LONG READ Mick Cleary: 'It's hard to know why Farrell was never loved in the manner Jonny Wilkinson was'

It is already too late. Already past the point when England fans might have risen to their feet to acclaim one of the greatest players ever to have worn the Red Rose, ever to have given heart and soul as much as muscle and bone to the cause. He never shirked, never complained, never bad-mouthed, never threw a hissy fit, never reached for the dictionary to see what a prima donna meant, let alone auditioned for the role. He never took to social media to diss or gripe. Never ducked a challenge. Never ever bemoaned his lot, despite the bile and bilge that has come his way. Let’s call it now. Owen Farrell – you deserved better from England.

Instead of cheers rattling the rafters it will be the jeers of Marseille that provide the soundtrack to his final days in an England shirt, not that it was known at the time. Or not publicly at any rate. Farrell himself probably knew during the World Cup that this was the end game, that he’d had enough if for no other reason that it appeared that a section of the England following had had enough of him. The booing of their captain was a stain on the English game.

And so this weekend the countdown to the last few appearances for his beloved Saracens will begin, a Champions Cup outing against Union Bordeaux Begles at the Stade Chaban-Delmas, a destination that will be part of Farrell’s routine schedule from next season when he joins Racing 92. Who’d have thought that this most down-to-earth Englishman will (in all probability) see out his days in foreign climes?

Farrell has been such a fixture on the English scene – I was there for his club debut under Eddie Jones all those years ago at Vicarage Rd in 2008 – that it won’t quite seem real until he is no longer there in his familiar black-and-red garb. Maybe then, and only then, will many more appreciate  what we had until it was gone.

Farrell has never been a contender for any popularity contest. He would as much press his own claims as he would miss a training session to do some shopping. He has never been comfortable in front of a microphone or notebook albeit he knew that public performance would be a significant part of his duties as England captain. He was to the man born as a leader on the field, directing, cajoling, bollocking, plotting and scheming, driving standards, uber-competitive, ultra-alert to the ebb and flow of play, able to react on the hoof in the ceaseless quest to get the win.

It’s hard to know, though, why he was never loved in the manner that a Jonny Wilkinson was. Was it his perceived northern chippiness, the inverted snobbery of Twickenham Man?

Off the field, too, he made his mark for club and country, setting the tone and ensuring everyone was switched on. Of course, there was also the little matter of a press conference, Farrell’s Room 101, a nightmare scenario. Yet Farrell fronted up. He may never have been a raconteur, in love with the sound of his own voice. I’m sure he could have ducked some of those assignments and left it to Loose Lip Eddie to go through the pantomime. But there he was on the podium, polite if never loquacious. In the modern age of soundbite journalism, Farrell was never going to be top billing.

It’s hard to know, though, why he was never loved in the manner that a Jonny Wilkinson was. Was it his perceived northern chippiness, the inverted snobbery of Twickenham Man? Maybe a bit of that. Was it his monosyllabic stance in front of camera, as if he were deliberately holding back rather than it being, as was more than likely, a sign of his natural modesty, humility and shyness?  Farrell ought to be applauded for that, not denigrated.

Of course there have been some dodgy moments on the field – although staggeringly few given the length of his career – when a tackle was too high or late or both. His wipe-out on Wasps’ Charlie Atkinson was a bad one. There were others but such is the filth thrown Farrell’s way by the bovine-brained keyboard pygmies that you’d think his rap sheet would stretch the width of the Bayeaux Tapestry.

There is also Farrell’s supposed style of play to consider, as if there were such a thing. Nonetheless, he is often naively and heinously branded as a clodhopping monochrome fly-half, a playmaker with only a couple of tricks in his repertoire. There are countless witnesses that could be called to the stand to debunk that line of argument. As recently as only a couple of weeks ago, Farrell was the centrepiece of his club’s high-profile evisceration of Harlequins, the 52-7 victory at the Tottenham Hotspur Stadium a suitable late-season high-point to remind us all what we will be missing.

To those who thrilled to England’s late Six Nations championship uptick and naively felt that it marked the ending of the Farrell-type era with its borefest style, then it can only be said that memories are short.

There have been matches when the Farrell boot has been put to ball too often for easy appreciation, a stultifying approach that was the game plan of a coach, be it Jones or Steve Borthwick, and not of a player. Farrell was being faithful to the team in that regard.

To those who thrilled to England’s late Six Nations championship uptick and naively felt that it marked the ending of the Farrell-type era with its borefest style, then it can only be said that memories are short. There are heaps of good rugby on the Farrell CV, from Grand Slams to World Cup finals. The 32 year-old is a man of many facets.

Perhaps the most reliable witnesses to summon to his corner are those he is closest to – the players. I can’t recall any single player, teammate or opponent, who has had a genuine bad word to say about Farrell. Or not at any worthwhile in-depth level. Farrell copped some stick from South Africans even though he would have been feted as one of their finest if he had been born there – unremittingly tough and durable and trustworthy and honest. You can bet your last dollar that Farrell’s soon-to-be Racing teammate, Siya Kolisi, would figure so.

And so to the final throes, the last regular glimpses of a special talent. There may yet be a last Twickenham appearance if Saracens should manage to get to the Premiership final. Some of the opprobrium that has come Farrell’s way is due to the misplaced disdain for Saracens. They transgressed, they got punished and that ought to be as far as it goes.

Farrell, along with many of his pals, stayed true to the club, his sporting family. It will be quite the wrench when he does leave. It ought to be the same for all of us.