I gave him a ring every two or three hours to check on his progress and it became apparent it wasn’t proving to be a trouble-free trip. He was severely delayed near Paris travelling around the Boulevard Périphérique, one of the busiest highways in Europe, in addition to normal delays for road works and traffic accidents. After twelve hours of driving he was still many miles away. Eventually he rang to say he’d arrived, but wasn’t going to be able to see me because the only hotel with vacancies was another hour’s drive from Marseille. He had already made a Herculean effort to watch me play the following day and I couldn’t bear the thought of him driving any further, spending the night on his own miles from the action. So I told him to make his way to the Holiday Inn where the England team were staying. ‘I’ll fix you up with a meal and I’ve got a double bed so you might as well stay with me in my room tonight.’
I think Lawrence has covered the state of this hotel in more than enough detail so I will only pass on one additional memory of the carnage left by the Georgians. I remember walking into reception and seeing piles of what looked like sawdust dotted around. I asked the concierge what it was for. ‘Sawdust?’ he said. ‘It was furniture last night! And now it is being used to soak up vomit.’ Enough said.
Anyway my dad arrived at the hotel looking absolutely shattered. Clearly he couldn’t have driven for another hour. I took him to the restaurant, ordered some food and a glass of red wine knowing it wasn’t going to be long before he crashed out for the night. Twenty minutes later we were both in my bedroom, dad stripped down to his underpants and tucked up in bed. It was slightly unnerving at thirty-four years of age knowing I was about to get into the same bed as my dad, thirty years after the last time I’d had the experience.
So a few minutes later after cleaning my teeth, on the eve of the biggest game of my life up to that point, the quarter-final of a World Cup, I climbed into bed alongside my old man. Shortly after I’d dropped off to sleep I was awoken by a Canadian lumberjack, using a chainsaw to level all the trees growing in my room. That’s not strictly true, but the noise of Dad snoring was at least on a par with that which accompanies the Rocky Mountain macho men. He was producing an unbelievable volume. I gave him a nudge, followed by a shove, neither of which had any effect. So I punched him on the shoulder. This caused him to wake and ask if everything was okay. I told him his snoring was so loud it was preventing me from sleeping. We then proceeded to have a husband and wife ‘discussion’.
‘No I’m not,’ was his opening gambit.
‘Yes you are,’ I came back, cleverly. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t make it up.’
He was becoming defensive. ‘I only snore if I’ve had a drink, and you can’t classify one glass of wine as having a drink.’
He may have been my dad but given the circumstances I had no problem replying, ‘You f****** are. Now f****** shut up!’
He was still protesting his innocence as he dropped off once again. I took the opportunity of a few moments’ silence to try and get back to sleep myself. An hour or so later and I was awoken again with the non-rhythmic sound of his incessant snoring. I gave him another big shove and this time, still asleep, he turned over and put his arm around me. My father. In my bed. In effect, cuddling me. And snoring. I love this man, I thought to myself, but I may need to kill him. The long night continued with me waking Dad on a regular basis and snatching brief moments of sleep during the occasional silence.
He has always been an early riser and at 6.00 a.m. I awoke to the sound of him whistling in the bathroom as he cleaned his undercarriage. Why would anyone leave the bathroom door open while completing their ablutions? I lay in bed having had a terrible night thinking how badly prepared I was for the match of my life. He came out of the bathroom, dressed, and went down to have breakfast with the England team, leaving me to try and get a few extra winks of sleep, probably doubling my total for the night.
I remember getting out of bed, showering and drawing back the curtains to see bright blue sky. We’d been informed the forecast was for rain and at that stage, with our confidence at best fragile, we believed that our best opportunity of beating Australia was in the wet. We required something to level things up a bit. This was not going to be my day, or indeed England’s, I wearily told myself. Several hours later, however, our forwards had crushed the Australians in every scrum and when the referee, Alain Rolland, blew his whistle for the final time we’d thrashed them 12–10, causing the upset of the tournament.
I appreciate everything my dad’s done for me over the years and all his support. However, I can honestly say we will never be sleeping in the same bed or possibly the same county again.
Purely as a matter of interest I wonder if David Beckham or any of the other football stars have shared a bed with their dad the night before a World Cup game. I think the reality is I am, and will remain, in a small club of one when it comes to this particular scenario.
Epilogue
2011
In the space of just twenty years the Rugby World Cup has grown beyond even the wildest of expectations. As I mentioned at the beginning of this book, in 1987 the tournament was watched by a worldwide television audience of 300 million. The total match attendance was 600,000 and it generated a commercial surplus of around £1 million.
Four years later and the TV audience had grown to 1.75 billion, with match attendances rising to 1 million. Commercially the figures proved the World Cup was here to stay as income of pushing £27 million generated profits in excess of £4 million. Fast forward to 2007 and you are talking profits of over £120 million with the number of spectators and viewers both more than doubling from the 1991 figures. With the television rights presold for the 2011 and 2015 tournaments it looks as though the growth will continue, although perhaps not as sharply.
Having read all the stories contributed to this book I think it’s fair to say the first World Cup was an amateur affair. It was hastily organised, with the majority of competing teams treating it as little more than an end-of-season tour. Then as each subsequent tournament came around the stories indicate there was less and less drinking of alcohol, with a greater emphasis on preparation and training. (Although I am glad to say the occasional night out was still allowed by the more liberal coaches and insisted upon by players from the ‘old school’.)
I just hope as rugby continues to spread around the globe, with ever more countries participating, the essence of the game is not lost. Obviously, wherever it’s played professionally the players have a responsibility as they are effectively representing a business and being paid for their services. However, there must be enjoyment in what they do, and surely the opportunity to let off a bit of steam can still be built into their training and development programmes. I know from my time with Wasps, England and the Lions, a good piss-up with the boys did as much to engender team spirit and bonding as any official exercise purporting to achieve the same results. I shudder when I think of a certain ‘team-building weekend with the marines’!
I’ve done both, and benefited from both, and believe each has its place in the preparation of teams even at the highest level. To be honest, whenever I meet up with former team-mates and people I’ve been on tour with the conversation is always about a particular get together, or some ridiculous antics someone got up to. I can’t recall conversations about specific training sessions or team meetings, no matter how inspirational they may have been. I suppose what I want is for the modern-day player to continue to get as much fun from the game as I did, to work hard and also, from time to time, play hard.
As for the 2011 Rugby World Cup, this book will be finished before a ball is kicked, so I will make my prediction now, which will prevent me from changing my mind after the first round of pool games. I am a proud Englishman who will always support my country in everything they do. However, I do not see them winning this time around. They’ve taken giant strides in the right direction over the last eighteen months but probably not quite far enough. I feel a semi-final will be a good
result, and expect nothing less than a quarter-final spot. As for the winners, it’s difficult to see past New Zealand, particularly as they are on home soil. Many of us have joked how they always manage to peak between tournaments and then fall short when it matters. I know they were devastated to lose against France in their quarter-final four years ago, and it feels as though they’ve been building towards this World Cup ever since.
Australia and South Africa will also progress deep into the tournament and I anticipate one of these two teams will be contesting the final. Looking at other nations, the French have the ability to reach the final if they play to their potential, as do Argentina, but ultimately I think it will come down to the Wallabies or the Springboks to take on the All Blacks.
There we go, I’ve stuck my neck out and plumped for New Zealand to win, but as we all know the beauty of sport is its unpredictability. Nothing would give me more pleasure than being proved wrong. I’ll be cheering louder than anyone if England lift the Webb Ellis Cup on Sunday 23 October in Auckland.
Bring it on.
Acknowledgements
Once again, although my name appears on the cover, this book could not have happened without the help, hard work and support of many people.
First and foremost I would like to thank all the players who have contributed stories and anecdotes. Thank you guys. I know everyone at Wooden Spoon very much appreciates the time and effort you put into this project. There would be 300 blank pages here if it wasn’t for you. Not the best of reading material, although I am pretty sure some of the boys I played with over the years would have still found it quite challenging. ‘Why aren’t there any chapters, Lol?’ I can hear them say. So thank you once again, all of you, for turning those empty pages into an entertaining and often informative read.
I would also like to thank the players and coaches that I have worked with and played against. Without the rugby community, there would be no stories for anyone to tell. Thank you. It has been a hell of a lot of fun.
A special thanks to David Trick who is one of life’s great characters. He has worked incredibly hard and helped me produce the book I wanted. Thanks also to my business manager Richard Relton for keeping me and everything else on track.
The book could not have happened without my publishers, Simon & Schuster. My thanks to the team for helping me pull this off again and for your patience, understanding and professionalism in producing a book I am delighted with. It got a bit tight I know. In particular I would like to thank Rhea Halford for all her hard work, Kerr MacRae for helping kick start the whole thing and Anna Robinson for being the best publicist you could ever want.
A special mention to David Wilson who once more worked round the clock to make sense of our words and turn them into a book to be proud of.
Thanks also to John Griffiths for keeping me right on my facts. I am grateful for the work you undertook to check everything for me. If any additional screw ups have crept in, they are entirely my fault.
Of course the people who deserve the greatest thanks are my family. Dad, Alice, Ella, Josie and Enzo. I am very lucky to have you.
Finally, thanks to you, the reader, for buying this book and supporting Wooden Spoon. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I have had in pulling it all together.
Thank you all.
More Blood, Sweat and Beers Page 23
