RAGING BULL

The Autobiography of the England Rugby Legend

PHIL VICKERY

WITH ALISON KERVIN

Dedication

To Kate, Megan and Harry

CONTENTS

Title Page

Dedication

INTRODUCTION

CHAPTER ONE: THE BEST PLACE ON EARTH

CHAPTER TWO: BUDE HEAVEN

CHAPTER THREE: PROGRESSING TO REDRUTH

CHAPTER FOUR: GLOUCESTER WOES

CHAPTER FIVE: TURNING PRO AT KINGSHOLM

CHAPTER SIX: ENGLAND CALLING

CHAPTER SEVEN: ‘IF I HAD A GUN…’

CHAPTER EIGHT: YOMPING WITH THE ROYAL MARINES

CHAPTER NINE: THE 1999 WORLD CUP

CHAPTER TEN: MAKING A STAND

CHAPTER ELEVEN: LIONS ROAR

CHAPTER TWELVE: CAPTAIN PHIL AND THE ARGENTINIANS

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: CLUB ENGLAND

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: 2003 WORLD CHAMPIONS

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: AN AUDIENCE WITH THE QUEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN: LIFE AFTER CLIVE

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: A BIZARRE INJURY

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: ‘WILL I PLAY FOR ENGLAND AGAIN?’

CHAPTER NINETEEN: BRIAN ASHTON’S ENGLAND

CHAPTER TWENTY: 2007 WORLD CUP … AGAINST ALL ODDS

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: WINNING WASPS

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: LIONS IN SOUTH AFRICA

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: CRASHING DOWN

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR: PAIN IN THE NECK

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE: MY TEAM

INDEX

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

COPYRIGHT

ABOUT THE PUBLISHER

INTRODUCTION

I‘m the luckiest bugger in the world. Look at me - this daft bloody farmer from Cornwall and I’ve travelled the world, been on two Lions tours, two World Cup finals (and won one of them), got an MBE and met the Queen.

Met the Queen. Me! Bloody hell. There I was, this chubby herdsman in a smart suit, standing in the Palace, surrounded by corgis, sipping tea and eating sandwiches without crusts. Who’d have thought it? Not any of my school teachers, that’s for sure. Not the guys I grew up with or the mates I went to school with. I don’t think anyone who knew me when I was younger would have believed for one minute that I’d end up at Buckingham Palace. It’s been a hell of a bloody journey, from doing the milking down on the farm in Bude and kicking balls through Mum’s kitchen windows to having tea in the Queen’s house and meeting the Prime Minister. It’s not all been great, I’ll admit. I’ve had some back operations that would make your eyes water just to think of them, but most of it has been amazing.

The reason it’s been amazing? It’s because of the people I’ve met. Daft buggers like me who play in the front row, getting their teeth kicked in and their ears bent inside out … the real men. You make friends quickly when you’re cheek to cheek with a bloke. You learn to respect someone when you see them operate at such close quarters and you know about commitment when you’re staring into the eyes of Raphael Ibanez, Oz du Randt or some big bloke known as ‘The Beast’, and preparing to shove your head next to theirs and force yourself forward with every ounce of strength you’ve got. It’s bloody great when you feel the scrum move forward and you know you’ve got them. One little power struggle won for you, one little fight lost for them. Best feeling in the world, and I bloody love it.

Mind you, it’s not so great in the mornings. I wake up some days after playing and everything hurts. Every muscle feels like it’s been smashed to pieces and I’m sure I can hear them screaming when I try to move. Getting out of bed feels like the hardest job in the world. There are days when just moving an arm hurts so much I feel as if I’ve been shot, but even in the worst moments I wouldn’t change any of it. Even on the days after my horrendous operations when I was in so much pain I could hardly see straight, I’ve never regretted a minute of my life as a rugby player.

I’ve met some great people, been to some great countries and lived a life that most people dream of. I’m very grateful to have been given the opportunity to do this. I am honoured to carry the dreams of millions when I run out in that white England shirt or the red Lions shirt. It’s easy to say ‘I feel privileged’ but I do. I feel as if I’m the luckiest guy ever.

I’ve had a hell of a career because so much has changed since I started. Things have happened during my time as a rugby player that have been astonishing to witness -like the game turning from amateur to professional as I was starting out at Gloucester. I’m privileged to have experienced both sides of the sport.

One thing that hasn’t changed is the commitment it takes to make it to the top. There’s a lovely phrase and I use it all the time … ‘If you’re going to fail, die trying.’ That’s my motto. I believe you should fall at the last; don’t cross the line coming second. Go for it. I know it’s easy to say, and it isn’t about rugby or playing for England. To me, it says that, whatever you do in life, give it everything. Fight every problem to the death and throw your weight behind everything that means anything to you. Most of all, have fun doing it.

That philosophy worked for a tubby farmer from Cornwall who got to meet the Queen .

CHAPTER ONE: THE BEST PLACE ON EARTH

Cornwall … I bloody love it. It’s a great place, isolated from everywhere and full of the friendliest people in the world. It’s more like a village than a county - packed full of daft types who treat each other like one big family. I loved growing up there and hearing about its great history - all the myths and legends from times gone by, the stories about wrecked ships mysteriously disappearing, and tales of strange happenings that no one could explain or seemed to know where they’d come from. There’s something about the scenery down in Cornwall and the beauty of the place that inspires writers, poets and musicians and gets people telling tales. There were always famous people moving into the area when I was young, aiming to find creativity on the wide, golden sands, amongst the big cliffs and in the beautiful countryside. I thought I lived in the most special place on earth.

I’m from North Cornwall, where the Atlantic winds come bursting in off the sea. I love the ruggedness of it all. It can be very bleak at times, very dark and moody, but very beautiful at other times. I love the fact that things don’t change constantly as they do in other parts of the country. Things stay the same and the people stay the same. It’s the place where I grew up, went to school and lived for the first nineteen years of my life - running around on Duckpool beach, diving into the sea and body boarding on the huge waves. Taking my bloody life in my hands as I surfed close to the cliffs, and loving it as the eight-foot swells threw me off my body board. We’d go fishing in the rock pools with Dad and Granddad and mess around on beaches that were so hard to get to from the cliffs that we had to ease one another down on these tatty old ropes we’d found, none of us worrying about how dangerous the whole thing was, or wondering for a second how we were going to get back up again.

When I think back, I can’t believe that we were allowed to spend so much time on the beach on our own, but it was a great place to grow up, close to the sea and close to nature. I tell my kids, Megan and Harrison, the stories of when I was a little boy, and it sounds so idyllic. There was something so lovely and adventurous about the freedom we had - life in the fresh air, enjoying long days and warm nights outside.

I’m proud of being a Cornishman … it’s in my blood. So it’s slightly odd that one of the first things I have to tell you about myself is that I was born in Devon! Before you think that makes me any less Cornish, I’d better explain. I was born in Barnstaple, in Devon, because my family is from Bude which is a great little seaside town in North Cornwall, and the nearest hospital was just over the county line in Devon. But besides that, I am Cornish through and through.

I was born into a family of big, bulky dairy farmers, with Mum and Dad working on Killock, a 350-acre farm just outside Bude. The farm had originally belonged to my grandparents. Both sets of grandparents are farmers, so dairy farming really is in my blood, and there’s no doubt that farming is what I’d have ended up doing if rugby hadn’t come along and cocked everything up!

My grandma and grandpa Vickery originally started off life in a place called Bagbury Farm, not far from us in Bude. Then they bought Killock Farm and split the cows between the two farms, making successes of both of them. I do look back and think: Bloody hell, how did they do that? Farming’s a difficult business to make a success of with just one farm to look after, but managing to create two farms out of one like that takes some doing. They did it so that my dad, Barry, could be given Killock when he married my mum, Elaine, and his sister, my aunty Carol, could farm Bagbury.

So I lived on Killock Farm with Mum, Dad, my grandparents and my brother Mark who was two years old when I was born. I was surrounded by animals, milking machines and tractors from an early age. It’s all I ever knew as a kid. It was a perfect place for an adventurous child to live, and you’ll be unsurprised to hear that I was a bloody adventurous child, always exploring, climbing, clambering over everything and generally getting up to mischief on the farm with Mark. I can see now, looking back at the way we were back then, that we must have been a hell of a handful for poor Mum; I don’t know how she coped with us rampaging around the place, doing more damage than if a couple of rhinos had been let loose on the farm. She probably spent as long clearing up after us as she did clearing up after the animals.

Mum never had an easy time of it with me because I started causing problems straight away - from the moment I came into the world at Barnstaple Hospital on 14 March 1976, weighing a sprightly 7lb 13½oz. I was heavier than my brother Mark who’d come before me, and heavier than Helen who came along later, but not the super heavyweight you might expect if you look at the size of me now. I was rushed into an incubator straight after I was born having turned a rather unattractive blue colour (the next time I turned that colour was after one of John Mitchell’s training sessions, but we’ll come onto those later). The doctors were worried about whether I was getting enough oxygen into my body, so decided to keep an eye on me. It meant Mum had to stay in hospital with me for an extra two days before she could take me home.

I’m sure that when Mum eventually got me back to the farm, and realised just what an active and lively child I was going to become, she might have wished I was still in that incubator! She says I was a real handful from the minute she got me back, and with a large dairy farm full of machinery, animals and wide open spaces to mess about in, I had plenty to play with. I didn’t waste any time causing mischief and there are all sorts of stories about me gently petting the animals and half killing them. I’m sure they’re not true … especially not the tales about me squashing the little ducklings half to death. Not me, surely.

I was such a bundle of non-stop energy, even when I was tiny, that Mum decided the only way to cope and keep me relatively safe was to shove me into a wooden playpen and tie it to the kitchen table while she was doing chores around the house. (I’m sure that would be illegal now!) If she didn’t do that, she said I’d push the pen all around the kitchen until I found something interesting (i.e. breakable) to play with. When she was out on the farm doing jobs, she couldn’t leave me for a minute either, so she put me in the hay rack where I couldn’t cause much trouble and she could get on with things without worrying where the next big crash was going to come from.

As we grew up and learnt to toddle around the farm, the smacks, bangs, smashes and collisions that Mark and I got into grew too. Mum remembers me coming in one day with a huge gash on my arm after playing outside all day. I wasn’t bothered about it at all, in fact I hadn’t noticed, but she was so concerned that she rushed me off to hospital to get it checked out. She’s still amazed today that I didn’t realise there was blood dripping from my arm. All I wanted to do was to keep playing. I guess, looking back, I was always a prop forward in the making.

In this idyllic childhood there was always so much going on in and around the farm. It was all outdoors in the fresh air and I was always surrounded by family. My sister Helen was born three years after me, which didn’t please me a lot, apparently. Mum says she can remember coming home from hospital and announcing that we had a new sister and Mark and I looked at one another and frowned in disappointment. We didn’t really see the point in having a sister. What were sisters for? They weren’t interested in climbing things and causing the mayhem that Mark and I enjoyed, so the two of us pretty much carried on as we had done and tried to forget about the small female who had just joined the family.

I think I spent most of my childhood completely covered in mud. I remember sitting in the sink absolutely filthy after a morning outside, and being cleaned from head to toe by my grandma (with a big lump of old-fashioned soap and some sort of scrubbing brush - I imagine that’s the only way they could get the mud off me). When I was clean, I was dressed and then sent back out into the fields where I’d get muddy all over again.

One side of the farm house was rented out when I was growing up, and we lived in the other half. We weren’t supposed to mess about around the rented half of the farm. I can remember the sound of Mum’s voice as she told us to keep away from there but of course that didn’t stop us at all, and if there were no adults there, that’s where Mark and I could be found - with a football.

Belting footballs through the windows of the house was something that Mark and I did quite frequently. We’d be kicking the ball backwards and forwards to one another, and trying to kick it over the house and round the house, but our kicking skills weren’t as refined as we’d hoped, so invariably there would come a point where we kicked the ball through the house (via the window). There’d be that horrible sound of smashing glass and a split second of silence in which we looked at one another and realised that we were in big trouble.

We knew that Mum would go nuts when she found out we’d smashed a window, so every time the ball crashed through the glass we’d stand there and look at one another for a minute, then run away from the scene as fast as we could. It makes me laugh to look back now. What did we think would happen? Surely we must have realised that Mum would take one look at the broken window, the football lying on the kitchen floor and the glass all around and realise straight away what had happened. It seems odd that we ran away, thinking that we might just get away with it. We never did.

My first experiences of life off the farm were at a local nursery school, where I went a couple of mornings a week, then it was on to Kilkhampton Primary School for slightly more serious schooling and, more importantly, the chance to get involved in lots of different sports like cricket, football and rounders for the first time. I’m not from a sporty family, and my parents aren’t sporty at all (the only sports event I ever saw my dad compete in was a young farmers’ tug-of-war one year), but when I got to school I became very interested in all sports, and I wanted to get involved with everything that the school had to offer. Mark was the same as me and we would play all sorts of sports together.

We even enjoyed darts - that was fun. We would practise at home with a makeshift set-up. We’d fix up a dart-board on the chair leaning against the kitchen table, and throw arrows at it, practising our technique as we competed against one another to get the better score. Again, this was a case of our skills not being quite as good as we envisaged, and we’d miss the dartboard frequently, and leave loads of little holes all over Mum’s best chairs and table. Once again, we’d run away from the scene and hope she’d not notice. She always did.

As we got older our love for darts continued to blossom, but we moved ourselves from hurling arrows at Mum’s best furniture to throwing them at the dartboard in the pub where we could do a lot less damage, get into a hell of a lot less trouble and drink pints. We even went on to play in the local leagues against other pubs in the area; we all took it very seriously.

Back on the farm, we spent a lot of time razzing around the place on tractors and when I look back now I can see that I was a bit of a liability. I just seemed to crash the bloody thing all the time (I think you’ll notice there’s a theme developing here… I did have a habit of breaking a lot of things). There were these small walls all around the farm, and I have to tell you that small walls and big tractors don’t make a very happy combination. You’d drive along in the tractor and just not see them. The trouble is, even though they were only small and didn’t look like they’d do any damage at all, if you hit them with the tractor, you would end up ripping the tyres off, which cost hundreds of pounds to repair. Dad would go mad.

As we got older, so the trouble we got into became bigger. One particular story I remember was of my brother racing around the farm on a quad bike. He and I were out doing the fencing (repairing holes in the hedges to stop the sheep breaking out). We had just finished the job and were heading for home when we realised we’d left something right at the bottom of the field. It was a really foggy day, so Mark went off on his quad bike to get it, and I waited on the tractor for him to come back. He disappeared into the foggy mist, out of sight, while I waited patiently. The next thing I knew, there was the most almighty crash - he’d driven straight into an electric pole and smashed the front of the quad bike. Luckily he went flying off to one side and was uninjured. To be honest, though, his injuries were the least of my concern. I saw the front of the quad bike and the way it was all smashed in, and all I could think was, ‘What the hell are we going to tell Dad?’

Again, Dad was really unhappy. But not quite as cross as he was when it came to tractor mirrors and windows. Christ, he’d get pissed off with us. Not that I can blame him because we did smash a lot of them. The windows at the back of the tractor were a particular problem because they opened outwards, so I’d shove them open on a pleasant day, and immediately forget that I’d done it. I would reverse the tractor up to something, forgetting that the windows added another foot onto the length of the tractor behind me, and hear a loud crash and the smash of glass. Shit! This happened so many times that Dad eventually refused to replace the back windows. On freezing cold winter days we would always regret our recklessness, as we sat there wrapped up in coats, hats and gloves, freezing bloody cold.

Although Mark and I played around a lot, we also helped out on the farm from quite a young age. Certainly by the time I was four I was doing chores regularly. The rule in farming tends to be that as soon as you’re strong enough to do something, you’re old enough. I remember having some funny little jobs, like filling gaps in the hedge to stop the cattle running through. I guess it’s like an apprenticeship. You master all the tasks that your father does by watching, helping him, then doing them yourself. That’s why farms are passed down through the generations, because of all the small things you learn growing up. As soon as I was able to lift bales of hay, I would be lifting them, and as soon as I could milk the cows, I did that. It was a gradual thing, until I could do everything on the farm for myself.

I loved farming but it’s a hard, hard job because it never stops. One thing that people tend to forget about farming is that there’s no such thing as a weekend. The cows need milking every day, and that includes Christmas Day, birthdays, and every weekend, morning and night. In fact, in order to minimise the workload on Christmas Day we used to double up on everything so that we wouldn’t have to work like mad on 25 December itself. It meant that the period leading up to Christmas would be very hard work, ensuring there’d be enough hay, straw and feed to allow us to get through. Christmas parties were a thing that other people did.

Without doubt, the most difficult thing to happen when I was young was Mum and Dad splitting up. I was around eight years old at the time, and though I was very young I remember it all clearly. There had been lots of rows in the house and lots of tension in the air leading up to their decision, so looking back I can see it was the best thing, but at the time I didn’t understand at all. I’d hear Dad shouting and Mum crying but you still never imagine that your parents will split. It’s a terrible shock when it actually happens.

When they separated, Mum and Dad decided that Mum should move out, leaving Dad, my grandparents, me, Mark and Helen on the farm. Once Mum had settled somewhere new, we went to live with her. Mum and Dad tried a couple of times to get back together, but it didn’t work out, so we moved back and forth between Mum’s new house and the farm.

I found the whole divorce thing hard. I was old enough to know that things were changing and life was about to become more confusing than ever. I can remember overhearing my parents saying, ‘He’s too young to understand,’ when talking about the divorce. That’s something that still frustrates me to this day. Of course I wasn’t too young. I was aware that all these things were happening around me, but no one would explain them to me.

I’m not blaming anyone. I think Mum and Dad didn’t want to burden me with all the details because they thought I was too young, and that I would adjust better if I wasn’t weighed down with too much information. In reality, though, I think it would have been better if I had been talked to properly and told what was happening. I think you have to know all the details in order to be able to deal with the things that happen to you, even when you’re very young.

It was difficult when the split first happened, but we soon settled into a routine. There is no doubt that my parents splitting up had an effect on me. If you come from a broken home I think it makes you tougher and less trusting of people. It makes you harder, and I know I’ve carried that with me. It’s not a bad thing, necessarily; it’s just a fact of life.

When I wasn’t at the farm, I was at school. One of the clearest memories I have of my junior school is that it was much bigger than infants school; in fact I remember it being huge. I was daunted by the enormous size of it, and thought I’d never be able to find my way around. I recently went back there for the school’s centenary and it made me laugh how tiny everything was. The classrooms were so small and the chairs so little, but when I was young it seemed like a really big place. I was never very confident when it came to school work, and though I tried my hardest when I was younger (the same can’t be said of me when I was older) I did find it tough going. I guess I never really saw the point of school. I never imagined myself doing anything but farming at the end of it all, so what was the point? It always seemed to me that being on the farm was the best place in the world to be.

When I was 11 I moved to Budehaven School where I continued my dislike of school work. We were living back at the farm with Dad at this stage, and a bus would come to collect us every morning at the end of the lane to take us there. I used to get up at around 8.15 a.m. and didn’t have to help too much on the farm before school, but there were always little things to do. My greatest memory of that time is the battle to get someone to drive me and my brother to the end of the lane so we could get the bus. The lane was around half a mile long and on cold winter days, or rainy days, we would be eager to persuade someone to give us a lift. Obviously, everyone else in the family was knee deep in chores at that time in the morning, and they were reluctant to break away from them to take us to the bus stop.

When I got to school, I spent most of the days looking out of the window during lessons. I loved the friends I’d made, and if it hadn’t been for them I doubt my parents would have got me anywhere near the school at all. I’m not saying it was all bad. I remember that I enjoyed subjects like history, but I was never very good at spelling so my confidence was dented from the start. It’s hard if you have no confidence in yourself. I’d sit at the back of the room and not focus on what was happening in front of me. I guess I just wasn’t ever a great scholar (and that’s an understatement). There was nothing wrong with the school, or the teachers, it was just me. At that age I simply wasn’t interested. It was only PE lessons and break-time that held any interest for me at all.

Thanks to my PE teacher, school didn’t turn out to be a complete waste of time.

CHAPTER TWO: BUDE HEAVEN

My PE teacher at Budehaven School was a great man called Mr Opie. I should tell you a few things about this guy because it was thanks to him that my rugby career started in the first place. He was everything a kid could ever want in a school teacher - encouraging, enthusiastic and passionate about sport. He was very keen that we should try out all sports and not just decide that we were footballers or rugby players and stick to that. I am really pleased about this now, because although I’ve made rugby my life, I’m also a huge cricket fan (if not a great player) and have a rounded view of sport.

There’s no question, though, that Mr Opie had a particular fondness for rugby. I think he could see that with a little guidance and encouragement I had the makings of a decent player, and he was very keen for me to go down to Bude, the local rugby club, to have a go at playing the game in a more competitive environment. One of the saddest things for me was that Mr Opie died before I was capped for England, so he never saw just how far I went in my rugby career. I’ve raised a glass to the guy on many occasions in thanks for everything he did for me and for other kids in the school.

When Mr Opie suggested going down to Bude to play the game, I admit that I was very open to the idea. My brother Mark had gone down there a few years before me, and he seemed to be having a great time. I didn’t hear much about the rugby he was playing but had heard all about the good friends, brilliant away trips and the thrill of matches. So when I was 13 I made my first visit to the club, and I was hooked from the start. I loved it.

There were no mini or youth sides back then, so by the time I was 15 I was playing in the Colts. I don’t think they would allow you to do that now because there are sides for all age groups up to Colts level, but back then I guess the philosophy was the same as Dad’s on the farm - if you’re big enough and tough enough, you’re old enough. Anyway, it suited me. At Bude they upheld the great traditions of the sport, and I’m glad, looking back, that I began my rugby career there.

Many of those traditions, of course, involved embarrassing the players as much as humanly possible. There was a game played there where you had to run round the field naked and the last one back got chucked in the river. The worst one, though, was the naked run through Bude … if you did something wrong on the minibus you’d be chucked out and have to run home without any clothes on. It’s great, isn’t it? Wherever you play rugby in the world they’re always up to things like that. Long may it continue!

I loved rugby down at Bude because it was such a huge escape from normal life. You could dive around tackling people legally, you were completely let loose and could do whatever you wanted to stop people with the ball. I am reasonably quiet - always have been - and I don’t tend to get angry or raise my voice, no matter what happens, but on the rugby pitch I got a new lease of life. It was an opportunity to be completely free and to make things happen - no shackles or ties, you weren’t told which bits of the field you could stand in, and which bits you couldn’t.

I played alongside Mark in the Bude Colts side, which was great. Mum and my grandparents would come down to watch us. Mark was hooker and I was prop, and we made a formidable front row. I imagined that we’d always play together but that wasn’t to be because I moved on from Bude after just a couple of years, and Mark stayed there. I guess Mark lacked the discipline to dramatically improve his game where rugby was concerned. That’s not a criticism at all, I just think that he probably didn’t want it enough to work that much harder to improve, and combined with injuries it never worked out for him. It’s funny what makes a top-class player, and what the differences are between those who get to the top and those who don’t. Temperament might have something to do with it. For reasons that are difficult to explain, I was the one willing to work at my game and determined to improve while Mark was less bothered. People say I’m a mixture of my Mum and Dad, while Mark is more like Dad. I think I’m most like my Grandfather Vickery - a gentle giant. I’m a traditional middle child. Perhaps it’s something to do with that, or perhaps I had more to prove because I’d been more deeply affected by Mum and Dad’s divorce. Who knows? There’s a thin line between those who make it and those who don’t and I think it’s very hard to say why some players make it and some very good, talented players don’t.

Once I started to get into rugby at Bude, I paid much more attention to the sport generally, and began watching it on television. I remember the excitement at hearing the BBC’s Grandstand music and seeing the images of Will Carling, Wade Dooley, Mike Teague and Jon Webb - these hero figures who were just brilliant at their sport. It never crossed my mind that I would get there and be playing with them one day; it never occurred to me that I should be trying to get there, or would want to get there. These were just alien beings I loved to watch on television whose rugby skills were so much better than mine. I never counted myself as being like them in any way. I just played my best at Bude, then went home and worked on the farm. The guys on the television were something else - they were truly gifted.

In 1991 I went to Twickenham to watch Cornwall play against Yorkshire in the county final. It was a big occasion for us and we had a coach-load going up from Bude Rugby Club for the day, all of us dressed in the black and yellow colours of Cornwall. The county game is still extremely strong in the West Country and we made a real day of it, stopping to play Cobham Rugby Club en route. I loved being at Twickenham that day and chatting away to the Yorkshire supporters, as kids from opposite ends of the country stood together supporting the best in county rugby.

There was a whole crowd of us there from Bude, mostly from the club, but other non-rugby supporters had come from the town just to support the county and enjoy a bloody good day out. I had lots of friends in the local village; it was such a small place that everyone knew everyone else. Some of the guys in the village were farmers like me, some were in the building trade, most had physical jobs of some sort and loved their rugby. We all ran onto the pitch afterwards to pull up the turf. Everyone wanted a memory of Cornwall’s victory. I remember going back home and me and Mark arriving back in Bude, and sitting down by the river after the coach had dropped us off. A police car came along and asked us whether we were OK. ‘We’re fine, we’ve just been to Twickenham for the match,’ we explained. The policeman told us to get in, and he gave us a lift home. Bude was that kind of place. There was little trouble and little to worry about.

While things were going extremely well at the rugby club, I continued playing at school too. I played U15 Cornwall trials as well as working my way through the age group levels for England Schools. One of the clearest memories I have is of playing for the England U16s at Pontypridd. Christ, it was amazing. It was the first time I’d sung the national anthem on the pitch, and that was the biggest thrill for me. I thought I’d burst with pride. There we were in the valleys, in the heart of Wales where they love their rugby and passionately support their team, belting out the national anthem while dressed in England colours. It made me feel great. That to me is what playing for your country is all about - the pride you feel and the commitment to the players alongside you. Bloody awesome. There’s nothing like it. I loved that first match because there were no expectations. It was just me in this great team, trying to play the best I could. When you become more successful, people’s expectations of you rise. People expect you to do well, and pressure comes from trying to live up to those expectations. But that day in Pontypridd, everything was new, fresh and exciting.

When I came back from the game, I found I had a new nickname, after the local newspaper called me ‘The Dude from Bude’. Like all these things, it stuck for a while, which was a bit embarrassing, but because I didn’t rise to it when people called me it, they soon stopped bothering!

Being 15 and being spotted by senior coaches in the England set-up was extremely exciting, but for me it was all about enjoyment of the game rather than ambition or achievement. Rugby was fun. Sure, playing in an England shirt was fantastic but one of my philosophies in life is not to take things too seriously - you have to have fun or you don’t do it. People started asking me where I saw my future and what my career progression in rugby was likely to be, and I just looked at them like they were nuts. I played rugby because I enjoyed it and I never wanted to lose sight of that.

I started rugby because I enjoyed the friendships and the fun, and that’s why I stuck with it. When I became a professional rugby player, and I had to take it more seriously than I did when I was a teenager in Cornwall, I put the necessary hours in to training and fitness work, but it didn’t change the fact that the most important thing was to have fun.

Having said that, while I was focused on having fun, the whole thing can’t have been that enjoyable for Mum! When I look back, she must have driven me miles and miles and miles as I travelled to selection days, training sessions and matches. How did she do it? I don’t know how she managed to combine working with bringing up my brother and sister, and driving me around the country. The trial system involves a lot of travelling wherever you are, but if you’re based in Cornwall it seems to involve more than most. I can remember going to all sorts of trials, first within the county, with East Cornwall playing against West Cornwall, then I got into the Cornwall side as a result. We then ended up playing county games against sides like Devon and Avon & Somerset. I think there was one against Gloucestershire as well, so there was a bit of travelling involved.

The better I got, and the more advanced, the further away from Cornwall I had to travel. Once I’d excelled in the county games, I was asked to attend trials for the southwest. Now the south-west is a bloody big place so the journeys were further and taking longer. Mum enlisted the help of Mrs Risden, our next-door neighbour, and she was amazing. She had two sons, Peter and David, who went on to play rugby for the county, and she was incredibly generous with her time, driving me about when Mum couldn’t. All my relatives were drafted in to help, as Mum tried to make sure I got wherever I needed to go, while still allowing her to do all the work she needed to do on the farm.

Once I was in the south-west side, we’d compete against the south-east which meant travelling to London and Middlesex a great deal. Then there was to be a south team to compete against a north team, so there were trials between possibles and probables to see who would play in that. I think Mum must have been praying I didn’t get selected, because the higher I rose, the harder the work she’d have to put in to get me there. I’m very grateful to her, though. There’s no question in my mind that she is a huge part of my success.

All these trials and country-related matches were on top of the games I was playing for the school against other local schools, and for Bude. It meant that I was playing two or three times a week. Hard for Mum, but great for me! That was the way you got on when I was younger; it’s all changed now with the introduction of academies.

When I was a teenager I was playing three games a week and meeting loads of new players from all over the country all the time. I was meeting a host of selectors and coaches and getting my name known around the country. I was shoulder-deep in rugby and loving it. But it’s not like that any more. An academy player, once he’s signed by a club, might go through the season playing just a couple of matches in total and his whole time is spent training. If he’s signed as a prop by a club, and the first-team prop goes through the whole season without injury or problem, he doesn’t get to play. Then, because he hasn’t played for ages, he ends up out of the academy and no use to anyone. I think the old way was better - let guys prove themselves first, and sign them when you’re ready to play them, rather than have them in your academy so no one else can have them, and hope they’ll be ready to play for you someday soon.

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