James Lawton: Guscott's defence a refreshing antidote to poison pens of England's fallen giants

In the weekend of his savaging, Brian Ashton, the England rugby coach, seemed to have just one defender, but then Julius Caesar would have been pleased with the quality of this particular support. Indeed, my idea of the score when it was all counted up was Brutus XV (captain Lawrence Dallaglio, vice-captain Mike Catt) 0, Jeremy Guscott 50.

One reason why Guscott's analysis ran rings round the guys with the knives sticking out of their togas was that it didn't drip with self-interest; it couldn't be said, fairly or not, to be chasing headlines and book sales – or shot through with the angst of old men of any age, once their race has been run and the game is over.

No doubt Dallaglio and Catt have made certain valid points. Ashton, plainly, is not made from the cloth of the man who delivered the World Cup in Australia, four years ago, Sir Clive Woodward. Woodward knew how to assemble the spirit of a committed squad, once planting his own plastic on the reception desk of a hotel he deemed a more fitting resting place for his warriors – the kind of gesture which carried much weight when Woodward later dressed up in the clothes of Margaret Thatcher – figuratively speaking of course – and bombarded the answer machines of his players with threats about the consequences of striking over a pay dispute.

It is also true that Woodward was not filled with any missionary zeal to draw from his players any expansion of their talent and their thinking that might see in place the building blocks of long-term development. Again, it is a matter of record that when England's campaign in Australia reached its ultimate test in the brief interlude before overtime, Woodward was quietly ushered away from captain Martin Johnson's last call to action.

That is no ultimate reproach to Woodward, no more than should be the charge, plainly substantiated by Dallaglio and Catt, that Ashton was slow to grasp that his philosophy of cutting plenty of slack for big, experienced rugby players was in need of radical revision in the light of their disastrous early performances in the last World Cup, efforts so lacking in both cohesion and will that their eventual appearance in the final will always stand out as one of the most remarkable passages in the history of major sport.

"Head coach of the England team demands management skills that in my honest opinion Brian doesn't have," wrote Dallaglio. Yet even Catt, like Dallaglio honest enough to concede the degree of his pain over his exclusion by Ashton at various points in the tournament, concedes, "We had our differences earlier in the campaign, but, like the rest of us, our head coach had come through strongly and was now firmly in charge." Now it seems so likely that Jake White, the South African coach whose talent pool ran so much more deeply than Ashton's, will be swept into office soon enough, Catt's assessment of the England coach's final contribution surely constitutes some kind of basis for a defence of his position. This is so especially when you remember quite what he inherited upon taking office – a team breaking up before our eyes.

However, it is Guscott, the gilded hero of the midfield, who makes the most persuasive case for the preservation of Ashton in some key role in the England set-up. Few rugby players have ever been as satisfying to watch as Guscott; a turn, a half-step, a flash of insight into where to go, he was a sporting vision and what he brought to England would have been completely absent in France but for some late and liberated running from the thoroughbred Mathew Tait.

For the purposes of the current debate we can, I believe, do no better than dwell on Guscott's opening and closing arguments on behalf of his old coach, Ashton, the value of which was enhanced hugely by the fact that it appeared in The Sunday Times, which bannered Dallaglio's unbridled attack.

Guscott's opening submission went like this: "Brian Ashton is too good for England, too much of a thinker for an increasingly spoon-fed squad and yet he is the coach they need above all. Ashton is the antidote to the robot rugby played by many English clubs, and it makes him a coach to be cherished rather than one to be put out to grass, as some senior World Cup players have suggested. Having been coached by Ashton, I do not need much persuading of his merits, or the areas where he is not so strong – and England's 2007 World Cup has convinced me our players need as much time with him as they can get."

He concluded: "Whatever happened on the way to the final, and the debate about Ashton's input into the rescue job, take it from me that the England set-up he inherited and the squad he carved out of it for the World Cup, had none of his usual trademarks. Ashton is not the whole answer. Just as Woodward was more of a manager than a coach, Ashton is no overall general. He is a coach pure and simple, but he has a view of the game that England cannot afford to lose if they want to win in 2011."

On a weekend when the cold steel was flashing, Guscott did rather more than rally to an old and much respected friend. He lifted the sights of anyone who cares about rugby above the level of a controversy which has become, frankly, quite tawdry.

Lost bottle as bad as one too many

Former England cricket coach Duncan Fletcher's revelation that Andrew Flintoff, captain of England, showed up for training under the influence of drink – in the middle one of the most shameful disasters in Ashes history – is confirmation of what became so obvious, so quickly. The appointment of the hero of the summer of 2005 to lead his country in the absence of Michael Vaughan was a mistake of stunning proportions, something conjured up out of a toxic mix of public relations and grotesque hubris.

However, there is another point to make. Fletcher's injured tones are just as sickening as the account of Flintoff's appalling lack of responsibility and respect for an office that once represented one of the pinnacles of English sport. How was it that Fletcher, supposedly a tough old pro, tolerated such nonsense? Why did he did not demand that Flintoff be ladled on to the first plane home?

Any leader of a team worth his salt would have said that as long as Flintoff was around, making a mockery of everyone's efforts, the job simply could not be done. Fletcher says that he supported Flintoff. That's one way of putting it. Another is to say that, like his buffoon of a captain, he completely neglected his professional responsibilities. However you paint it, Fletcher bottled it so profoundly he might, like Flintoff, have been servicing a brewery.

Great sporting rivalry should be celebrated where due respect is absent

Once Arsène Wenger declared, his eyes popping in fury, that he would never again mention the name of "that man". He was, of course, speaking of Sir Alex Ferguson. But then, beyond the mutual loathing that can spring up as quickly as a storm on a mountain lake, we are surely at a point where there is a pressing call for freely acknowledged respect.

Certainly, it is hard to imagine a more mouthwatering football prospect than next weekend's collision between their teams at the Emirates Stadium. The wiles of Fabregas and Hleb matched against the sweet cohesion and power of Rooney and Tevez is a perfect testament to two bodies of brilliant work.

It would no doubt be pleasant, even at this late stage, if they acquired the grace notes of supreme sportsmanship, but who can say that in their case there is not a compelling need to take, and celebrate, the best, and continue to live with the rest?

Moral vacuum has sucked last trace of credibility from track and field

Christine Ohuruogu, having been voted athlete of the year, now confidently awaits her clearance by the British Olympic Association to compete in next year's Beijing Olympics. The fact that Ohuruogu was found guilty of avoiding testers on three separate occasions has been attributed to mere forgetfulness – and those who remain sceptical will no doubt, even in the wake of the confession of Marion Jones, continue to ship charges running all the way from extreme cynicism to a lack of generosity.

Athletics, and those who support its place in an almost cosmic moral and intellectual void, are plainly committed to an existence all of their own. They plant little flags of defiance. Maybe the point has been reached when pity rather than anger has become the proper response.