Here’s a bold statement: Jonathan Davies, the rugby legend, didn’t just earn his CBE—he earned it twice over. But here’s where it gets controversial: the very traits that once made me loathe him are the same ones that now command my deepest respect. Let me explain.
Growing up as an English kid in mid-Wales during the 1970s and 80s was a unique experience. It meant two things: I was forced to learn Welsh at school, and I quickly learned that supporting England came with consequences. Wales wasn’t just beating England in rugby—they were dominating it. While England clung to hope with players like Bill Beaumont, Wales had an unshakable certainty, fueled by choirs and a knack for making visiting teams look utterly ridiculous. My school was so fiercely Welsh that being English felt like a character flaw. Wooden spoons mysteriously appeared in my bag, not as jokes, but as pointed reminders of my outsider status. And in an era where corporal punishment was still the norm, I often wondered if I’d ever be on the receiving end of one of those spoons—not for misbehavior, but simply for being English.
Every Five Nations season ended the same way: England at the bottom of the table, and me enduring weeks of relentless mockery in both fluent Cymraeg and English. You either learned to take it or learned to keep quiet. But here’s the part most people miss: I didn’t hate Wales as a team. I admired them, grudgingly at first, and then wholeheartedly. Even as a child, I recognized the greatness of players like Gareth Edwards, JPR Williams, and Phil Bennett. There was something raw and unpolished about them—men who looked like they’d stepped straight out of steelworks or collieries, with nothing refined about them except their rugby. They were the kind of men who could genuinely intimidate you in a car park.
But Jonathan Davies? He didn’t fit that mold at all. One moment seared him into my memory forever. During a match between England and Wales, play paused briefly—one of those moments where everyone pretends not to be gasping for air. Peter Winterbottom, my hero, stood there. Wints, the hardest man alive in my eyes, a back-row forward carved from granite. Davies casually walked behind him, placed his leg behind Winterbottom’s, and pushed him backward. No rush, no drama, not even a glance at the referee—just a calculated act of humiliation. Winterbottom landed on his backside, the great Peter Winterbottom, toppled like a pub stool. In that moment, I didn’t just dislike Davies—I loathed him. Intensely. It wasn’t the act itself, which was both clever and cruel, but what it represented. Davies wasn’t scared of Winterbottom. He wasn’t even particularly interested. He treated him like a minor annoyance, swatted away with a dinner napkin. It was as if the Republic of Chad had laughed at the Soviet Union’s nuclear arsenal. To me, Davies embodied everything Wales shouldn’t be. He was brilliant in a way that felt deliberate, flowing where I wanted force, clever where I wanted confrontation. He looked like someone who could sell you something after the match. I wanted my Welshmen forged in steelworks and collieries, not marketing agencies. Davies felt too smooth, too confident, too comfortable being the best player on the pitch—which, of course, he usually was.
When he switched to rugby league, I was delighted. One problem solved, I thought. It was like discovering the school bully had moved away. Wales diminished, England spared. Except Davies wasn’t diminished at all. At Widnes, he became a phenomenon, a stand-off who shredded defenses in ways rugby union simply didn’t allow at the time. His vision expanded, his timing sharpened, and his arrogance—if that’s what it was—somehow became justified. When he returned, he was even better.
The genius
The truth I resisted for years was simple: Jonathan Davies was a genius. Not a stylist, not a showman, but a genuine rugby intellect with the feet and hands to execute what his brain had already planned three phases ahead. As a fly-half, he controlled games without shouting, dismantled defenses without seeming to try, and played with a looseness entirely underpinned by control. His career spanned eras and codes, the organizing force in a team that played with tempo before tempo was fashionable. His switch to rugby league in 1989, at the peak of his powers, was a testament to his self-awareness. He dominated there too, earning Man of Steel awards and Challenge Cups—a second act that would’ve been a full career for most players.
His British and Irish Lions career remains a strange footnote. His only Lions appearance came in 1986, not on a tour, but in a one-off Test against a Rest of the World XV after the planned South Africa tour was canceled. It counts officially, but it never felt like a proper Lions career. He should’ve been a three-tour Lion without question. Politics, timing, and his code switch conspired to rob him of that. By 1997, at an age when most fly-halves were long retired, people were still debating whether he could make the touring party.
Time, annoyingly, has softened me. Watching old clips now, I see it clearly: the balance, the deception, the way he could wrong-foot three defenders with a single step. I understand why he wasn’t intimidated by Winterbottom—he was operating on a different level, where physical intimidation wasn’t part of the equation. He knew where the real power lay, and it wasn’t always in the shoulders. I still wince at that moment, and I probably always will. Heroes aren’t meant to be toppled like that, especially not by someone who looks like they’re enjoying it.
But I’m genuinely glad he has a CBE, and not just for his rugby achievements. A few years after his playing career ended, Davies’ first wife died of cancer, leaving him a relatively young man with two children to raise and a life abruptly reshaped by loss. That kind of experience doesn’t announce itself, but it changes everything. His long-standing commitment to cancer charities, particularly in Wales, hasn’t been symbolic or occasional. It’s been sustained, practical, and deeply personal—rooted in lived experience, not obligation. He’s raised significant funds, given his time and profile, and done so without needing it to be framed as redemption or legacy.
That humbles me, because it reframes him. The smoothness, intelligence, and confidence I once resented are now put to work in a different, more meaningful way. The same clarity that allowed him to dismantle defenses is now applied to causes that change lives, not just headlines.
He earned the CBE twice over. Once for redefining what a Welsh fly-half could be, and again for understanding that brilliance comes with a responsibility to be useful beyond the field. He embarrassed England repeatedly, infuriated me personally, and forced me to grow up enough to recognize greatness, even in the wrong jersey. I hated ‘Jiffy’ because he made my rugby childhood uncomfortable, because he made strength look optional, and because he reminded me that intelligence, paired with his level of skill, is basically cheating. And if I’m honest now, that’s exactly why he deserves every bit of this award.
Controversial question for you: Does sporting genius excuse—or even justify—acts of on-field arrogance? And should athletes be judged not just for their talent, but for how they use it beyond their careers? Let me know in the comments.
