Here, in the Stade de France, I have been so into my pre-match pattern, I haven’t had time to think. Until now. Oh shit, this is it. The big one.
In the huddle, minutes before we go out on to the field, Vicks gives us the last big hurrah. The intensity has been building and building. Now it’s as high as it gets. We’ve come so far, he tells us, we’re unbreakable, we’re like a band of brothers.
As he says ‘brothers’, Ronnie Regan is so caught up in the mood that he does something only he would do. He thrusts his fist into the middle of the huddle and echoes the words. Yeah, boys! Brothers!
An awkward pause follows. What the hell does he want us to do? Nobody has ever done this fists-in-the-huddle business before, but Ronnie’s fist remains firm. Half the team are looking around, thinking someone’s got to do something. I do my utmost to avoid looking at Taity because this is a World Cup final for God’s sake and there is a good chance that if I catch his eye I could burst out laughing right now.
Ronnie’s fist remains remains there, but Vicks picks up where he left off. Eventually, Ronnie meekly withdraws his fist. I make a mental note that, whatever happens in the next eighty minutes, we’re going to laugh about this afterwards. But first there is a pretty big game to be played.
These Springboks are one of the best teams I’ve ever played against. They are enormously tough, ruthless, deadly in the lineout, and they start building an early lead. I try to peg it back with a drop goal, but I’m forced to use my right boot and, although it’s on target, my injured foot simply doesn’t have the power in it.
We go in 9–3 at half-time, but the second half has barely begun when we have our big moment. Taity makes a scorching break out of nowhere and does what he can do so well, which is beat players for fun. He is brought down a mere five metres from the try line, and from the ensuing ruck, the ball comes out to me. I have just enough time before getting hit to bat it on to Mark Cueto down the left wing, who dives in to score in the corner.
The decision is referred to the video referee. Did he put his foot into touch or not while scoring? I watch it on the big screen with my kicking tee in hand, ready to take the conversion. The decision is long and slow and I cannot work out whether it’s a try or not.
The video ref decides not. No try. So we are chasing the game. We get the deficit down to three, but our ill discipline costs us dearly and they land two penalties, which means we are more than a score behind. This is probably the difference for us; against Australia and France, we were always in touch, always close enough to believe that we could hang in there and close the game out when the opportunity came. But here we are more than a score behind and so we have no choice but to force it against a very well-organised defence. And we can’t find the opening we so desperately need. We simply don’t have that in our armoury, not on this night, not against this side.
We had a chance to make history with a successful defence of the World Cup. Two World Cups in a row. With Cueto’s try it could have been different, but the score is in the book. It’s 15–6 and, at the last, the World Cup dream is gone.
On the coach on the way back from the Stade, Vicks issues his instructions to the boys for the evening’s activities – whatever happens, we all stick together as a team.
Under my rules, I would usually take that to mean you can all stick together and I will chill with you for a bit before sliding out the back door. This time, however, I want, more than anything, to finish it off in style. I want to be with these boys right up until the very end.
My mate Andy Holloway joins us in L’Arc, the bar that has been booked for us. He played rugby this morning for Southend RFC, then managed to leg it from his game to get on a private flight, courtesy of his boss, to be in the Stade for the final. He didn’t even have time for a shower. Later, when eventually he crawls back to our hotel, he is utterly unable to locate my room, so he sleeps on the floor in the corridor outside the room he thinks is mine, but which happens to be on the floor below. I don’t see him in the morning because he gets off to catch his flight home. And he still hasn’t showered.
My own performance is not particularly impressive either, and the reasons are twofold. One, I haven’t touched alcohol for two and a half years. Not so much as a beer or a glass of wine at dinner. Two, it’s my aim in life to avoid tequila, gin and whisky, but that’s all L’Arc seem to have.
I get into a session with Josh. We exchange champagne toasts. We toast world peace, wonky rugby balls and anything else that comes to mind. Andy joins us. Josh has a mate, too, and the toasting goes on and on and on.
I get a bit overexcited and ask the barman if I can spend some time behind the bar. It’s my party trick – except no trick is involved. And the princes are here – William and Harry – and they are in fine form. Floody is on fire. Taity is a right mess.
Shelley is having a good time, too, but she has to do a lot of looking after. Me mainly, and Taity. Sure enough, when the inevitable happens and I can stand up no longer, Shelley and her twin sister Tracey (who has come out with us too) start putting the get-me-home process into operation. A couple of the security staff who are with the England team come to our rescue. They wrap a coat round my head, so no one can see who I am, and walk me into a waiting taxi.
By the time we get back to the hotel, I have become a dead weight. They have to carry me in, one under each shoulder, with my feet dragging behind me, laces down.
Brian Ashton is at the bar and sees us making our shambolic way through the foyer. He asks what’s happened. Shelley tells him that I’ve had bad food poisoning. From what I am informed later, he doesn’t buy it. There’s a surprise.
The poor concierge comes to my rescue. I tell him I’m going to be sick, so he rushes back with a bucket. I take a good look at it, take aim and then manage to vomit right down his arm.
Shelley somehow manages to get me up to my room where I am sick again. And again.
The next day, I’m no better. From mid-afternoon, I’m still vomiting about every twenty-five minutes. A sick bug has been going round and I wonder if maybe that’s the problem. So I call Simon Kemp and he comes to my room. He brings me paracetamol and I ask him to bring me my toothpaste from the bathroom to try to remove the nasty taste from my mouth.
Simon, I ask, do you think I’ve got this sick bug?
No, he says. It’s called a hangover. And if you didn’t wait four years between drinking sessions, you might be able to recognise it.
That night, as we make our way to the end-of-tournament dinner, I recall the mood on the exact same bus journey four years ago. It’s amazing what a difference a couple of penalties and a disallowed try can make.
My phone beeps with a text from my mate, Newcastle full-back Anthony Elliott. It reads simply: great pictures of you, Taity and Floody on the front of the Sun today. Must have been an awesome night!
Oh my God! My heart is suddenly racing. This is my worst nightmare coming true. This is what I kept myself tucked away for all those years to avoid. I should never have let my hair down. I can’t remember a thing that happened last night. I feel a sense of panic rising within me.
I show Floody and Taity the text. Anthony has sent me the pictures and they sit behind me, all of us staring at my phone as the images slowly download. The tension is unbearable.
The first picture arrives bit by bit, starting from the top. First to appear on the screen is Floody. He is wearing Taity’s T-shirt and pouring a bottle of vodka straight down Prince Harry’s throat! This is not a good start.
Next up is me. My eyes are gone, looking everywhere but nowhere at the same time. I look a right state but nothing incriminating. Not as bad as Floody. That’s OK, then.
And I feel even better when the final member of the Newcastle trio appears at the bottom of the screen. In a fitting end to an amazing six-week competition, full of highs and lows to match any I can recall, Taity has seen off the event in style, barely awake in a silver cowboy hat with hardly any clothes on.
AT
Newcastle, I don’t think I ever realised how much of a buffer role Rob Andrew played between the management and the club. Rob moved to work at the RFU last year and now we have John Fletcher as our director of rugby. He is really impressive, too. Originally, he was the academy coach, and I have never seen a guy so trusted and respected by his students. I really like working with him; his man-management skills are an inspiration.
We have a great culture here, tight team spirit. This is a club punching above its weight, and the coaches, including Fletch and Peter Walton, a teammate from the early days, are doing everything they can to help players improve and get selected for England. But we are now starting to feel pressure from above – not from Fletch, but even higher – and, as ever, Blackie has been fighting the players’ corner.
The lengths Blackie has gone to for us know no boundaries. For a long time we’d been asking for upgraded weights and gym equipment, and eventually Blackie took it upon himself to go out and get it for us. He did motivational speeches for equipment companies and they gave him our new gym equipment in return. He never stopped. He was always there for us, requesting nothing in return but our effort and focus. He lived the dream for us 24/7. His set-up, positivity and energy are the secrets behind my career.
It was at his request that resident artist and maniacal back-rower Ed Williamson painted the wall with words that drive us. ‘If it’s not true, don’t say it. If it’s not right, don’t do it.’
But now the Blackie days are over. Some tough decisions are being made round here. Blackie wanted to provide the players with an environment to help them get the best out of themselves (energy, spirit and a commitment to getting better every day), but Dave Thompson, the owner, and to be fair the guy who puts the money in, has a different idea of how to do this. I get the impression that Thomo feels it’s better done by putting a bit of fear into us – fear of losing our jobs, fear of what’s going to happen if we don’t win. I think that’s more Thomo’s way. He likes to show who is in charge.
Blackie would never allow that ethos to be placed upon his players. He knows how we pull together. He knows it always begins with the team and the players. Basically, he just told it how it is, and Thomo chose to tell him that he is no longer needed.
Typical Blackie, his parting shot was humble and thoughtful, and showed where his priorities always lie. He asked Thomo to look after the players and give us an environment in which we can go out and thrive.
There is only one person I would possibly choose to work with in place of Blackie and that’s Sparks. So it’s a huge relief when Thomo puts him in place, but also an interesting decision because Sparks’s and Blackie’s philosophies are almost exactly the same. So now I work with Blackie away from the club and I love working with Sparks within it. But with what seems to be unfolding behind the scenes, I do start to fear for the future of the team.
For most of my life as a professional rugby player, I have been advised to lay off the kicking practice a bit. I’ve been told to spend a little less time out on the pitch and a little more at home with my feet up. And I cannot argue with the advice. My injury record over the years – particularly the groin injury – is proof that there was some mileage in what everyone had been telling me. I just found it hard to accept.
The Newcastle medical team have now got me keeping a diary of how long I kick for and how many kicks I hit each day. They’ve been threatening me with this for two years, ever since my groin problems, and I’ve done an expert job of dodging it. Even now, I rarely fill it in honestly, which probably renders it pointless.
Back in those earlier England days, Clive was never afraid to let me know his concerns that I was doing too much. I still get it from Pasky and Simon Kemp. Even Ronan O’Gara, on Lions tours and after England–Ireland games, has told me I might be taking it a few steps too far.
It’s not that I don’t want to take the advice on board. In fact, deep down I know it holds the key to taking me to the next level. The problem is that my best intentions of finishing up my practice in good time are too easily overpowered by the need for perfection, and by the fear and anxiety that builds in me when things don’t go exactly to plan. The way I still see it, the only solution is to stay out practising until I have literally kicked the feeling away.
But now, the current England management have fresh, undeniable evidence with which to confront me.
As the 2008 Six Nations season rolls around, the players are being told to wear a new device, a GPS monitor. This allows the coaches to collect data on each of us, and to see the exact distance we have covered in training, which in turn gives them an idea of how hard we are working.
Where I go wrong is that I forget to take my monitor off when squad training is finished. I keep it on for my kicking training afterwards. This means that for those hours when I’m kicking, every time I jog there and back to collect the balls is notched up as part of my day’s work.
In the build-up to the Six Nations, the GPS stats show that I am doing well over seven or eight kilometres a day. Before games, that is too much. The evidence is there before me. Not that I find it any easier to respond to; after all, by my standards, these are already shortened sessions.
The GPS does not just show distance covered, it shows your average and maximum speed. Before the Wales game, the coaches are fascinated to see that my top speed is significantly, astonishingly faster than anyone else’s. They call me in. How come? What are you doing that we don’t know about?
The answer is that not only did I forget to take my monitor off for kicking training, I forgot to take it off when I was in the car on the way back to the hotel.
At Newcastle, we have a new, world-class prop, who doubles as a useful guitarist. Carl Hayman is the latest member of the band, although I’m not exactly sure that’s what you’d call us.
I’ve been playing the guitar for a few years now, and we have a great recording studio at home. It all came about courtesy of a music company called Roland. I happened to mention in an interview that I was trying to learn the piano. Roland got in touch and offered me a grand piano in exchange for an interview and some photographs for their personal use. Great deal, except the house didn’t have room for a grand piano, so I asked for a few other things instead.
So now when we rock out, we do so in style with amps, effects pedals, microphones, a digital piano, a 24-track recording studio and a fully equipped digital drum kit for Sparks. I think the expression is: all the gear, no idea.
Pete Murphy was our lead singer, but when he left Newcastle, we had to find a stand-in. John Stokoe, the club kit man, more than competently took the mic. Toby Flood is our resident bass slapper, and when he is able, Graeme Wilkes, the club doctor, pops along to show us how it’s really done. He is a genuinely good pianist.
The type of music favoured by this group with no name is very broad. We like a bit of Motown and have played a whole range from Stones to Oasis, from Arctic Monkeys to Pearl Jam. In fact, we are open to any suggestions, as long as they involve a decent guitar solo for me and something difficult for Sparks to get his head round on the drums. The song ‘What You Could Have Won’ by Milburn nicely ticks both boxes.
At our height, some of us have made cameo appearances in Graeme’s band, The Klack. So yes, I have played live, up at Slaley Hall. Great fun, but boy do I hate performing in public. There’s only one public stage I ever want to go out on and it’s not this one.
But I love messing around with the guys in our studio. I can get pretty immersed. It is probably the only other environment where I feel the same buzz as when I’m playing rugby or training hard with Blackie.
Carl has introduced a new element. He has started turning up in fancy dress and he insists that we join him. The latest is Carl on rhythm guitar, dressed as a nun, Sparks on drums in an off-grey leather jacket and incredibly low-slung beige slip-ons, looking like a sleazy seventies second-hand car salesman, and me on lead, wearing black cowboy boots, viciously tapered stone-washed jeans, a black playboy v
est and a long black wig, all from the charity shop. We make quite a sight now as well as quite a noise.
At last, I can sign England shirts again.
The Sporting Icons case has finally been to court and two of the company’s directors have been found guilty, one of cheating customers and the other of supplying forgeries.
I never actually had to appear in court myself, although footballers Steven Gerrard, Jamie Carragher and Ian Rush all gave evidence.
The memorabilia dealers all now know our stance on this business. Since 2003, over 2000 items bearing my fake signature have been removed from eBay, and without one single legal challenge from the seller.
For all the time and work, and all the reading and thinking, that I have put into following my spiritual pathway, I cannot change the core of who I am.
On the morning of the Wales game, before we leave for Twickenham, I find myself caught up in the biggest bout of pre-match nerves I have ever experienced. I am 28 years old, I have 70 odd caps, yet this is as bad as it has ever been.
In my room with an hour to go before the coach leaves for the game, an old thought process rifles through my mind. If you could offer me a way out now, would I take it? Right now, I probably would. I’d probably leg it.
I phone Blackie in a panic. Blackie knows the right messages to give me. He helps calm me down. So I go to the game. I’m ready to play. I don’t leg it. I don’t even know where those intense nerves suddenly came from.
The game starts well. In the first half, we are really effective. We run the ball well, we feel confident, we make good decisions and build a lead. But in the second half the game changes. Danny Cipriani is off the bench, making his England debut at centre, and I throw him a long pass. There is nowhere for me to kick, so this pass is delivered knowing that it will bring up the Welsh defence and give him better kicking options and plenty of time to execute one of them.
Jonny: My Autobiography Page 27