Bullying, Boo-boys and Benidorm: Sympathy for Sam Tomkins

It is 1984 and Queenslander Wally Lewis takes to the field as captain of Australia for the first time, with all eyes watching him. The Emperor of Lang Park tilts his head back proudly and links arms with teammates, as his tear ducts swell with national pride. His throat chokes as he tries to sing ‘Advance Australian Fair’ in a minor key baritone never heard before. The emotional moment is then somewhat punctured by an equally rousing, but distinctly unpatriotic rendition of ‘Wally’s a w****r!’ from sections of spectators. The reason behind this is purely tribal; Wally’s a Queenslander, born and bred, and the game is taking part in the heart of New South Wales.

Being booed by your fellow countrymen is not a new phenomenon; ask just about every England footballer. The bottom line (or at least the small print) dictates that the sportsmen is paid by the punter. They are therefore prone to the odd waved fist and expletive, much in the same way a greyhound is after chewing up your betting slip with its rabid, slobbering jaw.  But the beasts themselves are purely innocent, barking and joyous; the poor things only want to play. Wigan’s Sam Tomkins is such a puppy, feet pattering and tail keenly wagging. However, onlookers seem so affronted by him that they feel the urge to stab out their eyes whilst he’s a speck in their peripheral vision. The root cause of this unbridled hatred is not entirely clear; some cite an incident when Sam abused an injured player, others refer to an arrogance, a nasty streak or a diva-like exaggeration of the opposition’s foul play.

He is not helped by looking like Liam, the hapless ginger kid in ITV’s Benidorm; both have the kind of face that is a magnet for minor acts of bullying, such as an extreme wedgie, an inked microscope or having their PE kit dipped in the sceptic tank. You can picture a callow Sam being the last kid standing in a game of British Bulldog, evading posses of intimidating 6th formers and sour, red-cheeked fat kids. Exhausted into submission, Master Tomkins is finally set upon as if he is a quivering gazelle, his limbs spread-eagled like the bristles of a bog brush and smeared into the crud. And older brother Joel never seems to be around to protect him on the field, instead giving the impression that he is more focussed on sneaking in a crafty woodbine behind the bike sheds.

To reinforce these schoolyard images, there is also the cheekiness of Lee Briers who has the demeanour of a scruffy kid in Kes with scabbed knees poking out of grey school shorts, always picking his nose and flicking it, smelling faintly of Marmite, with pockets full of worms and a tatty blazer harbouring carnivorous chicks. In the last Wigan v. Warrington match, Lee was taken to one side by the referee for bullying Sam. He replied with a distracted and eye-rolling ‘yes sir’, ‘okay sir’ and ‘will do, sir’, as if no stranger to the headmaster’s office. He stopped short of exposing his backside in a perfunctory and casual manner in preparation for an unavoidable caning.

Despite being a figure of ridicule, like his Benidorm lookalike, Sam Tomkins is a magnet for obsessively protective females. An online forum has evolved with the wishful moniker: Sam Tomkins’ Girlfriends. It is unclear whether these are actual disenfranchised exes (partly explaining the number of boos), or hopeful Wigan suitresses. Judging by some of the wild and lurid declarations about Sam’s anatomical dimensions, it is highly probable they are the real McCoy. A shielding wife would plead with the tormentors at Sam’s England game and explain that his head-down, oblivious, response to their jeers wasn’t down to arrogance or even an unflustered, professional reaction. In his own forlorn words: 'I didn’t understand it when I first got out on the pitch. I ran over to the side and heard some boos. I genuinely thought: "I wonder who they are for."’

As the codes compete for attention over the coming weeks, rugby league might offer up a niche crowd chant about Kevin Iro as sonic competition for The World in Union symphony in New Zealand. Tomkins himself has bemoaned a lack of progress and popularity in his sport in comparison with its esteemed relative. Perhaps being unfashionable provides the unique appeal. Maybe rugby league should be played with a black ball. It’s possibly just a branding issue; union is usually endorsed by a dull, but powerful leading global company in either software or insurance. On the other hand you can imagine next year’s Grand Final backers to be something embarrassingly rudimentary or domestic, but full of spirit. Try saying this in a stirring, thick Yorkshire accent: ‘Super League – sponsored by Alphabetti Spaghetti’. We can only hope that Tomkins associates with being an ostracised brother and doesn’t turn his back completely on the boo-boys, flicking a ‘V’ as he goes.