sat nav for St Helens”. The plan was for a few beers and some snacks. “Sweet or savoury?”, she asked. Eh? I’d got a four pack and a bag of peanuts in mind.

Twenty minutes later I’m racing into Tesco to find the wife. There she is, with a selection of ales that would do a beer festival proud, and enough snacks for a small buffet. “Come on! We’re gonna be late.” That tetchy side again!

There are quite a lot of bends between Widnes and St Helens, and if you don’t secure your shopping properly, there is a tendency for bottles to roll around in the boot of the car, so I’ve now discovered. Back and forth we could hear them roll. Neither of us dare speak of what we could hear. Eventually as we arrived at Langtree Park, where there is a ruddy great big Tesco store, we heard the crash. The smell confirmed our worst fears. Yep, one of those bottles of Speckled Hen had smashed. Still, there have been worse smells on this trip!

Langtree Park is a stadium I’ve only been to once. It was for the Exiles match in 2012. It lashed down, and even at the back of the stand we got soaked. For this World Cup match, it lashed down, and even at the back of the stand we got soaked. The storm was of biblical proportions. I thought I was back at the 2000 World Cup, until I realised there was a crowd in the stadium. I didn’t see many of those 13 years ago.

There was never any doubt about who the crowd were going to cheer for. “Let’s go Fiji, let’s go!”, sang the crowd. Ultimately, the Kangaroo machine, despite several changes, simply got on with the job in hand and ran out 34-2 winners. Fiji did lead at one point though, and at least they scored. More than they did when they met the Aussies in the 2008 World Cup.

So the Kiwis had stepped up, then England stepped up and now the Aussies followed them both in moving up another gear. In atrocious weather, they showed real class to control the game.

And for me? At the end of a very long day, 25 hours, all of which I’d been awake, I finally hit the sack 38 hours after I’d woken to a lovely day in Avignon.

Cardiff – and we’re off

Despite Premier Inn’s Good Night Guarantee, I didn’t sleep long on Saturday morning. To be fair though, I think it had more to do with the forthcoming double header in Cardiff, than any lack of comfort in the mattress. This was it. The big day had arrived. Years in the planning, 14 teams, 28 matches over 21 venues. No stone had been left unturned in the preparation, every detail carefully considered, and finally I was ready. World Cup 2013, here we come.

Queuing for breakfast in the nearby Sainsbury’s I got talking to a native of Bradford who was now living in South Wales. After a short while he posed the question “Why do they persist with that idiot?” Wow, there was a question. Not wanting to offend my fellow leaguie, I wasn’t quite sure where to go with this one. He could have been referring to any number of people. Sinfield, Chase, McNamara or Hock? Could even have been talking about Nigel Wood or Stevo. The list in league is almost unlimited.

I played safe. “What McNamara?”, I enquired. Personally, I think he’s done a pretty decent job in changing the culture of the England set up. It is clearly something that most English players want to be part of, and something that they see as a step up from their club environment. Previously, the lads from the big clubs, probably saw the international set-up as a step down. Less organised, less professional and done on the cheap. Plus there aren’t many other obvious, willing candidates.

Whichever way you slice it though, you’d struggle to find anyone, except the man himself, who ever went to bed and dreamt of the day that Steve McNamara was announced as coach of the England squad. Wayne Bennett, yeah, Steve Mac? Probably not.

“No, not him. That Hock fella”, replied my new mate. Oh, that’s fine. We were on safe ground here. I was quite happy to engage in a full rugby league moan about Gaz. The phrases, last chance, waste of talent and such an idiot were exchanged as we established common ground over Gareth “It wasn’t only me” Hock.

Brekkie sorted, we headed off to Cardiff. I knew where to park. Sophia Gardens had always done the job in the past. Nice and handy for the stadium and whilst I’m not one for paying to park the car, I didn’t mind five or six quid today. “A tenner? We’re not stopping here”.

My quite reasonable response was met with barely audible moans from the back of the car and the passenger seat. Everyone knew what this meant. A fruitless search round the back streets of Cardiff for a free parking space, five miles from the ground.

As frustration grew “It’s not the money. It’s the principle”, I advised my fellow passengers. “I’m not paying them a tenner to leave my car there for a couple of hours”. Half an hour and £5 worth of petrol later, we pulled up at Cardiff University. “Event Parking £6 – for Charity”, the sign read. Now we’re talking.

Buoyed by my sense of knowing I’d won that particular battle with the charlatans at Sophia Gardens, we set of for the city centre. What was very noticeable, was the lack of promotion of the World Cup. If we’d been here on Thursday, before any of the league fans arrived, I’d bet you could have wandered through the city centre, oblivious to the fact that the “biggest major international sporting event in this country since London 2012” was opening in Cardiff on the weekend.

Undeterred we headed for the stadium, bought a couple of programmes and waited to take our seats. The atmosphere was building nicely.

“Be in your seat by 1.30pm” we were told, and we were certainly going to do so. Inside the stadium, Jon Wilkin was wandering around behind the scenes, like he’d lost his way to the BBC studios, and looking as if his suit fitted as well as mine did, last time I had to dig it out of the cupboard for a funeral. “I’ll be ok, I thought. So long as I don’t have to sit down for long, and can take the jacket off”.

Inside the bowl, the lights were down, and it really felt like we were in for something special. “Oh wow. This feels like going to a concert”, was the reaction of my youngest. High praise indeed.

As part of the build up to the opening ceremony, Gethin Jones was interviewing Stevo on the pitch. Nothing unusual about that, but not quite the spectacular show I had been promised. To top it off, two stewards on the pitch had realised they were in camera shot, and were acting like a couple of pillocks behind Stevo and “photo bombed” his interview on the big screen, before one of them grabbed Stevo’s microphone and began woo-hooing to his mates in the crowd.

Jeez. Only in rugby league, could we have such a cock-up. Gethin is pointing at the idiot, only to have his own mic stolen, before the two “stewards” begin to belt out a rendition of Tom Jones’ “Delilah”. It’s all part of the show! I bet Nigel Wood was as relieved as me. I’m sure he’d already pictured the letter pages calling for his head over such a “farce”.

The crowd that was still building, responded enthusiastically to “Delilah” as you would expect, but there was something different today. People were looking for fun. They were out to enjoy themselves. This wasn’t going to be a moan fest.

As the opening ceremony unfolded before my eyes, I oohed and aahhed with the best of them but reflected with pride that this fantastic spectacular, was put on by my sport. I love rugby league. Not everybody’s cup of tea. Many people won’t even give it a go, but I love it, and this was an opening ceremony worthy of the magnificent athletes who will grace this tournament.

So finally on to the matches. England took a ten point lead against the Aussies, but in the end lost 28-20. This was no shambles, or blow out score. The Aussies edged it, but there was plenty of optimism that England could perform better. Cut out the penalties, some of the handling mistakes, and focus better at some of the set pieces, and on our day, you never know.

The turnaround between the matches was always going to be important for the crowd that stopped for the second match. I think the encouraging performance of the England team, plus the quick changeover meant that Wales and Italy started their match with most of the crowd still in place. There was a gradual drift away during the game, peaking at half-time, but by and large, both Wales and Italy played out their game in front of the biggest crowd they are likely to have ever had for an international. It was a nip and tuck match, but in the end, the Azzurri had too much class, and it told in the final 20 minutes, as Wales struggled to exert any pressure. Italy triumphed 32-16.

So back to the car we walked. Surprisingly upbeat. Both England and Wales had lost, but this wasn’t a time to sulk. Both had played well. So too, had both the opposition. We’d just had a great day out and secured memories that will stay with us for a long-time. The World Cup had got off to a great start. An England win would have topped it off, but let’s not be greedy. I’ll take comfort in the words of Tony Rea talking to Andy Wilson on the Guardian podcast. “I think, whoever loses the England Australia opener, will win the World Cup”, said Tony.

I ignored the fact that the performance of the London Broncos this year, raises considerable question marks over Tony’s judgement, and set off back up the motorways in the dark and the rain, comforted by the fact that losing today was actually good for England’s chances of winning the World Cup after all.

England should be fresher and more battled hardened than 2008

Steve McNamara named the 24 men who will carry my hopes in the coming World Cup on Tuesday. I’m pretty happy with the squad, but then they haven’t played a game yet! Thought I’d have a look to see how this squad compares to the 2008 squad that were such a let-down in Australia.

The accepted wisdom in rugby league circles is that the game in Australia is more intense than in Europe – so England will always choke when the going gets really tough and our players play too many games compared to the Aussies, so the England team are out on their feet when the internationals come around.

So I thought I’d have a look at this year’s squad. How experienced is it and will they be on their knees come the kick-off in Cardiff?

One measure of experience is the number of caps the combined squad has. Naturally in rugby league, despite its wonderful history, its propensity for change, makes it difficult to compare like with like and there is no single accepted record of international appearances. Everyone records “caps” in different ways.

After the World Cup in the autumn of 1995, the professional game in Europe switched from a traditional September to May season to one beginning in spring and finishing in the autumn. The first new “Super League” began in March 1996.

Since then, the national side to the end of the 2007 season was essentially Great Britain who played internationals against Australia, New Zealand and France. As the GB team was made up mostly of English players, there was no separate England team, although there were teams for Wales, Scotland and Ireland. For the 2000 World Cup, there was no Great Britain, so the top national side who played Australia and New Zealand was England. Following that World Cup, Great Britain returned as the top honour for English players.

Between 2003 and 2007, there was an England team, but it played at the same time as Great Britain, so didn’t include the best England players and the team was variously known as England ‘A’ and England. Great Britain have not played since the autumn of 2007, so from 2008 to now, the top honour for English players has been to play for England.

As such, for modern players, an appearance for Great Britain and an appearance for England since 2008 carry equal weight. In 2011, England started playing a mid season match against the “Exiles” a team comprising the best foreigners who were playing in Super League. There were two matches in 2012. The view was that the Exiles would provide a higher quality of opposition than the traditional mid-season opponents, France.

This was shown to be true. There have been four England v Exiles matches since 2011. England have won two, the Exiles have won two. The French haven’t beaten Great Britain/England since 1990. It seems reasonable therefore, to count matches against the Exiles as a normal “cap” for England players.

The squad that England took to the World Cup in Australia in 2008 had 284 caps between them, 63 England caps and 221 for Great Britain. The squad included six players who had played less than three times for the national side.

The squad announced by Steve McNamara for this year’s World Cup has a combined total of 227 caps with five players having played less than three times for the national side, including the uncapped twins Tom and George Burgess.

So not as many caps, but what about other experience? At the last World Cup, there were no members of the England squad playing in the NRL. Only Adrian Morley had played in the NRL, and he had returned to England with Warrington by 2008. Morley had played 113 times in the NRL. The 2013 squad includes five players currently playing in Australia and between them they have played 220 times in the NRL.

And as the boys fly out to South Africa for their pre-tournament camp, should it simply be a nice holiday to allow them to recover from yet another gruelling domestic campaign?

In England we have 27 regular league matches (Australia has 24), then the best teams might play three play-off fixtures (the same in Australia). In addition, in England we have the Challenge Cup, which takes five matches for a Super League team to reach the final.

The England squad that went to the 2008 World Cup played an average of 29.25 matches each for their club side that season. The maximum number of club games an Australian could have played would have been 27 matches, if they played in every game and their side reached the NRL Grand Final. In the 2008 squad, there were 17 English players who had played more than 27 club matches before the World Cup.

This year saw several England players ruled out of the domestic season for long spells. James Graham served a long suspension at the start of the season, James Roby injured both ankles, Gareth Widdop dislocated his hip and even Sam Tomkins was spelled by Wigan, being rested ahead of the key matches. Whilst there are still just as many games in the domestic season in Europe, the England squad in 2013 have played an average of 25.7 matches for their club side this season and only 13 of them have played more than 27 club matches.

So what does that tell me about the 2013 squad? We’ve got twice as much NRL experience, shared across five players compared to one in 2008. We should be fresher; less than half of the squad will have played more games than the NRL max and whilst the overall squad has less international experience than the 2008 team, there isn’t much in it.

.