Peter Corrigan: Sting in his tale, a bee in his bonnet

There was no more impressive sight in sport than Christopher Brasher hell-bent on some mission – or more fearsome if you happened to be in the way. The same indefatigable intensity of purpose that saw him devour the first two laps of Roger Bannister's historic four-minute mile in 1954 and come from nowhere to win a gold medal in the steeplechase at the 1956 Olympic Games remained with him throughout his life.

I experienced it at first hand, and with some discomfort, when I was sports editor of The Observer 20 years or so ago. He had held the same position a dozen years earlier and did not always remember that he had relinquished it.

He had the habit of arriving in the office late on a Friday with 3,000 words on fell-running or orienteering or whichever athletic pursuit was his passion at that time and would be shocked by a rebuff. The fact that, apart from any other consideration, every inch of our meagre ration of sports pages was either already full or allocated to Saturday's events was not a reason that impressed him and a full and frank exchange of views would ensue.

From such creative tensions do newspapers spring but when we were on the same wavelength there could be no more committed or energetic colleague, flinging so many ideas around you had to duck. That he took a pint in the office pub with the same vigour he carried into an argument made the relationship more than sufferable. What we did was to create vehicles for his enthusiasms in series entitled The Great Outdoors and Breath of Air – I hope he took his pipe out of his mouth before writing the latter.

He was full of dreams and visions and one of the bees in his bonnet took up residence in mine and still buzzes there today; his view that the Olympic Games should find a permanent home near ancient Olympia in Greece is one often promoted in this space as a solution to the many calamities and corruptions that have dogged the movement.

It was about this time that the idea for the London Marathon was taking shape in the minds of he and his close friend John Disley and he wanted The Observer to sponsor it. I have to admit that all I could see were obstacles, not least the Greater London Council and the Metropolitan Police, but the ambition behind it was impressively colossal and it would have been right up The Observer's street, literally in fact, but although they wilted visibly in the teeth of his ardent advocacy for the project they turned him down. It was a lack of faith they learnt to regret because he roused his support from elsewhere and the event he and John Disley kicked into life has become a national treasure and most certainly a fitting monument to him.

As is customary when a man of his extraordinary ilk surfaces, the Government steadfastly neglected to harness his talents and energies for the good of the nation. Margaret Thatcher did offer him a knighthood but he refused because of the little, or nothing, she had done for sport. He accepted a CBE from John Major but never were his services as a national inspirer required.

Not that he ever hung around waiting for the call; he was too busy and made a fortune out of sporting footwear. His interest in horseracing led him to acquire a string of successful mounts and the way he made his presence felt in that sphere was typically buoyant. Obviously, he could put the fear of God into horses, too.

The man was a giant and it is a great shame that he has not been spared to lead us on more sporting crusades. His qualities are in desperately short supply and his loss very sad.

Now follow that

While on the subject of inspiration, the manner in which the Welsh rugby team recovered from their surrender to the Italians the previous week to find the will and passion to give England a stirring game was well received.

Playing against the English is its own motivation but the contents of the notice board at the training base contained some interesting inspiration. There was a letter of encouragement from Paul Ringer, the wing forward sent off against England in 1980 for an offence that would barely have earned a yellow card these days, a few words about Owain Glyndwr, scourge of the English invaders in the 15th century, and a simple sheet of paper referring to Sir Tasker Watkins VC, president of the Welsh Rugby Union.

At 84 years old, Sir Tasker qualifies as an old fart but it is not a description often aimed in his direction. A former deputy Lord Chief Justice, he was the author of the much-praised and shamefully neglected report into the state of the Welsh game last year and, I am told, chaired the crucial WRU meeting last Sunday with a much-needed firmness laced with humour and charm.

But he had nothing to do with, and probably would have frowned upon, the players reading the citation for his Victoria Cross. He won the nation's highest decoration in November 1944 when the British forces were engaged in the tough fighting around Falaise in France. He was 24 at the time and a lieutenant in the Welsh Regiment.

The citation reads: "Lt Watkins' company had to cross open cornfields in which booby traps had been set. It was not yet dusk and the company soon came under heavy machine-gun fire. Many casualties were suffered and the advance was slowed up.

"Lt Watkins, the only officer left, placed himself at the head of his men and, under short-range fire, charged two machine-gun posts in succession, personally killing or wounding the occupants with his sten-gun.

"On reaching his objective, he found an anti-tank gun manned by a German soldier. His sten-gun jammed so he threw it in the German's face and shot him with his pistol before he had time to recover. Lt Watkins' company now had only 30 men left and was counter-attacked by 50 enemy infantry. Lt Watkins directed the fire of his men and then led a bayonet charge which almost completely destroyed the enemy.

"It was now dusk and orders were given for the battalion to withdraw. These orders were not received by Lt Watkins as his wireless set had been destroyed. They now found themselves alone and surrounded in depleted numbers and failing light... while passing through the cornfields once more he was challenged by an enemy post at close range.

"He ordered his men to scatter and himself charged the post with a bren-gun and silenced it. He led the remnants of his company back to the battalion. His superb gallantry and total disregard for his own safety during an extremely difficult period were responsible for saving the lives of his men and had a decisive influence on the course of the battle."

After reading that, tackling a few Englishmen probably did not seem too much to ask.