September 27, 2025 – I woke up with butterflies in my stomach, and glands like cockerels.
After six cities, 10 commentaries, 11 articles, two television appearances and countless podcasts, visits to team bases, press conferences and interviews with coaches and players – I was cooked. I hadn’t had a day off for seven weeks, I had another spoonful of adrenaline to give, and my immune system was closing in on the Women’s goal Rugby World Cup 2025 as (you won’t regret googling this) Leo Neugebauer at the end of the decathlon 1500m. I loved every second of it.
The best, somehow, was yet to come: all roads led to a sold-out Allianz Stadium – where the two best teams on the planet were about to do battle.
The mantra of the tournament was ‘this energy never stops’ and – on that day – it escalated far too early. Just stepping out of Twickenham station was a thrill: scarves were placed on the hawk, cowboy hats were adjusted and handmade signs were waved. Someone, somehow, turned up the saturation of the Cabbage Patch pub mural – and the totemic figures of Zoe Aldroft, Meg Jones and Marlie Packer judged the procession that rumbled towards the final number to end all closing numbers.
It was a parade – not just of rose hats, remembrance scarves, feather boas, ‘For The Girls’ T-shirts and flags – but of the rugby-watching world. Every imaginable demographic was represented as the masses – a lucky 81,855 – made their way to their seats and history.
Walking inside the horde, emotions boiled unsustainably – heightened by the pathogens, but mostly triggered by the scene – and I was high at least twice by 11am.
There are people who have been in this game for decades longer than me: who fought tooth and nail to even get hitched; who attended national holiday camps and then competed as amateurs, before just their families and the odd dog walker; who made a huge sacrifice for the development of sports; who dedicated their lives to its foundations; and who would have commented on the action very well – if only there was a station where it was broadcast.
The boulder was far up the hill before I gave him a shoulder.
And yet – wandering that day to the stadium, bordered by a thousand flashing lights – brought back my own memories of before it was like this. Breaking the cables as a Sky Sports runner during a Six Nations double header, when the full-time whistle in the men’s game seemingly pulled Twickenham away and the stands emptied before a woman could cross the white line. Coverage produced on the wire, and life on the backwaters. Recently – very recently – captains in tears after the game: begging for financial, infrastructural and ideological support.
To be clear – the work is not done yet – but already the day of the finals was like setting an imposing new bar.
If you’re ever lucky enough to attend a TOP14 match, you’ll witness the players arriving at the carnival: an exuberant explosion of color and passion. Like that to thirty, add a generous twist of wide-eyed wonder and you’re halfway to imagining the scenes when those buses arrived.
The hall rose, the foamy south tribune was visible: a spiral of red and white. Lark Atkin-Davies soon took off her headphones to drink in the cacophony, Alex Matthews was visibly overjoyed and Hannah Botterman was high-fiving so much she probably gave herself tennis elbow before kick-off.
If the whole ruse had been called off at that point, it would have been a triumph, but it was time to sort things out – and find ourselves champions. It is time to admit that, beneath the excitement, the conflict is getting closer.
Inside the bowl, I’d occasionally raise the giant sound-muffling headphones from one ear to let out screams and hoots and gasps and anthems—both national and Pink Pony Club—but the memories are mostly visual: the emerald rectangle, the gold and pink border, and the figures in crimson and white so they could stand up and down before they narrowly flowed.
Asia Hogan-Rochester – lithe and billowing, bright and shiny – screams over the early doors, my appearance on 5Live Breakfast ringing in my ears: ‘The English ceiling is inches higher, but Canada were the best team at this World Cup.’ Kevin Rowe’s crowd-funded entertainers have hit the ground running – and the sport’s top heavyweight is back on its heels.
When the titan stood straight again and raised his gloves – it was under tight, ombre curls. Ellie Kildunne’s latest gem felt prescient – this was the tournament the poster girl was born to light up – and yet its audacity was stunning. It was one of those moments in commentary when you completely forget about your audience and responsibilities, and you’re just one small part of a dizzying crowd.
The fullback beat a third of Canada’s lineup to get under the sticks, and Kat Merchant could only laugh at the sublimity of it all. Even the player herself seemed a bit taken aback by what she had just come up with. The stadium was deafening. I’m writing now – the hairs on my forearms are standing up. It was the most electric experience together.
Rolling maul. Cokayne. Hulking scrum. Matthews. Canada stiffened and England – with grim glee – traded the hair for the ram. Zoe Harrison was perfect from the tee and trailed by 13 at the break. There was a distinct sense of hometown relief as the teams returned to the underbelly of Twickenham: their heroines had a game to spare and their opponents just weren’t quite as crackling as they had been throughout the campaign.
Abbie Ward, playing the rugby of her life – and with her beautiful baby daughter in the stands, looked like she had taken the killer blow – only for the Maples to produce one final surge. Botterman was shut down due to a rush of blood to the head, Hogan-Rochester grabbed another, and suddenly it was 13-26. Sophie De Goede, who would be World Player of the Year in an hour’s time, missed her pair of conversions by a combined two inches – and you can’t help but wonder what difference it could have made if the women in red were only nine points behind with a quarter to go.
Sometimes the final game of footy is so stark – rugby oppressed by opportunities. Not this time. It was mesmerizing: the quality sky high, and the physicality brutal and beautiful all at once. Abby Dow’s strength through contact. Liv Apps comes into the fray like a tigress. Sadia Kabeye’s non-stop hustle. The Canadian pack plays the link. Home direct mastery of that Kildunne spiral bomb from the free kick.
Canada came again and again – full of heart, hunger and history – but England they defended like it was their home tournament, and – if they could only hang on for a few more minutes – they would be queens of the rugby world for the first time in a decade. Maybe because it was.
Full time was pandemonium. A year later, it’s just a kaleidoscope of emotions. The starting front row takes the field to join in the celebration. He stands red-hot. Canada deprived. Sarah Hunter – who had her heart broken at Eden Park three years ago – is smiling uncontrollably. Jess Breach – she seemed about five – buzzes around, wiping tears from her face, throwing her arms around her shoulders and pumping up her tires. A few hours later: an exhausted Meg Jones, surrounded by gold ribbons, sat – all alone – on the podium, the trophy by her side, memories of an unimaginably difficult year swirling around her.
The most durable? Aldcroft – sobbing his heart out. If ever an image summed up how badly this team wanted it – it was their talisman’s armor disintegrating in relief. She put her body, soul and everything else into this campaign.
No one sticks around to cheer for the trophy to be lifted, but – on September 27, 2025 – no one was doing anything by the rules. Tens of thousands watched the most dominant rugby team ever to see world champions crowned – Aldcroft recovering to immediately produce the iconic arabesque before the podium – just as my voice and immune system deserted me in my last, slightly tearful, conversation with Mark Chapman: the one that ended with me begging millions of new fans to come back.
It was a fitting finale to a tournament for the ages. From that dizzying night at Sunderland to that dizzying afternoon at Twickenham – over Like Yaras‘ debut, the union-defying heroics of Scotland, the 15-man Springboks, the grace and spirit of Manusina Samoa, and the passion of every host city – it was sensational. So many records were broken that not even Dow could crochet the thing again, and you know something has built cultural power when both Barbie and the Spice Girls want a piece.
Canada was the story of the World Cup, but the Red Roses took the feather in the big house, for the big dance, and wrote the final chapter in bold, undeniable capital letters. 5.8 million tuned in to the BBC to see if they could decorate a decade’s worth of scar tissue with duct tape and gold – and they weren’t disappointed.
Just like the energy at the heart of it all, rugby never stops – and we’re thrust into a new cycle: England hunted, Canucks seeking revenge, Black Ferns reinventing themselves, and a pack chasing big dreams.
But, a year later, it’s pretty fun to think back to the day he shattered a few glass ceilings—and then used those shards to slay indelible lines in the sand.
A Day for the Ages: A Movement for Girls.