A day for the ages, a moment for the girls: Remembering the Women's Rugby World Cup 2025 final

On 27 September 2025 – I woke up with butterflies in my stomach, and glands like conkers.

After six cities, 10 commentaries, 11 articles, two television appearances, and countless podcasts, team base visits, press conferences, and chats with coaches and players – I was cooked. I’d not had day off in seven weeks, I had a teaspoon’s worth of adrenaline left to give, and my immune system was approaching the finish line of Women’s Rugby World Cup 2025 like [you won’t regret googling this] Leo Neugebauer the end of a decathlon 1500m. I had loved every second.

The best, somehow, was still to come: all roads led to a sold-out Allianz Stadium – where the planet’s top two outfits were about to do battle.

The tournament’s mantra was ‘this energy never stops’, and – that day – it escalated precociously early. Just exiting Twickenham station was a thrill: scarves hawked, cowboy hats adjusted, and handmade signs brandished. Someone, somehow, had cranked up the saturation on the Cabbage Patch pub’s mural – and totemic figures of Zoe Aldroft, Meg Jones and Marlie Packer appraised the procession rumbling towards the closing number to end all closing numbers.

It was a parade – not just of rose hats, commemorative scarves, feather boas, ‘For The Girls’ tees, and flags – but of the rugby-watching world. Every conceivable demographic was represented, as the masses – the lucky 81,855 – headed towards their seats and history.

Walking within the horde, emotions were simmering unsustainably – pathogen-enhanced, but mostly scene-induced – and I’d welled up at least twice by 11am.

There are people who’ve been in this game for decades longer than me: who fought tooth and nail to lace up at all; who attended national camps on annual leave and then competed as amateurs, before only their families and the odd dog-walker; who made enormous sacrifices to grow the sport; who dedicated their lives to its grassroots foundations; and who would have commentated superbly over the action – if only there’d been a station on which to broadcast.

The boulder was a long way up the hill before I lent a shoulder.

And yet – that day’s wander to the stadium, hemmed in by a thousand sparklers – brought back my own memories of before it was like this. Cable-bashing as a runner at Sky Sports during a Six Nations double-header, when the full-time whistle of the men’s fixture seemingly pulled the plug on Twickenham, and the stands drained before a single woman could cross the white line. Coverage produced on a shoestring, and living on backwater channels. Recently – far too recently – captains in tears post-match: pleading for financial, infrastructural, and ideological support.

Let’s be clear – the job’s not done yet – but, already, the day of the final felt like the setting of an imposing new bar.

If you’re ever fortunate enough to attend a TOP14 match, you’ll witness players arriving into a carnival: a riotous explosion of colour and passion. Times that by thirty, add a generous twist of wide-eyed wonder, and you’re halfway to imagining the scenes when those buses arrived.

The concourse was heaving, overlooked by a frothing South Stand: a helix of red and white. Lark Atkin-Davies had soon removed her headphones to drink the cacophony in, Alex Matthews was visibly overwhelmed, and Hannah Botterman dished out so many high fives she probably gave herself tennis elbow before kick-off.

Had the whole shebang been called off at that point, it would have already been a triumph, but it was time to settle things – and find ourselves some champions. Time to acknowledge that, beneath the excitement, a confrontation was growing ever-closer.

Inside the bowl, I’d occasionally lift a giant, muffling headphone off one ear to let in the screams, roars, gasps, and anthems – both national and Pink Pony Club – but the memories are mostly visual: emerald rectangle, gold and pink trim, and figures in crimson and in white flowing up and down before stands packed so tightly they could burst.

Asia Hogan-Rochester – lithe and rippling, beaming and glittering – screaming over early doors, and my 5Live Breakfast appearance echoing in my ears: ‘England’s ceiling is higher by inches, but Canada have been the best team at this World Cup.’ Kevin Rouet’s crowd-funded entertainers hit the front – and the sport’s ultimate heavyweight rocked back on her heels.

When the titan stood straight again, and raised her gloves – it was beneath tight, ombré curls. Ellie Kildunne’s latest pearler felt pre-ordained – this was the tournament the poster-girl was born to light up – and yet the audacity of it was jaw-dropping. It was one of those moments in commentary when you completely forget about your audience and responsibilities, and are just one tiny part of a giddy throng.

The full-back beat a third of Canada’s line-up to dab down beneath the sticks, and Kat Merchant could only laugh at the sublimity of it all. Even the player herself seemed a little taken aback by what she’d just conjured up. The stadium was deafening. Writing this now – hairs on my forearms are standing up. It was the most electrifying communal experience.

Rolling maul. Cokayne. Hulking scrum. Matthews. Canada tightened up, and England – with grim relish – traded the scythe for the battering ram. Zoe Harrison was note-perfect from the tee, and the gap 13 at the break. There was a distinct sense of hometown relief, as the teams returned to Twickenham’s belly: their heroines had the game by the scruff of the neck, and their opponents just weren’t quite crackling like they had been all campaign long.

Abbie Ward, playing the rugby of her life – and with her gorgeous little daughter in the stands, looked to have landed the killer blow – only for the Maples to produce one final surge. Botterman was binned for a rush of blood to the head, Hogan-Rochester snatched another, and it was suddenly 13-26. Sophie De Goede, who would be World Player of the Year in an hour, missed her pair of conversions by a combined two inches – and you can’t help but wonder what difference it might have made if the women in red had been just nine points adrift, with a quarter to go.

Sometimes finals footie is cagey to the point of bitty – the rugby oppressed by occasion. Not this time. It was enthralling: the quality sky-high, and physicality brutal and beautiful all at once. Abby Dow’s strength through contact. Liv Apps arriving into the fray like a tigress. Sadia Kabeya’s unremitting hustle. The Canadian pack’s link play. The home straight mastery of that Kildunne spiral bomb off a free kick.

Canada came again and again – all heart and hunger and history – but England defended as though it were their home tournament, and – if they could just hold out a few minutes more – they’d be queens of the rugby world for the first time in a decade. Perhaps that’s because it was.

 

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Full-time was pandemonium. A year on, it’s just a kaleidoscope of emotion. The starting front row barrelling onto the pitch to join the celebrations. Stands effervescing. Canada bereft. Sarah Hunter – who’d had her heart broken at Eden Park three years ago – smiling uncontrollably. Jess Breach – about five of her, it felt – buzzing around the place, wiping tears off faces, throwing arms around shoulders, and pumping tyres. Hours later: an exhausted Meg Jones, surrounded by golden streamers, sat – all alone – on the podium, trophy by her side, and the memories of an unthinkably hard year swirling around her.

The most enduring? Aldcroft – sobbing her heart out. If ever an image summed up how much this team wanted it – it was their talisman’s armour disintegrating with relief. She had ploughed her body, her soul, and her everything else into this campaign.

No one sticks around to cheer trophy lifts, but – on 27 September 2025 – no one was doing anything by the book. Tens of thousands watched the most dominant team rugby has ever seen crowned champions of the world – Aldcroft recovering to produce an instantly iconic arabesque before the podium – right as my voice and immune system abandoned me in my final, slightly teary, conversation with Mark Chapman: one which ended with me imploring the millions of new fans these women had garnered to come back for more.

It was a fitting finale to a tournament for the ages. From that dizzying night in Sunderland to that dizzying afternoon in Twickenham – via As Yaras’ debut, Scotland’s union-defying heroics, the Springboks’ 15-player rolling maul, Manusina Samoa’s grace and spirit, and the passion of each and every host city – it was sensational. So many records were shattered that even Dow couldn’t have crocheted things back together, and you know something’s built cultural clout when both Barbie and the Spice Girls want a piece.

Canada had been the story of the World Cup, but the Red Roses seized the pen at the big house, for the big dance, and wrote the final chapter in bold, inarguable capitals. 5.8 million tuned in on the BBC to see if they could adorn a decade’s worth of scar tissue with ticker tape and gold – and they were not disappointed.

Just like the energy at the heart of it all, rugby never stops – and we’ve hurtled into a new cycle: England the hunted, Canucks seeking revenge, Black Ferns reinventing themselves, and the chasing pack dreaming big.

But, one year on, it’s rather fun to reminisce on a day which demolished a few glass ceilings – and then used those shards to score indelible lines in the sand.

A day for the ages: a movement for the girls.