Clive Rowlands was a rugby football genius. As an international player, his interpretation and application (some said “abuse”; others said “wit and skill”) of the laws of the game provoked changes in the touch-kicking and lineout regulations. His coaching of the national team brought success and established the platform for the golden era of the 1970s.
He was also a delightful man, with a strong practical commitment to the community, a wonderful stock of uproarious stories and a dry sense of humour.
In the 1990 England v Wales match at Twickenham, Wales had conceded 16 points in the first half and England were running away with the game. Clive was Welsh Rugby Union president that year and he and I were in the posh seats.
As the referee blew for halftime, a glum, ironic Clive said to me: “This is worse than I expected – I suppose that’s my bloody knighthood gone forever.” I responded with: “Don’t worry, a Labour government will see you at the palace”. Instantly, he came back with: “I hope you’re right about the election – but, unless you mean the theatre in Swansea, I’ll tell my missus not to buy a new hat.”
It’s a pity, but “Top Cat” was correct again.
