More Blood, Sweat and Beers

by Lawrence Dallaglio

  I left the hotel and walked across the road to a small espresso bar, sipping strong coffee and contemplating how the mighty had fallen. Four years ago I had been in the Telstra Stadium, Sydney, with a World Cup winner’s medal around my neck, and now I’d been relegated to the bench and asked to sleep in a vomit-filled room. I needed to take control.

  Feeling utterly miserable as I stared through the window of the café I noticed a Eurocar hire centre next to the hotel. A plan began to formulate. I walked over and asked for the best car they had available. Moments later, with the paperwork completed and my credit card laden with more debt, it was time for part two of operation ‘Cheer up Lawrence’. I sent a text to my fellow bench members asking them to meet me in reception in ten minutes. While I waited for the boys I phoned the restaurant Cinquante Cinq in St Tropez and booked a table for six of us. Club 55 was well known as a destination for the better-behaved and less boisterous element of the St Tropez crowd. I fully intended to put a small dent in that reputation.

  The lads arrived as requested and I explained we were going on a little trip to the beach, and they needn’t bother packing their trunks. The squad had the day off and after a couple of questions everyone was up for the adventure. I called Dan Luger (a former England team-mate), who was playing his rugby in Nice at the time, and told him we would pick him up on the way. Within two hours we are all at Cinquante Cinq, seated at an outside table with our feet in the sand overlooking the Mediterranean Sea, sipping chilled rosé. Life was beginning to feel much better.

  At this point I had no idea that during the car journey scrum-half Pete Richards’s phone had slipped from his pocket and been found by Joe Worsley who, in a moment of pure genius, had substituted the name Joe Worsley with that of Brian Ashton in Pete’s contacts list. Just to make things clear, from that moment on any messages sent from Joe’s phone would arrive on Pete’s under the name of ‘Brian Ashton’. As we sat enjoying the sunshine, anticipating the arrival of some fine French cuisine, there was an audible ‘ping’. Pete had a text. As he read it, it was clear he was moving towards a state of shock. Meanwhile Joe had kicked us under the table and given a knowing wink.

  ‘Shit, I’ve just had a text from Brian. Andy Gomarsall’s gone down with food poisoning and it looks as though I’m in the team for Saturday. He wants to meet me in the team room in an hour. What the f*** am I going to do?’

  Cottoning on to what was occurring I said, ‘Well, the one thing you’re not going to do is make the meeting because we’re two hours away from the hotel. Why don’t you send a text telling Brian that your mum and dad have taken you out for lunch and could you meet at 6.00 p.m.?’ Pete decided this was a brilliant idea, even adding how delighted his parents were with the news of his selection. His response was delivered silently to Joe’s phone.

  Joe calmly waited for about twenty minutes before disappearing to the gents in order to compose his next communication. Several minutes after his return he hit the send button. Another ‘ping’ and Pete read his new message from Brian. ‘Okay, thanks Pete, I’m just going to consult with Phil Vickery and Lawrence Dallaglio and will get back to you.’ The fact that Brian was supposedly going to discuss the issue with myself as senior pro and Phil as captain would not have surprised Pete.

  He looked across at me and with deadly seriousness said, ‘Brian’s going to ring you in a minute to discuss the scrum-half position. Push my case, tell him I’m the man. Do me a favour, Lol, tell him I can get more out of the forwards than any other scrum-half in England. Just convince him, Lol, convince him.’

  How I didn’t piss myself with laughter I’ll never know, but I managed to play a straight bat and told him I would give my honest opinion to any question Brian asked me.

  The rest of us continued to enjoy the meal, the company and beautiful surroundings as Pete agonised over his immediate international future. Another twenty minutes passed and the familiar sound of a new message arriving was heard. Once again it was from Brian Ashton. ‘Don’t worry Pete. I’ve just bumped into Shaun Perry and decided he’ll offer us more options against Australia. Enjoy your lunch and see you tomorrow.’

  Under normal circumstances Pete would have smelled a rat, but the way things had been going on the selection front, what was going on was hardly out of the ordinary. ‘Give me the keys, Lol,’ he said. ‘I’m going to drive back and see Brian. I need to convince him. It’s the quarter-final of the World Cup, for f**** sake.’

  ‘You’re not having the keys, Pete. Firstly you’re not insured to drive, and more importantly my lobster is just about to arrive along with another bottle of perfectly chilled rosé.’ We convinced Pete there was nothing he could do so he might as well enjoy the rest of the day.

  A friend of Dan Luger’s arrived a little later and asked if we wanted to go to a party at Brigitte Bardot’s house along the coast. Needless to say, this received a very positive response. Pete was obviously no longer in the team so there really was very little holding us back.

  We arrived at the house and bizarrely (for us) the party was being held for the Australians. Past players such as Jason Little, Tim Horan and Phil Kearns were there with their partners and I also noticed the wives of several current players, including scrum-half George Gregan and flanker Phil Waugh. You can imagine the ‘banter’ was fairly intense. A few English players who’d been battered 36–0 by South Africa turn up at a party for Australians. I forget how many times I was asked if they could have my tickets since I wouldn’t need them; were we now officially on holiday; was anyone going to turn up to play Australia on Saturday or were we just going to award them a bye to the next round to save everyone bother? It was all good-humoured stuff.

  After a couple of hours at the party I decided to take control and told the lads we would be leaving shortly for Marseille and the wonders of the Holiday Inn. As we left, the Aussies wished us a safe trip and pleaded with us to put out a team on the Saturday because they had money on Australia scoring more against us than South Africa. I think it’s fair to say they were feeling confident.

  As the car pulled away we told Pete about our bit of fun. Let’s just say he was not overly amused and after his initial use of words I couldn’t possible put into print, he didn’t say another thing all the way back. I suppose I couldn’t blame him, but it was how the team operated, there were always wind-ups and banter going on. By the time the quarter-final on the following Saturday came round he was back to his old self.

  Pete did in fact make it on to the pitch for the match, as a blood replacement for Andy Gomarsall. He may have only seen five minutes of action but by all accounts he used his time well with a classic line directed in George Gregan’s direction as the Australian scrum-half prepared to put the ball in at Pete’s first scrum. ‘Your wife looked bloody gorgeous at Brigitte Bardot’s house in St Tropez on Tuesday night. I had no idea Tim Horan and her were such good friends.’ Priceless. It was sledging at its absolute best because there was a grain of truth in it. Pete had seen George’s wife on Tuesday, with Tim Horan, just not in the manner in which he was insinuating. Apparently George didn’t react too much, but I suspect there was much mulling over in his brain. Tuesday night, St Tropez, a party, my wife, Tim Horan . . . Whatever effect Pete’s words may have had, one thing is certain. We won the last twenty minutes of the match and emerged victorious 12–10 with a place in the semi-final.

  Our surprise opponents turned out to be France. I say ‘surprise’ only because the All Blacks were such red-hot favourites that the magnificent French second-half comeback in their quarter-final encounter had shocked many. I can’t say we were disappointed with the result mind you. There is no question the French were a great team, but since the days of our combative and talkative hooker Brian Moore they had always been relatively easy to rattle. A few choice words from the more vocal members of the England side, coupled with the French supporters who have a knack of turning on their team if things do not go according to plan (a second-minute Josh Lewsey try certainly knock
ed the wind out of their sails), and victory was ours 14–9. Another World Cup final beckoned.

  The final against South Africa proved to be a match of ‘what ifs’ for us. What if the ‘try’ early in the second half by Mark Cueto had been allowed to stand? What if golden child Jonny Wilkinson had managed a better day with the boot? But the thing is, I don’t deal in ‘what ifs’. We lost fair and square and England had another four years to wait before hopefully putting things right. Sadly without me.

  Photo Opportunities

  Lee Mears

  Lee is just the type of player you want in your team, a lively character both on and off the pitch who never appears to have a down moment. His glass is always half full. Born in Torquay, he joined the Bath academy in 1997 and has never looked back. With international hookers such as Andy Long, Mark Regan and Jonathan Humphreys at Bath, it has not been an easy ride for him, but whenever he was dropped he continued to train hard in the knowledge that his chance would come again.

  ‘This attitude earned him thirty-five England caps and although he is currently off the international scene it would not surprise me if he made a comeback in the next twelve months. Lee was also a member of the 2009 Lions tour to South Africa and played in one Test match. I am reliably informed he is one of the players in the professional era who spends more time than most working with the community department at Bath Rugby, passing on his knowledge and enthusiasm to schools and clubs in the region. Quality.

  The World Cup is the ultimate competition for an international rugby player. Sure, a British and Irish Lions tour pushes it close, but by definition it only includes the Home Nations every four years and one of either Australia, New Zealand and South Africa every twelve years. With a World Cup all the top nations participate, with the majority of teams having to navigate an extensive qualification process in order to compete. As a result, only the very best reach the final stage of the tournament.

  I made my international debut in 2005 and from that moment I was hoping to make the squad for the 2007 World Cup. Memories and images of 2003 were fresh in my mind and I knew I wanted to be a part of a similar, and equally successful, campaign. Months and months of hard preparation precede the tournament in an attempt to ensure peak fitness is achieved by each squad member. As the tournament approached we all received extensive instruction in physiological training and mental preparation as collectively we strove towards perfection (an impossible goal but always worth aiming for). It was everything I’d expected and it seemed as though nothing had been left to chance in our bid to defend the Webb Ellis Cup.

  From the moment we stepped off the plane in Paris it was evident the big event was well and truly under way as masses of beret-wearing Frenchmen and women welcomed us with loads of free stuff. Thank you very much, we all thought, with arms outstretched, ready to be filled, even though Nike had already delivered a mountain of kit to every player. Even in the professional era it’s still exciting to receive freebies, or stash as the boys call it. We boarded a luxury bus and were driven to a beautiful hotel next to the Palace of Versailles where we had a few photos taken for sponsors and corporate partners. Things could not have been better, our preparation was excellent and the facilities in France superb.

  On the first morning I made my way to breakfast and noticed a few of the lads gathered around one of the tables looking at the back page of France’s oldest newspaper Le Figaro. I assumed it was an article about our arrival, ‘Defending Champions Prepared for Battle’ or something similar. I joined the group and even with my limited French I could understand the headline, ‘L’Angleterre s’ennuie déjà (‘England are Bored Already’). Beneath it was a photo of Jonny Wilkinson on the steps leading from the plane, and next to him was our hooker, Mark ‘Ronnie’ Regan, halfway through a yawn so big most of his head had disappeared. His mum would not have been pleased. He had made no attempt to cover his mouth. It’s fair to say that since landing his winning dropped goal in 2003 Jonny has become hot property, and if you’re standing close to hot property in a public situation there’s a good chance you’re going to be photographed. It was not Ronnie’s finest hour and nor was it the ideal start to our campaign. From that moment things seemed to start going against us.

  Our opening match was a hard-fought 28–10 victory against the USA. The scoreline suggests a relatively comfortable win, but the reality was a poor English performance against a skilful and battling display by the Americans. Next up were the South Africans. Yes, the match we try to forget. We were completely outplayed in a 36–0 mauling which left me finding it hard to come to terms with the fact that our preparation had been so magnificent and yet within a couple of weeks everything was turning to rat shit. We stumbled on through the group stages and then secured a decent victory over Australia in the quarter-final. Although the victory gave the team a degree of confidence, it was clear things still were not right. The overall organisation and structure was not as it should have been. This is best illustrated by a comment from one of the former England captains in the squad, Martin Corry. ‘Cozza’ is a stand-up guy, with a good sense of humour and is a passionate Englishman, extremely focused on his rugby. I was heading back to my room one afternoon when I saw him walking along the corridor towards me.

  ‘Okay, Cozza?’

  ‘Fine, Mearsy,’ he replied, ‘although I do feel as though I’m a member of a pub side that’s just found itself in the semi-final of the World Cup.’

  I can’t say I entirely agreed with him, but I knew exactly what he meant.

  By hook or by crook we reached the final, where once again we came unstuck against South Africa, although our performance was much better than it had been just over a month earlier. Had the Mark Cueto ‘try’ been given early in the second half who knows, things might have been different. You can never be satisfied with defeat, but if someone had offered me a place in the final after our group matches I would have gladly taken it.

  We flew back to London and as we disembarked from the plane there was a throng of supporters to welcome us home. I think we’d shocked a lot of people by reaching the final and they wanted to show their appreciation. Obviously the numbers didn’t compare to 2003, but as a squad we were pleasantly surprised and determined to act in a manner appropriate to the occasion. We may not have been conquering heroes, but we were dignified runners-up and there was no better exemplar of this than my Bath team-mate Matt Stevens, who reached the bottom of the steps down from the plane with his chest puffed out, standing proud. Until, that is, Olly Barkley grabbed his trousers and yanked them down to his ankles. Luckily Matt was wearing a pair of boxers, which was by no means a certainty. His smartest Calvin Kleins, if I remember correctly. If you ever run into Matt you can check – a photograph of the incident acts as the screensaver on his laptop.

  Did our two arrivals sum up our World Cup? I think so. We started sluggishly, woke up a bit as the tournament progressed, began to look the part, but ended up being debagged by those big South African boys.

  Strange Bedfellows

  Andy Gomarsall

  Apart from goal-kickers, there are a relatively small percentage of international rugby players who score more points than the number of times they represent their country. Andy managed to achieve this feat, scoring thirty-seven points from thirty-five Test matches.

  ‘From an early age Andy displayed his talent as a scrum-half, leading the England Schools Under-18 team in 1992 to their first Grand Slam in eleven years. One year later he signed for my club Wasps and within a couple of seasons was knocking on the door of the England team. Although he made his international debut in 1996 I have a recollection of him being called up as a replacement for England during their World Cup campaign in 1995 aged just twenty-one. After several seasons with Wasps it looked as though he was on a personal mission to play for as many clubs as possible during the remainder of his career, representing, Bath, Bedford, Gloucester, Worcester, Harlequins and Leeds to name a few.

  ‘He always maintained a standard of h
igh performance and in my opinion was one of the stand-out players during the 2007 World Cup in France. Unfortunately he was plagued by injury during his last few seasons in the game.’

  Had we lost our quarter-final match against Australia in Marseille during the 2007 World Cup this story would never have seen the light of day. It would have remained a secret to which only my father and I would be privy.

  My dad, Jack, supported me throughout my career and never missed any of the major matches. This was some achievement as he hates flying with a passion. Obviously if I was playing in Paris this was not a problem as he could catch the Eurostar, similarly with matches in Dublin, which for him was no more than a ferry ride and the hire of a car. However, when I was selected for the 2003 World Cup in Australia it posed a massive dilemma for him: was his desire to watch me play for my country in a World Cup greater than his fear of flying? (I still think it’s odd for people to have a fear of flying; presumably they have a greater fear of crashing.) I’m not sure if he was hypnotised or suitably dosed with drugs but he made the trip and witnessed the entire event, which was surely made worthwhile when Johnno hoisted the trophy late in the evening on 22 November. Completing the return leg did nothing to alleviate his fears, so he continued wherever possible to travel by any other means than aeroplanes to watch me play my rugby.

  In 2007 after a 36–0 demolition by South Africa in the pool stage, not many people expected us to make the quarter-finals of the tournament, and that included my dad. Yet with fairly unconvincing wins against USA, Samoa and Tonga we somehow managed to limp into the knockout stage with a match against Australia in Marseille. Dad and I exchanged a few phone calls and made plans for him to make the trip to the South of France, driving the entire way there himself. He packed a few things into his suitcase, threw it into the boot of the car and set off from his home in Bury St Edmunds. According to the online route planner I’d looked at it was a trip of 830 miles (providing you don’t get lost).