Flags, Floods and the Fine Art of Talking Rubbish
by David Palethorpe
Many will know that one of my passions is Rugby Union.
I used to be a Rugby Development Officer and Regional Development Officer, and over the years I’ve coached at all sorts of levels — from the England Women’s Students in the early ’90s (back when they were in their embryonic stage) to the England Women B team, whom I had the pleasure of taking on a five-game winning European tour in 1998.
That Easter weekend coincided, rather inconveniently, with major floods in Northampton, where I lived at the time.
You could say I was keeping one eye on the forwards and the other on the rising waterline at home.
I also had the privilege of coaching the East Midlands U21s to a national championship and working at the Northampton Saints Academy, where I was lucky enough to work with several players who later became household names.
But honestly, the real joy of coaching isn’t just found under bright lights or in packed stadiums — it’s out there on muddy pitches with so-called “Junior” clubs like Peterborough, Luton, and Petersfield, or with the Royal Navy Colts.
For Luton to go unbeaten all season and earn promotion, for Petersfield to beat the then high flying Havant, and for the Navy U19s to win the Inter-Services Championship — these might not be World Cup moments, but for those lads, they were life-changing.
And for a coach, that’s what it’s all about.
When Wales Ruled the World
Now, anyone who played rugby in the 1970s will remember there was one nation that didn’t just play the game but redefined it: Wales.
They didn’t just win — they did it with swagger.
JPR Williams, Gareth Edwards, Phil Bennett… they played like they’d been given divine permission to make Englishmen look foolish.
For English players of my generation, facing any Welsh team at any level was a humbling experience.
You’d come off the pitch battered, bruised, and wondering if you should take up something less painful — like trainspotting or underwater Ludo.
I’ve got Welsh friends and relatives, and every February our rivalry reignites.
For 80 minutes, national pride is on the line.
Win, and you’re a hero.
Lose, and you can expect a phone call at 2 a.m. that starts with:
“Morning! Have you seen the result?”
And probably another one every hour after that.
But that’s sport. It’s not hatred — it’s heritage. It’s banter, pride, and just a pinch of madness that keeps us human.
And Then There Was the Flag…
Which brings me neatly to the latest example of modern-day madness and nonsense.
A Newton Abbot resident recently wrote to their local politician — you will probably guess which party the politician belonged to — concerned about a sudden outbreak of St George’s flags appearing overnight on lampposts in their street.
The politician replied, warning that the sight of these flags mean different things to different people, which is right,
However…..
He then went on and gave the example that Pride Flags might….
“Encourage people, particularly young people, toward sexual experimentation.”
Yes, really.
Now, if that doesn’t baffle you, nothing will.
Are we seriously saying that a flag fluttering in the wind could trigger some uncontrollable urge?
If that’s true, then when I see a Welsh flag, should I expect to start learning Welsh?
When I pass a Jamaican flag, will I suddenly break into a reggae beat and start speaking in patois?
(And if so, would that make me culturally insensitive or just rhythmically gifted?)
And heaven forbid I see an Irish flag — I might be forced to drop everything, find a pub, and start enjoying the Craic immediately.
At this rate, when the Six Nations comes around, I’ll have to keep my curtains shut just in case I accidentally change nationality halfway through a match.
Final Whistle
Rugby teaches you many things — teamwork, respect, and the importance of not taking yourself too seriously, it also provided friendships for life.
Perhaps it’s time some of our politicians joined a rugby club.
After all, 80 minutes in the mud tends to knock a bit of sense into anyone.
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