More Blood, Sweat and Beers

by Lawrence Dallaglio

  By the way, many people have asked me over the years why one of my nicknames is ‘Mullet’. Actually that’s a lie, no one has ever asked, but I bring it up because during the tournament a team-mate brought to my attention that I had been very well supported in a fans’ poll conducted by a prominent rugby website. At last, my skills had been properly recognised. Looking around the hotel reception I noticed an Irish supporter drinking coffee and tapping away on a laptop. I wandered over and asked if he minded me using it for a moment to check something. After making me agree not to visit any porn sites he remained close by as I typed in the address my team-mate had given me. With both of us staring at the screen, my face appeared (not a bad photo in my opinion) with the caption underneath reading: ‘In a recent poll taken by our readers, Shane Byrne has been voted as having the sixth worst hairstyle in world rugby [wait for it . . .] of all time.’ My new friend immediately bookmarked the page and no doubt sent it to all his mates shortly afterwards. The only saving grace was Brian O’Driscoll had come in eighth (I think he was going through his peroxide period at the time). I have never been under any illusion when it comes to the looks department but dear old Brian always reckoned he was something of a dish, and this poll obviously had an effect on him. If you look at any photo of Brian O’Driscoll from the end of the World Cup 2003 to the current day you will see a very sensible and presentable non-offensive hairstyle (vain bastard).

  Wherever we went in Australia the local cops were great. They told us that whenever the Irish arrived in town (any town) and started to drink the place dry there was a marked reduction in the amount of crime. When we were in Melbourne they invited anyone interested to their shooting range. The guns they had were amazing, with my personal favourite being the .44 Magnum, straight out of Dirty Harry. I have a vivid memory of our prop forward John Hayes staring down the range at the target saying, ‘Do ya feel lucky, bullseye? Well? Do ya?’ Oh it felt lucky all right – John didn’t get within an ass’s roar of the target let alone the bullseye. Still, the trip was another great distraction from the rugby and finished without any major incident.

  Looking back through my diary I notice Monday 3 November was a compulsory fun day.

  Eddie O’Sullivan (coach) had decided to give us a full day of leisure. We called it a compulsory day of fun because although we were given the day off we had to get out of the hotel and do something; ‘just chilling’ was not on the agenda. The options were golf (too energetic), zoo (nah), aquarium/shark dive (once is enough, thank you), helicopter ride (interesting), but most of us, being big kids, went for go-karting.

  I must say it was great craic, particularly as the guys in control gave us loads of time on the track and appeared to turn a blind eye as the boys broke all the rules, perhaps the most significant of which was also the most basic: all karts are to be driven in the same direction on the course. This was disregarded inside three laps by most of the forwards, who felt it was more of a challenge to avoid the oncoming traffic and also because it offered the additional pleasure of seeing the petrified faces of the backs as we forwards headed straight for them, playing our own high-speed game of ‘chicken’. Malcolm O’Kelly had a fixation with a dummy standing in amongst the tyres on the side of the track, wearing orange dungarees and holding a chequered flag. At least I hope it was a dummy as O’Kelly managed to hit it twice, leaving it prostrate in the middle of the track in the way of oncoming drivers (from both directions). I think it is also worth noting that when all the laps were complete and most of the karts broken, I was declared the winner. It seems all my years of rallying up in the Tinnakilly Woods in my Uncle Dudley’s car had finally paid off (Jeez, I hope he doesn’t read this).

  One final trip the management organised for us was to a wine chateau (or Aussie equivalent). Apparently Melbourne is near one of the big wine-growing regions of Australia, so after an exceptionally hard training session, we were ordered onto the team bus for an hour and a half journey to ‘Chateau Billabong’ or something similar. On arrival we were provided with some sustenance, a few plates of namby-pamby finger food which was of use to neither man nor beast. The signs were not encouraging. Following this we were taken on the ‘exciting’ tour where we learned how each particular vine thrives in the special soil, which helps produce the lurvely taste etc., etc., etc. (zzzzzzz, let’s get on to the tasting/drinking portion of the day). Walking into another barn we were informed this was where the ‘plink’ was added to ‘plonk’ to produce a stunning sparkling red wine. Ah, sparkling red wine, I’ll have a taste of that. This was when it was explained that no players were allowed any alcohol. For f**** sake, there was another four hours before we left the place and all we had to look forward to was watching the management ‘taste’ their way to oblivion. To make things worse it was Melbourne Cup day at the races. Why couldn’t they have taken us there for some compulsory fun? By now, what little brain our loose-head prop Marcus Horan had previously laid claim to was in meltdown. Standing next to the vineyard owner looking out over 100 acres of vines, he said, ‘So all those lines of big twigs are what you call grape trees?’ ‘Yes, that’s right, grape trees,’ the boss-man replied and walked silently away.

  For the record, as a team we trained extremely hard almost every day. I have just highlighted the downtime in my ramblings here, which believe me are far more interesting than hearing about team tactics, shuttle runs and stamina sessions. That would have been even worse than finding out about the acidity of the earth in the Melbourne grape-growing region.

  Spectator Sport

  David Trick

  David Trick helped me with my last book Rugby Tales and again with this one. He finished his career as I started mine so we never played against each other. He reliably informs me he was bloody brilliant although the stats don’t necessarily bear that out.

  ‘He spent twelve seasons playing for the famous Bath club and has recently been elected President of Bath Rugby. He tells me he is honoured by the appointment but somewhat embarrassed as he’s still thirty years short of his eightieth birthday and doesn’t currently possess a blazer with red wine and food stains on the lapels! If I know Tricky, it will not be long before he does. On a serious note, he played 247 times for the club and scored an amazing 171 tries, he also played twelve times for England at different levels, scoring eleven tries, which I’m sure you’ll agree is some achievement. When researching the validity of these facts and figures (I gave him a ring to ask if they were true) all he could say was defences were pretty poor in his day, and this fact coupled with his exceptional pace on the wing and a huge fear of pain meant he was able to cross the try line on a number of occasions.

  ‘As he assisted in the gathering of stories for this book he decided to write one of his own even though he never played in a World Cup. He did however travel to Australia for the 2003 tournament and recollects an incident in a local restaurant after our quarter-final against Wales.

  ‘While I remember – Tricky, many thanks for your help.

  Everyone remembers what happened in 2003, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t worth spelling out once again. England won the World Cup following an extra-time dropped goal from the ‘boy wonder’ Jonny Wilkinson. Whilst that moment remains my favourite on-field memory, off the field I will never forget an incident after the England–Wales quarter-final at the Suncorp Stadium, Brisbane.

  I was part of a supporters’ group from the UK and had arrived in the city a couple of days before the quarter-final stage of the competition. Having followed the Lions two years earlier in Australia I thought I had a reasonable idea of what to expect in terms of crowds and vocal support, but nothing I had experienced came close to the atmosphere before the Wales match on the evening of 9 November 2003. The narrow streets around the stadium were a sea of red and white with every bar and restaurant crammed full of passionate supporters, all confident of success (well the ones in white were). I was about a hundred yards from the ground and it took me the best part of twenty minutes to even get close
to the entrance. All around were groups of varying sizes, drinking excessively, singing and chanting. It reminded me of one of the reasons I like rugby so much, thousands of fans from both teams in the same area, and not a hint of trouble.

  I went into the stadium about half an hour before kick-off, ready to savour the atmosphere. A couple of minutes later the occupant of the seat to my right arrived. It was one of those occasions when you know the face but can’t put a name to it. The only clue I had was he was wearing red, with a plastic daffodil pinned to the front. I took a stab in the dark and decided he was Welsh. I held out my hand, ‘David Trick.’ He extended his, ‘Dai, Dai Watkins.’ I was sitting next to the Welsh legend from the sixties and rugby league giant (5ft 6in) during the seventies. We spent a few minutes chatting about the likely outcome of the match. ‘As long as the best team doesn’t win we’ll be okay,’ he said. He, like everyone else, knew England had a great side and were red-hot favourites. I was so confident I remember saying, ‘I’ll eat this seat if we lose this one,’ and I meant it. We were nailed on to proceed to the semi-finals.

  As the teams left the pitch at half-time, things were not going well. Wales had scored two tries, luckily both unconverted, and England had managed a solitary Jonny Wilkinson penalty in reply. Even more worrying, Wales deserved to be in front. It genuinely felt as though England had stalled and were chasing shadows. My seat was close to the tunnel used by both teams and as Will Greenwood, the England centre, left the pitch a Welsh voice from nearby shouted out, ‘Oi, Rodney, Rodney Trotter, not even Del Boy’s going to get you out of this one.’ Despite the desperate circumstances, I couldn’t help but laugh. Not at the sentiment, but rather at how uncannily similar to Rodders Will Greenwood looked. England brought on Mike Catt in the second half and normal service was resumed, the England machine became more assured, and this coupled with a try by the aforementioned Mr Trotter, plus a further twenty points from the boot of Wilkinson, ensured an English victory 28–17 and an extended life for my seat and digestive system.

  Following the match a group of us had decided to meet up in a Chinese restaurant. I knew we’d all reached middle age because earlier in the day we had made the decision to get something to eat post-match and reflect on the victory before launching ourselves into the stratosphere for a night of alcohol and song. We justified the decision by convincing ourselves all the drinking establishments would be full and the break for food would allow a few supporters to move on, leaving space for us in one of the many Brisbane bars. We’d need a seat after all.

  There were ten of us in total and we were by no means muted. I like to think we were gathering our strength for the long night ahead. The conversation was dominated by the game we’d just seen and speculation about the semi-final against France in Sydney the following week. We were halfway through the meal when a guy from another table approached ours. As soon as he opened his mouth it was clear he was an Aussie. ‘Are you guys over here supporting England?’ ‘We are,’ replied one of our party with a smug smile on his face.

  He stared at us for a couple of seconds and said, ‘If my team had won tonight, I’d be screaming and shouting, jumping and dancing and generally going nuts.’

  To which one of the group, David Hill, a 6ft 4in policeman from the East End of London, replied, ‘Which I think you’ll find is why we sent you here just over two hundred years ago.’

  The guys at our table along with a few others in earshot roared with laughter as our new Aussie mate raised his hands above his head in surrender and walked back to his seat in the corner of the restaurant.

  One other incident I would like to share involves the accommodating nature of the reception-desk staff in Australian hotels. Our party had moved on to Sydney and as each day passed we got to know a little more about each other. One of the single guys, for the purpose of this story let’s call him ‘Log’, was trying desperately to ingratiate himself with the local ladies. In fact, in the pursuit of veracity I’ll remove the word ‘local’. He was keen to get together with anything resembling the female form, ideally with a pulse. Night after night he struck out, though not through lack of effort or persistence on his part; he was a gold medallist in that department. In reality I think it might just have had something to do with him being several stone overweight, causing him to sweat profusely throughout the day and night.

  We held the obligatory ‘court session’ for all tourists a couple of days before the semi-final. For those who have not toured and experienced a court session, there is an appointed judge, prosecution and defence counsel. All misdemeanours are brought to the attention of the judge by the prosecution. The judge then fines the individual concerned, forcing the miscreant to wear something ridiculous like a toilet seat around their neck for the next twenty-four hours, or perhaps to eat and drink everything the thirstiest and hungriest member of the court eats and drinks over a twelve-hour period. Just for your information, every charge is upheld, and the defence counsel is never utilised (apparently many years ago, someone asked to be represented by defence counsel who proceeded to do such a good job the defendant was found not guilty; the forfeit for being found not guilty was to be given twice the punishment).

  I decided to produce some evidence for the judge to back up my claim that Log had persistently abandoned the boys in search of women and spent too much time in his hotel room watching films. To add spice to my accusation, I asked at reception if it were possible to put a few ‘special films’ onto a room bill and print it off, before deleting the extras from the record. ‘No worries mate,’ was the reply. ‘What’s the room number and how many do you want on there?’

  ‘It’s room 221 and could you put three on for me please.’ He tapped a few keys on his keyboard, looked at me and said, ‘There are four on there already, Sir.’ Slightly shocked by the news, I asked if he could load an additional four movies onto the bill. Seconds later, the job was done and I entered the court room and quietly handed the incriminating evidence to the prosecution. Halfway through the court session Log was called to the bench.

  The judge began in a suitable grave tone of voice, ‘Mr Log, it has been brought to the attention of the court you have been spending more time annoying the opposite sex on this trip than you have with the boys, in addition to spending excessive time in your hotel room watching certain “films”. We have all witnessed part of this charge first hand. Mr Prosecutor, do you have any evidence pertaining to the secondary charge?’

  The room bill was produced and along with peanuts, Mars bars and water from the mini bar (who in their right mind ever gets anything out of their own mini bar?) the eight ‘movies’ were there for all to see.

  Log immediately believed he’d been set up and scrutinised his bill closely, trying to work out what had happened. Eventually he had it. His defence.

  ‘This is a fabricated bill, your honour. I know because I have only watched four “blueys” since we arrived and there are eight showing here.’ It was pure Perry Mason.

  Log was heavily punished: he was not allowed to communicate in any way with a member of the opposite sex for twenty-four hours, he also had to go for a shower every hour for twelve hours in order to cleanse his dirty body and mind, and for the duration of the court session he was ordered to stand in the corner, facing the room with his crown jewels in a bucket full of water and ice. The judge felt this would greatly assist in reducing his excessive libido.

  Did it help? I don’t know but I certainly never risked popping unannounced into his room to find out.

  Taken for a Ride

  Mark Regan

  Mark “Ronnie” Regan was born and bred in Bristol and is rightly proud of the city. He speaks “krek bristle”, calling everyone “my bab” or “babber”. Once you’ve worked out what he’s saying you realise he’s a passionate competitor who enjoyed imposing himself physically and verbally on opposition front rows. In the 2007 World Cup quarter-final against Australia, Andy Sheridan almost destroyed Aussie prop Matt Dunning in the first scrum, an
d as they broke up Ronnie was heard to say, “And you’ve got another seventy-nine minutes of f****** agony to look forward to, my babber.”

  ‘Ronnie’s England breakthrough came when he succeeded Brian Moore in November 1995, for the visit of world champions South Africa to Twickenham. He became the first player to make his England debut in the professional era of rugby union (incidentally I was the second Englishman to make his debut in the professional era when I came off the bench to win my first cap in the same game). He went on to gain forty-six caps, was a member of the successful 1997 British and Irish Lions tour to South Africa and played in the 2007 World Cup final.

  Everyone who follows rugby will remember England won the World Cup in 2003; those who follow the game a little more closely will also recall England won the Six Nations Grand Slam earlier in the same year.

  In order to clinch the clean sweep England had to go over to Lansdowne Road in Dublin and defeat Ireland, no mean feat, particularly as Ireland had also remained undefeated in their previous four matches of the campaign and were hoping to win their first Grand Slam since 1948. Apart from a fantastic performance by England in securing a 42–6 victory, one of the most memorable moments from the day came just before kick-off. England came out of the tunnel and Martin Johnson lined us up in readiness for the national anthems on the left-hand side of the halfway line facing the stand we had just emerged from (the side normally reserved for the Irish team). Brian O’Driscoll, the Irish captain, did not appear overly perturbed about this but several of his players pointed out that England were standing in Ireland’s rightful place and needed to move. One of the match-day co-ordinators was despatched to ask Johnno to shift his team about twenty metres to the right, but Captain Marvel was absolutely in the zone and had no intention of moving an inch, a fact he communicated in no uncertain terms to the poor bloke.