Over the years, like many people I’m sure, I’ve had numerous conversations with friends on the subject of best or favourite bands, actors, footballers, authors and the like, developing occasionally into heated disagreement. However, when the debate turned to best or favourite sportsman there was usually only one answer, Mohammad Ali, whose funeral it is today.

To most youngsters growing up in 1960s Britain, there seemed little common ground with this brash young man from across the Atlantic. He was of a different nationality, had different skin colour, different beliefs and different everything. But none of that mattered because, to use an expression much used over the years and particularly in obituaries and testaments this week, Mohammad Ali transcended all of that.

It was true, any obvious or perceived differences were irrelevant, Ali rose above it all. Here was a man who appeared to have everything. He was young, smart and savvy, brave as a lion, strong, fast, had a superb physique and was elegant and graceful. If ever a man could be described as beautiful, it was he. How could anybody not warm to such a human being?

I can remember, at the age of 7, seeing posters in Cleethorpes, Lincolnshire (a million miles from Kentucky in almost every sense!) advertising the fight, to be screened in local cinemas, between a young Cassius Clay and the huge terrifying Sonny Liston. A David v Goliath fight if ever there was one. David won, of course, and Cassius Clay (soon to be renamed Mohammad Ali), the self-proclaimed “Greatest”, became the new heavyweight champion of the world.

Over the following years there followed controversy over his conversion to Islam, his struggle against racial prejudice, his refusal to fight in Vietnam and his subsequent ban from boxing, depriving him (and all of us) of 4 years when he would have been at his peak.

His return was astounding, winning and losing the world title before winning it again in the most dramatic bout against the seemingly unbeatable George Foreman who’d laid waste to all around him like a farmer scything corn. Ali’s defeat of Foreman was the greatest fight I have ever seen. I said it when I saw it back in October, 1974 and nothing has happened since to change my mind. It was staggering; brave defence, a soaking up of punishment, leaning hard against the ropes before going brilliantly on the offensive, destroying his previously unbeaten opponent with a speed and violence that simply amazed everybody who saw it.

He became a practised television personality and everybody who saw them will have fond memories of the interviews with Michael Parkinson on the BBC. We saw another side of Ali there, a man of charm, grace, humour and more than a little wit.

We all knew how it would end though since, whether through shortage of money or a desire to remain in the limelight (who knows) he kept on fighting and suffered some terrible poundings when, really, he should have left the ring years previously. I remember him fighting Larry Holmes (a worthy world champion himself) and Holmes was quite clearly distressed at the beating he had to give to a man who he probably revered as much as the rest of us.

If only Ali had quit while he was still ahead. To see such a great man brought low by the ravages of disease was sad, tragic and, well, just so unfair. That’s the way life is however and even though we will remember that image, the overwhelming memory of this true colossus among men is the young, powerful, handsome, strong, brave boxer (in his own words but no less true because of it) floating around the ring like a butterfly and stinging like a bee. We will remember that because he really was that special. He was totally unique. They broke the mould when they made Mohammad Ali.

We English must honour the man whose appointment turned a team (and virtually the same team) from disgraced World Cup losers to deserved Six Nations winners, in a matter of weeks.

Well done Eddie Jones, well done – Australian – Eddie Jones and, take note you one-eyed nationalists who expressed doubt and displeasure at his appointment, that success like failure knows neither prejudice nor national boundary.

We must not get carried away with our success however since all England have done is to win rugby union’s second division and we are still a long way behind the world’s best – at the moment.

Having said that, I never thought I’d see the day when an Australian would make me proud to be an Englishman. That day arrived on Saturday, March 19^th, 2016. Thank you Eddie!

Last week the BBC reported that, in a survey of over 2,000 football referees, approximately two thirds have experienced verbal abuse on the football field and a fifth have experienced physical abuse, sometimes resulting in hospitalisation.

The survey covered all levels of the game, both amateur and professional, so it’s clear that referee abuse is prevalent throughout the game. Whilst physical assault is rare in the professional game you only have to watch the average Premier League game to realise that verbal abuse and swearing at the referee is fairly commonplace.

I don’t understand why there is such an issue and why it has been such a topic for debate for so many years when the solution is so simple.

The Football Association (FA) should make it clear, with immediate effect and at all levels of the game, that any verbal abuse of a referee will result in the instant dismissal of the player from the field of play. In addition the player will be fined and banned for a fixed period of say 3 games or more depending on the severity of the offence.  Any physical contact with the referee (even pulling his shirt) will be dealt with by a longer ban, a heavier fine and the club will also be punished by way of a fine.

Those clubs with players who persistently offend can be dealt with by points deduction in league games and expulsion from cup competitions. The message would soon get through, particularly in the professional game.

It can work and players must be taught to respect officials and abide by the laws of the game. Just look at rugby, there’s no problem there. All that is required is the will and determination on the part of the FA. But will the FA do anything about it? Probably not, the clue lies in the name!

The world of sport was shaken a couple of days ago by news of the death, through illness, of Jonah Lomu, the giant Tongan, at the far too young age of 40. I have the good fortune to be in New Zealand at the moment where the passing of the first global superstar of rugby union and one of the greatest of All Blacks has naturally dominated the headlines. I’m sure that the same is true of media throughout the world since, so great was Lomu’s athletic prowess that people who in the past had paid little or no attention to his sport suddenly looked up and began to take notice.

Like every other rugby fan, I will never forget his explosion on to the world scene when, aged only 20, he lit up the 1995 South Africa World Cup and almost single-handedly ripped England apart (why pick on us?!) in the semi-finals. He ran through the England players like they weren’t there, a force of nature, a human steamroller with the speed and agility of a gazelle, for it wasn’t just his power that left his opponents grasping at thin air and gasping in his wake.

By all accounts he was both a gentle man and a gentleman, his humility, modesty and courtesy off the field the direct opposite of his ferocity on it. He was quietly spoken, thoughtful and giving of his time to his legion of fans, always taking time to give autographs and speak to the youngsters who idolised him.

Jonah Lomu was a big powerful man, strong, kind and with the quiet dignity and presence that only such men can possess. The world of sport has lost a giant in every sense of the world.

The rugby world cup is over, won on Saturday by the best team in the tournament who defeated the second best team. It doesn’t always happen that way, of course, but in this case New Zealand demonstrated loud and clear why they remain the team that all others aspire to be (so obvious is this fact that I actually wrote these notes 5 hours before the final even started!).

We saw some wonderful games and some superb performances from teams with no or not much in the way of rugby tradition or background. Who will ever forget Japan, small in stature but with lion hearts, beating the might of the South African juggernaut?

We English may have been disappointed by our inept national team and understandably so. However, forget that, we may have been the hosts but the competition was never just  about England, it was about world rugby and the world of rugby is probably in a better place as a consequence of this tournament.

We may not be very good at the sport (at the moment, I add optimistically!) but when it comes to putting on a show we are right up there with the very best. Virtually all commentators agreed that this was the best ever world cup, best for the quality of the rugby and best, too, for the organisation and spectacle. As a nation, we can all feel pride in that.