Читать книгу Bill Beaumont: The Autobiography - Bill Beaumont - Страница 10
ОглавлениеTouring clearly suited me because I always seem to return from my travels a better player. That probably had something to do with playing in good company, and very often against more demanding opposition. The trip to Zimbabwe and South Africa, from a purely personal point of view, had gone very well and I was ready, on my return, to make a determined effort to break through into the England side, knowing full well that this would probably mean renewing my rivalry with Roger Uttley.
Tonga paid a visit to the UK during the autumn of 1974 and played against the North at Birkenhead Park just four days before they were due to take on England Under-23s at Twickenham. I was involved in both games, teaming up with Gosforth’s Terry Roberts in a North side that also included my Fylde pals Brian Ashton (who had joined Orrell), Tony Richards and fly-half Ian McDonnell, and I was subsequently included on the replacements’ bench by England.
As I had already taken Monday and Tuesday off work to play for the North, I telephoned Twickenham to ask if it would be in order if I turned up on the Friday rather than Thursday, on the grounds that I didn’t want to push my luck – family business or not. They said that this was all right but assumed I would be in London in time for the Friday-afternoon training session, so I suspect I wasn’t the most popular guy in town when I actually arrived during the evening, having done a full day’s graft at the factory. My punishment was to be dragged from my warm and comfortable bed very early the following morning to practice line-out work with skipper John Raphael, who was also the hooker. I was such an innocent abroad that I didn’t even possess a tracksuit, so I went through the line-out ploys in the car park clad in a pair of jeans and a sweater, relying on one of the other lads to lend me a tracksuit to wear that afternoon so that I wouldn’t look completely out of place sitting on the bench.
Twickenham was an entirely new experience for me and I couldn’t get over the size of the dressing room. I was used to the cramped boxes that seemed to be the norm at a lot of clubs so it took some time to adjust to the luxury of space and the sight of rows of individual baths rather than the traditional communal bath. The top players, I decided, as I settled down on the bench to watch the match, were very cosseted. I wasn’t too concerned when Trevor Cheeseman, who was playing at number eight, had to leave the field suffering from concussion early in the second half. Coventry flanker Mai Malik, who later took over Rugby Lions, was the back row replacement so I fully expected him to be sent on to fill the gap. You can imagine my surprise, and delight, when they switched Neil Mantell from the second row and sent me into the fray. In the excitement of it all I forgot the line-out calls that I had been hastily trying to take on board in the car park that morning but I still managed to perform well in that department, helped by scrum-half Steve Smith, who let me know when the ball was coming my way. I was also reasonably busy in the loose in the time remaining, so felt pretty pleased with myself when the final whistle sounded. And I had my first England jersey, albeit not the one I really coveted.
The important thing was that I was ‘in’. I had been involved in an England team and it was down to me to prove to the selectors that I was worthy of consideration for the senior side. Things are very different today because there is no selection committee, and I am sure that in days gone by deals were done at times rather than the best 15 always being selected. Now responsibility rests with one man, Clive Woodward. In the 1970s, however, England still relied heavily on a series of trials and I found myself picked alongside Roger Uttley in a North side that took on the Midlands at Headingley’s old ground at Kirkstall. Roger was just back from the British Lions tour to South Africa and that was the first time we had appeared together. It looked as though I would be up against Nigel Horton, who jumped at four, because Roger was a recognised front-jumper. But Fran Cotton, who skippered the side, asked Roger to take on Horton and allow me to jump at the front. Roger was already an established international and hardly needed to prove his credentials but it was still a magnanimous gesture when he agreed to the switch without a moment’s hesitation.
I was quite surprised after the game when the Midlands hooker, Peter Wheeler, walked past and said, ‘Hello Bill.’ I didn’t think he would have a clue who I was so I was chuffed that established players seemed to be aware of me. There was another surprise in store when I told Fran Cotton that I hoped he would have a good Christmas and he responded that he would wish me seasonal greetings the following weekend when we travelled to Twickenham for the final trial. I would, he assured me – and you don’t argue with Fran – definitely be involved in that game. And he was right.
Roger Uttley and I found ourselves on opposite sides rather than as partners. He was picked to play for England and had been due to partner Chris Ralston, while I packed down alongside Nigel Horton for the Rest, but Nigel was elevated when Ralston pulled out and my new partner was Bob Wilkinson from Bedford. As you only meet up just before the game you are never really sure what the team is going to be and there was no time to work out line-out drills. To give you some indication of what it was like, our skipper – Bristol’s Dave Rollitt, who was a bit of a character to say the least – approached me in the dressing room and enquired, ‘And who the hell are you, may I ask?’ Hardly a vote of confidence when even your skipper hasn’t a clue who you are, but he did add that, since I had been selected for an England trial, I couldn’t be ‘completely useless’. I grew to enjoy Dave’s caustic brand of humour and soon discovered what a good bloke he was.
I certainly felt a little inadequate and our preparation was such that I had worked out the opposition’s line-out signals long before I had sorted out our own. Hardly surprising then that we went down 38–22 but I wasn’t too disheartened because I had made one or two useful contributions in the game, and I did have the familiar faces of Tony Richards and Steve Smith in the side. Trial games were always difficult games to play in because sides often comprised players who knew little about each other and it wasn’t easy developing an understanding on the field. That’s why I was able to work out the opposition’s line-out signals before our own. Indeed, the games were often such a poor indicator of ability that it wasn’t unusual for experienced internationals to find a convenient injury to avoid having to play in them. Some of the established players took the not unreasonable view that it was better to rely on past reputation rather than subject themselves to trial games – many of which were messy and disjointed affairs.
It was normal practice to stay down at Twickenham after the final trial for a squad training session and, after Christmas, I was one of 30 players called back for another session. I was really made up just to be there and was determined to shine and prove a bit of a nuisance to the senior players. Conversely, when I was England captain, I just wanted the rest to stop being a nuisance!
In trials and squad sessions it’s possible to look out for your mates. I remember how Fran Cotton and Mike Burton in scrummaging practice seemed to work a little routine. Fran had been at tight-head with Stack Stevens at loose-head and they swapped over so that Fran was up against Burto. They made it look as though Fran was murdering him, with the result that he was kept at loose-head, which ensured that Burto got in at tight-head. In the end it was all in vain because, before they were due to play for England, Burto was sent off in a county championship game by Alan Welsby, the Lancashire referee – that being the occasion when he bowed to the crowd as he walked off. The result was that Stack returned at loose-head with the versatile Fran moving back across the front row.
England were due to open their Five Nations Championship campaign against Ireland in Dublin on January 18 and I was starting to take more than a usual interest in the deliberations of the selectors. On the day that I knew the team would be announced, I was on business in London with my uncle Joe, and I bought the first copy of the Evening Standard I spotted as we walked to our hotel. I somewhat feverishly scanned the sports pages and could hardly contain myself when I saw that I had been named as one of the six replacements. Needless to say, work was put on hold while Uncle Joe and I went for a couple of beers to celebrate. As I had expected, Roger Uttley had been named as the front-jumper, with Chris Ralston as his partner rather than Nigel Horton, who had been alongside him in the final trial.
Back in the 1970s the team was traditionally announced almost two weeks before the game and, in the case of a first cap, it was usual for the lucky player to stand down from his club side that weekend. I suppose that was done partly to ensure the player didn’t miss his big moment by getting injured seven days before his international debut but, as I had only been named on the bench and because I just loved to play at whatever level, I turned out for Fylde against Nuneaton. So you get some idea of the enormous jump in standard players often had to make those days, whereas now the standard is so high in the Zurich Premiership that the step up to international level isn’t quite so daunting.
Two years earlier England had gone to play in Dublin in spite of warnings from the IRA that there would be dire consequences if they did so. Their reception that day had been rapturous because both the Scots and the Welsh players had refused to travel to Dublin after receiving death threats, purportedly from the IRA. After the Nuneaton game I saw John Elders, an England selector who had formerly coached Northumberland, talking to Arthur Bell, the Fylde secretary. Arthur was holding a letter he had received from the IRA warning the supporters and I not to make the trip. The IRA needn’t have bothered because not even a charge of the Light Brigade would have prevented me from travelling to Lansdowne Road. Admittedly I was only due to sit on the bench and might not even get on to the field, but I wasn’t prepared to take the chance of missing out. The rest of the England squad responded in the same way and, once again, we were given the warmest of welcomes by the Irish, as I have always found to be the case – except when dealing with rugby politics. Whether you are playing, or just travelling as a spectator, Dublin is a wonderful place to be on a rugby international weekend.
I was entering new territory and didn’t know anything of the protocol of playing international rugby. So I telephoned Tony Neary, who was working as a solicitor in Manchester, to find out what the procedure was and, as a result, joined him on the train from Manchester to London on the Thursday morning, having walked from my home to Adlington station, humping my bag, to catch the local train – a far cry from today when players very often fly to training sessions. On the way down I pumped Tony for information on the etiquette of playing for England and he was very helpful, being an old hand at that sort of thing.
There was a surprise awaiting me when we arrived at the Stoop for the training session. Robin Cowling, the Leicester prop, dropped a hint that I could be in the side, which was subsequently confirmed by Alec Lewis, the chairman of selectors. Apparently Roger Uttley had knackered his back eating an apple pie on the train – which just goes to show how sensitive his back was! – so I was to take his place in the training session. I may have resented Roger taking my place in the Fylde side when I initially got into the first team but, one way or another, he seemed hell-bent on helping my career thereafter through his own misfortunes. Alec said they hoped Roger would recover in time to play but thought I should partner Chris Ralston during the session to see how things went.
Alec is a lovely guy but I think he should have turned to an established guy like Nigel Horton or a more experienced player like Nick Martin. After all, I was just 22, had hardly ever played outside the north of England and had just one England trial to my credit. Having said that, I would have been massively disappointed if they had brought someone else into the squad and I suspect that John Burgess, who was coaching the side then, had pushed for my inclusion. I had established myself in the Lancashire team and had done really well on the county’s tour of Zimbabwe and South Africa, so that may have led the selectors to believe that I was ready. Roger wasn’t at the team’s hotel so he was obviously receiving treatment elsewhere and I faced an anxious wait to see if he was going to recover in time. The answer to that question came at the crack of dawn on Friday morning when Alec awakened me to announce I was definitely playing. Offering his congratulations, he shook the hand of a very bog-eyed William Blackledge Beaumont who was still trying to come to terms with what day it was. It was like a dream come true but – perhaps because I was so naïve – I don’t think I grasped the full significance of the occasion as I should have done. I did relay the news to my parents but, because it was such a last-minute thing, they weren’t able to get across to Dublin in time to watch the game live.
We flew to Dublin and stayed at the Shelbourne Hotel along with the Irish side. It is highly unusual for the rival teams to stay under the same roof but at that time it was common practice in Ireland for security reasons. Each side stayed on different floors of the hotel and I remember finding myself in the lift at the same time as Irish hooker Pat Whelan, who was also making his international debut. He asked me if I had any spare tickets for the game. There was me thinking we had to be kept apart like caged animals until the first whistle!
For security reasons we weren’t encouraged to leave the hotel and go walkabout, so we spent Friday afternoon and evening playing cards. When I ended up winning what was then quite a lot of money, Steve Smith said, ‘You lucky bastard. You’re not only getting your first cap but you’ve won £50 as well.’ Not surprisingly, I was pretty worked up about the next day’s match, but I found myself sharing a room with Chris Ralston and he was so laid back that he was almost horizontal. He would lie on his bed quietly smoking a cigar, and the last thing I saw as I went to sleep, as well as the first thing I saw when I awoke the following morning, was the red glow of its tip. The bedroom was a fog of cigar smoke.
Chris wasn’t keen on John Burgess, both he and Andy Ripley were of the opinion he had arrived from an entirely different planet. They particularly didn’t enjoy being hugged and kissed by him, but players like Fran, Tony Neary and myself were used to his ways and knew just how passionate he was about everything. He drove Rippers mad, but Chris would just stand and look on in disdain as he had the forwards going through different forward moves with players flying off in different directions. Chris didn’t get picked to tour Australia at the end of that season and some time later, when he was playing at Richmond, he said, ‘If you see that bastard Burgess, tell him I’m still playing top-class rugby.’
It was Fran Cotton’s first game as skipper, Tony Neary was at open-side and Steve Smith was on the bench, so there were one or two familiar faces around. Peter Dixon and Andy Ripley completed the back row, with John Pullin and Stack Stevens joining Fran up front. Jan Webster and Alan Old were the half-backs, Peter Preece and Peter Warfield were in the centre and David Duckham and Peter Squires were on the wings, with Peter Rossborough at full-back. We had a police escort to Lansdowne Road, where I found the dressing rooms were horrible, dark and dank, and I was so nervous I spent about half-an-hour in the loo. I didn’t know anything about Ireland but I knew quite a bit about the player I would be up against – Willie-John McBride. He was winning his sixtieth Irish cap that day and was a hero after leading the British Lions on an unbeaten tour of South Africa the previous summer. He and I have met many times since and we have regularly spoken at dinners together. There is a tremendous aura about the man and I could understand why he was such a great captain and respected player. I don’t think he was the world’s best second row but he was a very impressive guy and I could imagine the impact he would make when he walked into the dressing room. It was his final season, and probably a journey too far for him. In the dressing room Fran, who had great respect for the Irishman, told me not to worry because he considered McBride to be past his best. I wish I had felt as convinced at the time.
Players have little superstitions and I liked to take the field last – something I was unable to do for much of my career except when I was playing for my club – so Dave Duckham, who in fact liked to do the same, kindly told me I could bring up the rear as it was my first international. I wasn’t quite prepared for the wall of noise that hit us as we ran out, and the actual match passed by in a complete whirl. I remember the first Irish line-out. Willie-John glared at me and I was petrified because I didn’t want to make a mistake. Whelan threw the ball to him at the front and the great man clambered all over me to win it. Fran delivered a quick pep talk and, at the next Irish throw, I managed to beat him to it and palm the ball back to Jan Webster who found touch farther downfield. I felt a lot better after that, I grappled with Willie-John after Ireland had taken a short penalty, and we ended up with a scrum when he was unable to release the ball. At least, after that, I felt I had got involved but I’m the first to admit that my contribution wasn’t great. Our hooker, John Pullin, didn’t throw the ball to me even once at the line-out, a tactic that I suspect had been planned beforehand in a bid to keep the pressure off me as much as possible.
We lost the game 12–9 with Billy McCombe proving the match-winner for Ireland, but we had murdered them up front, where Ralston gave Moss Keane a very hard time in the second row and Andy Ripley got the better of Willie Duggan, who I later came to know as quite an entertaining tourist. I know I’m not the first player to say that his international debut went by in a flash but that’s exactly how it seemed, the sheer pace of the game taking me by surprise. That may explain why I wasn’t able to make the impact in the loose that I had always endeavoured to do since moving into senior rugby.
Largely through the efforts of the pack, we actually led 9–6 with time running out, but our full-back, Peter Rossborough, slipped as he went to take a pass from scrum-half Jan Webster and McCombe swept up the loose ball to score and add the conversion. I remember slumping on to the bench in the dressing room afterwards and bursting into tears in sheer frustration as I tried to sort out in my mind what I might have done wrong or could have done better.
From the team’s point of view I believe England would have been better served if, instead of me, the selectors had opted for Nigel Horton or any one of several other decent second rows who had been around rather longer than I had and, as a result, were more experienced. I suppose common sense prevailed in that I wasn’t picked for any of the remaining games that season, but even though my debut hadn’t been the outstanding success I had hoped for I was happy to have joined what I saw as a very exclusive club and determined to work even harder at my fitness and to learn from the experience.
John Burgess consoled me in the dressing room afterwards and I soon perked up because I was about to embark on the real business of a rugby weekend in Dublin. The feet that I can’t remember anything of what happened after the dinner, a very sociable affair as you might expect knowing what good hosts the Irish are, is neither here nor there. There were, I was assured, not just players but also thousands of fens experiencing what you might call ‘lost-weekend syndrome’. My abiding memory of that dinner is noting the affection with which Willie-John was so obviously held when he stood up to make his traditional speech. He had long been my idol and, having played against him and experienced the remarkable presence of the man, I was more determined than ever to make it as a rugby player.
Roger Uttley had recovered from his back injury so was able to resume instead of me when England played France at Twickenham. I had expected nothing less but at least I was named on the bench so I assumed I couldn’t have done too much wrong in Dublin. For a moment towards the end of that game it looked as though Roger, having provided me with my first cap, would provide my passport to a second, as he was led from the field with blood gushing from a gash on his ear that later required 18 stitches. I was dispatched to the players’ tunnel to prepare myself for combat but found the team doctor, Leo Walkden, busily taping Roger’s head before sending him back into the fray.
England lost that game, too, 27–20, and that led to changes that didn’t help my cause as the selectors frantically tried to avert a whitewash. Andy Ripley was left out and Roger Uttley moved into the back row. Although that left a vacancy in the second row they brought back Nigel Horton to partner Chris Ralston and, with a second row now in the back row, England needed a back row player rather than a second row like myself on the bench.
In those days England had an appalling record against Wales in Cardiff and 1975 was no exception. We were beaten 20–4 and that led to the axe swinging once more with Horton, Peter Wheeler and John Watkins the victims. Fran Cotton was ill, so Mike Burton was brought in to replace him and, in typical Burton fashion, he asked if he was also taking over the captaincy. There’s nothing like cheek, but it was Tony Neary who took on that responsibility for the first time.
Scotland were on for a rare Triple Crown when they travelled to Twickenham for the final game of a disappointing English season and they should have won the match. Dougie Morgan missed two simple penalties late in the game and England hung on to win 7–6 – hardly the best preparation for a summer tour to Australia. By that stage I had increased my training schedule, having acquired a rather better understanding of what was required to play consistently well at the top level, and I went back to enjoying my club rugby at Fylde. There was also greater recognition, because I was picked to play for the Barbarians on their traditional Easter tour to South Wales, travelling down in my maroon Austin Maxi along with Tony Richards, Dave Robinson – a tough Cumbrian farmer who played for Gosforth and later became an England coach – and my old partner Richard Trickey.
We partnered each other again in the opening game against Penarth. I wasn’t included against Cardiff but was back in the side for what proved to be a very hard game against Swansea. That’s when I came up against Geoff Wheel for the first time. Swansea had a decent side at that time and we had to play well to win but I was convinced that my own game was improving all the time, having started playing against the best second rows in Britain. I was also keen to be seen playing well because I was desperate to earn a call-up for the tour to Australia. My reasoning was that England had experienced a poor season and that a tour was the ideal vehicle for bringing on one or two young players.
When the touring party was announced it was just one of many botch jobs by the selectors and it is not difficult to see the wisdom of having one man responsible for picking the side, as Clive Woodward, England’s head coach, does now. He has other experienced coaches he can talk to, but at the end of the day it is his decision and, in the case of failure, his neck that is on the block. I always felt that selection by committee was flawed and that too many good players were denied an opportunity because of wheeler-dealing, one selector supporting a player from a different region in return for securing support for a protégé of his own. That is hardly the way to mould a successful side. Nowhere has bad practice been more apparent than in schoolboy rugby, where the old-school-tie network still works today.
While I had been confident that the selectors would give one or two young players an opportunity, including me, I hadn’t expected them to go overboard. Far too many experienced players were jettisoned and it wasn’t difficult to work out why I was in the touring party when I saw that the experienced Chris Ralston and Nigel Horton were being left at home. Of the four half-backs in the party only one had actually won a cap, Bedford fly-half Neil Bennett having made his debut against Scotland in the final game of that season’s Five Nations Championship. Alan Wordsworth, the other fly-half, and scrum-halves Brian Ashton and Peter Kingston, didn’t possess a cap between them. I found it absolutely staggering that they had completely ignored what I regarded as the best half-back pairing in the country, Steve Smith and Alan Old.
Peter Rossborough and Tony Jorden had both played at full-back that season but were ignored, while the untried Peter Butler and Alistair Hignell were called up. Of the four second rows Roger Uttley was clearly very experienced but I had just one cap and the other two, Bob Wilkinson and Neil Mantell, were uncapped. Perhaps the selectors had decided on a very experimental approach because Australia had performed poorly on their last visit to the UK but, as I was to discover, Australians are tough nuts to crack in their own backyard.
I felt sorry for our coach, John Burgess, because he soon found himself condemned to making what he could of a thoroughly bad job and the tour was to end his dream of turning England into a major force in world rugby. Before transforming the fortunes of Lancashire and the North West, Burgess had spent hours picking the brains of former All Blacks coach Fred Allen and studying the way the best side in the world went about its preparation. He had so much to offer England but was denied the opportunity by ludicrous selections and undisguised hostility in certain quarters. Players like Fran Cotton, Tony Neary and I knew what John was about. We knew what made him tick and what he was trying to achieve but I suppose he was considered by some to be nothing more than an uncouth and loud-mouthed northerner. Yet, he never threw in the towel and, although his coaching ability was never allowed to blossom at international level, he did become a leading administrator in the game before being honoured with the Presidency of the RFU.
The opening game against Western Australia was a bit of a cakewalk but we lost the second game, against Sydney, 14–10. I almost lost more than the game because, for no apparent reason, I was clobbered by Steve Finnane, Sydney’s international prop, as we ran across the pitch following the action. It was a mindless and unprovoked attack that left me out cold. There is no place in the game, at any level, for such behaviour but Finnane had a reputation for that sort of thing. During the same game he flattened Mike Burton and Steve Callum, a mystery player who suddenly appeared in the touring party from Upper Clapton but was barely heard of again. Two years later Finnane broke the jaw of Graham Price during a Welsh tour of Australia, so the guy built up quite a history of violent behaviour.
When I eventually came round from Finnane’s pile-driver, I was persuaded by Tony Neary to leave the field and was joined on the treatment table – thankfully not literally, considering the size of the pair of us – by Fran Cotton. He had trapped a nerve in his back and was unable to take any further part in the tour. As we were to lose Tony Neary with damaged ribs in the first Test you could say that some of our heaviest artillery had been put out of commission.
Not all the Aussies were out of Finnane’s mould, there being some guys you would happily have a drink with. One of those was a guy who became chief executive of Foster’s Lager. I met him during the 2001 British Lions tour to Australia and he told me he had made his debut for Sydney that day and had subsequently watched my career with interest. I was more than happy to enjoy a few beers with him, but I have never had any desire to socialise with people like Finnane who go around whacking people off the ball when they don’t know it’s coming and are in no position to defend themselves.
My chances of a Test place seemed to have diminished because I wasn’t involved in the 29–24 win over New South Wales, figuring instead in a surprise 14–13 defeat at the hands of a New South Wales Country XV. A place on the bench was the best I could hope for and that’s what I ended up with for the first Test in Sydney, and what an unpleasant game that turned out to be. The Aussies were capable of playing some breathtaking rugby so I couldn’t understand why they picked abrasive characters like Finnane who seemed more intent on intimidating than playing rugby against us.
Tony Neary injured his ribs midway in the first half and I was sent on to the battlefield. From a personal perspective it went quite well because I ended up front-jumping against a guy called Reg Smith and won my fair share of ball at the line-out. Though I say it myself, I had my best game of the tour in the loose and, after helping England to victory over Queensland in midweek with Bob Wilkinson as my partner we were picked as a pair for the second Test. So I won my third cap on merit instead of as a replacement, although I wish it could have been a more auspicious occasion. If we thought the first Test was bad then I am afraid we had seen nothing.
The Aussies launched themselves at us with all the ferocity of caged animals that hadn’t been fed for a long time, and I had trouble believing what was going on. Barry Nelmes, the Cardiff prop, won the ball at the kick-off but was tackled and, while he was on the floor, a pack of Aussie forwards raced in and started kicking him. Nowadays two or three players would have walked for that. The first line-out was just as bad. Mike Burton, never short of a quick riposte, said something to one of the Aussie forwards who was then heard saying ‘Burton’s got the biff on’ to his team-mates who immediately piled into us. About four of them waded into me and I ended up needing stitches. My boys watched the incident on a Brian Moore video nasty that we somehow acquired recently and they thought it was absolutely hilarious that Dad had been unable to fight his way out of the situation. It was quite a long hike down the corridor to the dressing rooms at Ballymore and, as I was having the stitches inserted, I could hear studs clomping towards us. The next minute Burton walked in and slumped on to a bench, and when I asked what was wrong with him he told me he’d been sent off.
Nowadays a replacement prop would have been sent on as cover, with a flanker having to drop out to make way for him. Things were different then and sides had to cope as best they could. I should have stayed off but I thought bollocks to that, I’m going back on. I didn’t want to be replaced in the first international I had actually been selected to start in. As a result I raced back to the pitch and joined John Pullin and Barry Nelmes in the front row. I was well fired up, but I had played at prop previously, albeit at nothing even approaching that level, and coped all right, losing only one put-in against the head all afternoon. One scrum did collapse and I reckon my opposite number, Ron Graham, who is now an Australian rugby administrator and a good guy, could have killed me had he been so inclined. That he didn’t seemed rather odd, considering all that had gone on before!
I discovered later that Burton had delivered a late, late tackle on Doug Osborne, the Aussie wing and after the earlier fracas there was only one way he was going … and that was off. Mike took it badly, feeling he had let everyone down. I felt particularly for John Burgess because, through no fault of his own, everything was going wrong. Perhaps with a more experienced side things wouldn’t have got quite so out of hand but the Aussies did have something of a reputation at that time and they had one or two players who just appeared to go looking for trouble. Sledging, as favoured by their cricketers, is one thing but unprovoked violence is a different matter and it is a wonder that nobody received a serious injury.
Steve Finnane had already shown his colours but their flanker Ray Price and hooker Peter Horton could also put it about to some tune. What I couldn’t understand was that Horton was actually English and a teacher to boot. He was into Pom-bashing big-style and I only hope his language was rather better in the classroom. Price was a very talented player and turned up in England to play rugby league at Wigan. I met him at Central Park one day and with tongue in cheek said, ‘I remember you Bill. You cut easily.’
It had been a disastrous tour and, even though I had collected my third England cap, I still hadn’t played on a winning side. Although I had made my debut the previous season England had only managed to win one Five Nations game – by a solitary point – and worse was to come. John Burgess resigned as national coach and, in the following season, England suffered a whitewash. A time of gloom and doom for English rugby but it wasn’t all bad news for me because I met my wife Hilary.
Just before the start of the following season I was invited by a friend of mine to a girl’s twenty-first birthday party but I declined, saying that it didn’t seem right to attend when I didn’t even know who she was. The following day I did attend a pre-season barbecue in St Annes that had been organised by one of the lads at Fylde, and ended up chatting to the attractive young lady whose party I had decided I couldn’t possibly have attended the previous evening. Had I known it had been Hilary’s birthday party I’m pretty sure I would have been first on the doorstep. We got along fine but it wasn’t long before I was ensconced in a corner chatting about rugby with the lads and I didn’t notice her again. Not that I was seeing too well by the end of the evening because one of the lads had been messing around with a golf club and a ball hit me in the eye. That forced me to withdraw from the club’s two opening games against Coventry and Cheltenham, so I was not exactly a happy bunny. The first game I was able to play was a home fixture against Gloucester, a side packed with quality players and captained by Mike Burton. John Watkins, John Fidler, Peter Kingston, Peter Butler and John Bayliss were also in the line-up but I was determined to do well because I had trained hard during what had been left of the summer and wanted to get my season off to a good start. Fylde would usually settle for any sort of victory against a side of Gloucester’s quality but we really got the bit between our teeth and beat them 31–3. I remember that we scored a try in the last minute of the game and then caught the restart and ran it back at them to score again. It was that sort of day and was about to get better.
In the bar afterwards I bumped into Hilary who had gone to the game with her sister and brother-in-law. She didn’t know anything about rugby but her brother-in-law was quite keen and when I ran on to the field at the start of the game she was able to say that at least she knew the big guy with the number four on his back. Apparently he was quite impressed that she’d been chatting to an international rugby player but she couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Anyway, she told me later that she hadn’t been too impressed by my performance that afternoon because I hadn’t been running around doing spectacular things with the ball. It took me some time to teach her that forwards have a very different but equally important role and that beating Gloucester 31–3 was not something you did every day.
My initial impression of Hilary was enhanced at our second meeting and I asked her out on a date. Unfortunately, I had forgotten the Lancashire trials so I had to hastily reschedule and, as it was, our first date coincided with Lancashire playing Cumberland and Westmorland in a warm-up game, fortunately at Fylde’s ground – a game in which the father of Sale Sharks wing Mark Cueto was playing for the opposition. I wore my England blazer to impress and took her for a drink at the Grapes pub in nearby Wrea Green, not realising that we would one day be married and living just around the corner.
That was the start of a fine, if at times complicated, romance bearing in mind that rugby was tending to dominate my life and Hilary was a student in Manchester, preparing to become a French teacher. She shared a house with two other students and that’s where we did most of our courting. Although it was often a case of snatching a few hours together between work, training and Hilary’s studies we got engaged the following February. Fortunately, Hilary grew to love the game, which was just as well considering that, with three rugby-daft sons, it does rather dominate our lives. Instead of watching me play she now watches the boys and the only difference is that these days she has three times as many sets of dirty kit to wash and iron!
Throughout the ups and downs of my career, both in rugby and in business, Hilary has been my greatest supporter, confidante and friend – in short, the love of my life – and without her I would never have achieved half the things I have achieved. We are both basically shy people who enjoy nothing more than spending a quiet time with our family and, in a way, we had to force ourselves to do things that were being demanded of me because of the high profile I had acquired. I’m fortunate that she was always there to encourage me. If she hadn’t been, there is a lot that would have been left undone. During the early years of our marriage she had to endure long separations that would have put a strain on many marriages but she coped with those well and has proved a wonderful mother to our children. She has held the ship steady during my absences and even now is involved in the business, becoming a director a few years ago. Since moving into household and upholstery fabrics, the feminine touch has been much appreciated and there is no problem when it comes to decision making because that is something we have always done together.
For my sins, I became a Lloyds Underwriter in the 1980s and, like a lot of people from the world of sport, I lost a lot of money in that venture, but with Hilary’s help I worked my way through it. We were fortunate having the family business to fall back on.
Our engagement coincided with England having an even more disastrous time in the Five Nations Championship and I’m just grateful that Hilary and I were better at selecting our partners than the England selectors were at picking a side that might actually win something. With John Burgess gone from the scene, England elevated their Under-23 coach Peter Colston into the hot seat and it really was a baptism of fire. Peter’s one saving grace was that we did manage to beat Australia, even if we lost everything else.
At least I was picked to play for England in what was effectively a trial game against the North and Midlands at Leicester. (It would be interesting to discover just how many different permutations of trials the selectors devised during what you might regard as some of the bleakest seasons in England’s history.) The game at Leicester was hardly a confidence-booster because we were beaten by a combined divisional side led by Peter Wheeler. The selectors’ axes were not merely sharpened after that but used with bloody effect, and seven members of that side were dispatched. Thankfully, I wasn’t one of those beheaded, and I also survived a narrow victory over the South at Gloucester when three more changes were made for the final trial at Twickenham just before Christmas.
I held my place as we won 39–21 and the selectors picked us en bloc to take on Australia. Sadly for Roger Uttley he had been forced to pull out of the trial through injury, his place taken by Andy Ripley. The team included three new caps: Barrie Corless, the Coventry centre; Mark Keyworth, my old team-mate at Ellesmere College who was playing for Swansea; and a scrum-half who appeared to come from nowhere and who almost as quickly went back there. Mike Lampkowski, who was of Polish extraction, played for Headingley and had been a member of the North and Midlands side that beat England in the trial game. He was a very powerful player and extremely committed. He could batter his way through all but the best defences but he lacked that one ingredient that is so necessary to a scrum-half: he couldn’t pass a ball quickly and accurately and, at international level, you aren’t afforded the luxury of time.
As debut games go, Lampkowski’s wasn’t too bad. It can sometimes happen that a new boy gets an adrenalin rush and plays better than he will ever play again. Certainly, the lad played out of his skin, despite his limited repertoire, scoring a try, and many were left thinking we had unearthed a real find. For obvious reasons, we were very keen to beat Australia but it turned out to be a very different Aussie side, especially in terms of attitude. The only Test they in fact managed to win was against Ireland in Dublin. We recorded what, at the time, was the biggest ever victory over our Commonwealth cousins from Down Under. Even with Steve Finnane, Peter Horton and Stuart MacDougall in their front row the game passed without incident, although the 23–6 scoreline may have given us a false impression of just where we stood in the pecking order. In those days the Aussies were nowhere near the force they have been in the last decade.
Having earned the first three of my four caps against Australia, it was great, from a personal point of view, to be given the chance to play against the other countries in the Five Nations Championship. Yet it was a campaign to forget as we suffered a whitewash that had more to do with the selectors than the guys out on the park. We were well beaten by Wales, but then Lampkowski and Martin Cooper were up against Gareth Edwards and Phil Bennett so the first chinks were seen in the scrum-half’s armour. The difference in class was patently obvious and Lampowski’s form had reached crisis level by the time we had succumbed to Scotland 22–12 at Murrayfield. Alan Old had been drafted in to partner him but passes were flying all over the place and he made a number of suicidal breaks, which resulted in him spending much of the game under a pile of Scottish bodies. Panic set in but the selectors kept faith with Mike and, instead, dropped our key line-out jumper at the back of the line, Andy Ripley, and replaced him with Leicester’s Garry Adey, who was much smaller and never reappeared in England colours once the campaign finished. Dave Duckham was injured so my Lancashire colleague Mike Slemen won his first cap in the 13–12 defeat by Ireland at Twickenham and, that time, Lampkowski paid the ultimate price after another poor game in which his inadequacies were once again exposed. I must confess to feeling sorry for him. It wasn’t his fault and he was being asked to do a job that, quite clearly, he was incapable of doing. Nobody helped him to either improve his service or iron out some of the wrinkles in his game.
While Mike stayed in the side we simply couldn’t set up our backs, and I couldn’t believe that the selectors could ignore the claims of Steve Smith. I know he was a mate but when you play alongside a player you discover what sort of contribution he is capable of making and there was no doubt in my mind at that time that Smithy and Alan Old made up the best half-back pairing in the country. They were ignored for too long and it is interesting that both played key roles in the tremendous success of the North side that so comprehensively beat the All Blacks at Otley in 1979. There is an irony about Smithy being forced out by Lampkowski. He had been told by the selectors at the trial stage to concentrate his efforts on getting the ball out to the backs quickly, which is exactly what he did. Then, when he was left out of the side, he was told that he hadn’t been taking defences on in quite the manner that Lampkowski had. If that wasn’t double-Dutch then I don’t know what is. Smithy was penalised for obeying instructions and not playing his natural game. In any case, he had the ability to play it whichever way they wanted and was experienced enough, once on the field, to determine the tactics rather than adhere slavishly to whatever battle plan had been concocted in the dressing room.
Even when the selectors finally turned to Smithy that season, having dropped Lampkowski, they still contrived to get it horribly wrong. Initially they paired Steve with Moseley’s Martin Cooper for the game against France in Paris but Martin was getting over an injury and, before we flew out on the Thursday, he was subjected to the most rigorous fitness test I have ever seen. If he had started out fit there is no way he would have been at the end, and, surprise, surprise, he was ruled out of the game.
At that stage it was patently obvious to everyone involved that Alan Old, who had already been named on the replacements’ bench, was the player who should be called in at the eleventh hour. All except for the selectors who plucked another name out of the hat and Chris Williams, the Gloucester fly-half, was rushed out to the French capital to earn his one and only cap, while poor Alan sat and watched us go from bad to worse.
When I think of how organised things are today in the England camp it is difficult even trying to comprehend just how chaotic it used to be. You really did have to be involved to understand how bad it was and I had sympathy for Chris because an international debut is tough enough anyway without it being made even more difficult by going in unprepared, and having to join a losing side that was very low on morale.
France hammered us 30–9 and seven members of that side – Garry Adey, Bob Wilkinson, John Pullin, Peter Butler, Ken Plummer, David Cooke and Chris Williams – were never seen again. I had only been on one winning side in eight international starts but survived to fight again. It was little wonder we were so poor because the standard of selection was awful and too many of the players, myself included, simply weren’t playing at a competitive enough level on a regular basis. By that stage I had found club rugby pretty well pressure-free and it was only in the county season that the standard was high enough to be meaningful. Even then there was a big disparity in terms of the ability of the county sides and, with a side as strong as Lancashire had become, there were a limited number capable of asking serious questions of us. Gloucestershire would always do that and, in the northern region, Northumberland enjoyed a dominant spell with a side based largely on the successful Gosforth club. It has been very different since the game went professional and the best players have been confined to a smaller club elite, much though some in the game hate the thought of any form of elitism at club level. With top players scattered around a great many clubs, it was a mammoth, costly and time-consuming task for selectors to traverse the length and breadth of the country checking on form.
The present England management not only has its senior squad available for training on a regular basis but is also able to monitor progress by taking in just six games every weekend. Very often those games are spread over three days and, even if Clive Woodward and his coaches can’t always get to games they have the facility of watching match videos. Nothing is left to chance and most countries now envy our domestic competition.
The 1976–7 season dawned with me in good condition and spirits. I was due to get married, Lancashire were sweeping all before them, Fylde even had a good run in the John Player Cup, rugby’s equivalent to the FA Cup, and the British Lions were due to go on tour to New Zealand the following summer. My hope was that I might possibly be in with a chance of a Lions tour providing that I stayed in the England side and performed well. I thought my chances had been enhanced when a combined North and Midlands side crushed Argentina 24–9 at Leicester, just seven days before the Argies lost by a mere point to Wales in Cardiff. A lot of good it did me. England had a new selection committee, headed by the genial Sandy Sanders and including Mike Weston, Derek Morgan and Budge Rogers, and I was dropped down to the Rest side for the final trial. Not only was I fed up over my demotion, I also had to abstain from seeing in the New Year in traditional liquid fashion because the administrators, in their infinite wisdom, decided to play the trial game on New Year’s Day. The only saving grace was that I was in some fairly good company, with Steve Smith and John Horton at half-back and Dusty Hare at full-back. All three were with me when we performed the Grand Slam three years later. We dominated the line-out, largely through the efforts of Andy Ripley who had been given a roving commission at the line-out with me and the other second row, Barry Ayres, acting as decoys. At the interval the sides were level so Barry and I were promoted to the England team in place of Bob Wilkinson and Roger Powell and the seniors ran out comfortable 20–3 victors. That ensured that I was in the starting line-up when the Five Nations began but, even though selection improved that season, there was still a glaring omission – Tony Neary.
I had played alongside Tony for Lancashire, the North and England ever since I had broken through into the senior ranks and knew he was an enormously talented player. Peter Dixon was another badly treated by a succession of English selection panels although, under Sandy, they got it right that season by including him. As they also picked Roger Uttley as captain, England could have had a back row of Uttley, Dixon and Neary. They had to wait until Otley two years later to discover just what they had been missing: three great-thinking footballers and first-rate ball-handlers, who played Graham Mourie’s All Blacks off the park to record a memorable victory that, I suspect, still rankles with the New Zealanders.
We beat the Scots 26–6 at Twickenham and were almost getting giddy with excitement when we beat Ireland at a muddy Lansdowne Road. For the second successive game the English pack took control, although it was fly-half Martin Cooper who got over for the only score of the game following a good break by current broadcaster Alistair Hignell – another talented footballer whose fearless tackling provided much-needed solidity in defence. As a cricketer of county standard he also had good hands.
Nobody needed reminding that we were just two games away from a Grand Slam but our next outing was to be against the same French side that had demolished us twelve months earlier. We faced the same fearsome pack but, in 1977, we gave as good as we got and should have won the game, which ended 4–3 in favour of the French. Even then they were assisted by Alistair missing five out of six kicks at goal and further helped by a very dubious try scored by their centre François Sangalli after everyone other than the referee had been convinced that full-back Jean-Michel Aguirre had knocked on. The French boys admitted afterwards that they felt we had deserved to win.
Michel Palmie played in the French second row that day, as he had a year earlier, and we got to know each other quite well. At one stage we served on the European Cup committee together, and I soon learned that when he was present at the meetings held in Dublin it was not a good idea to stay overnight unless, of course, I wanted to get completely wrecked. He played for Béziers, and when Hilary and I went on a camping holiday in that region in the summer of 1978, I decided to give him a call. He came round to the site to take us back to his place and caught me doing the washing-up. I never lived that down and he demanded to know, ‘Why is a man doing the washing-up. What is a wife for!’ I won’t relate Hilary’s comments here, but he became a good friend and we rarely pass through that part of the world without popping in to share a glass or two – or maybe a few more – with Michel.
That defeat ended our Grand Slam hopes but I had other things on my mind because Hilary and I were married three days later, four days before I turned out to help Lancashire beat Middlesex in the county final. To say that Hilary was a very understanding young woman would be to understate the case but, by then, she had grown accustomed to the inconveniences of having an international rugby player as a partner. Fortunately, she had grown to enjoy both the game and the company, and had become part of the social scene at Fylde, doing her stint on the ladies committee and helping with some of the unglamorous work behind the scenes such as ensuring that numerous starving players didn’t go hungry after games.
Our honeymoon had to be put on ice until the end of the season. Or at least that was the plan. In the meantime we travelled to Cardiff to take on Wales for the Triple Crown and my one great regret is that I never played in a winning England side at the National Stadium. Even before the new Millennium Stadium replaced it, the old stadium had lost some of its aura, but when I was playing it was an intimidating venue. As you waited like Gladiators in the dressing room you would hear the biggest choir in the world giving full voice, and that was worth a few points start to the Welsh. The current England side isn’t at all intimidated by travelling to Cardiff, but Wales have been a very pale shadow of what they once were.
Wales won the game 14–9. We played badly and I didn’t perform well against Geoff Wheel, which annoyed me because I knew the British Lions party to tour New Zealand was due to be announced a couple of weeks later. Knowing that they would take four second rows, I had held on to the hope all season that I might just scrape in but Geoff Wheel got the call rather than me and was due to have Gordon Brown, Nigel Horton and Allan Martin as his travelling companions. Geoff withdrew from the party later. I heard the news on the car radio, and my heart almost missed a beat as I waited for the name of his replacement to be announced. When it turned out to be Moss Keane I couldn’t believe it. I had played against Moss on a couple of occasions and thought myself to be the better player.
The Lions were travelling without a specialist front-of-line jumper but that wasn’t the only piece of poor planning; I also felt the management team was wrong. The late George Burrell went as manager and though he was a nice bloke he was rather dominated by coach John Dawes, who virtually ran the whole show through Phil Bennett. John had captained the successful Lions in New Zealand in 1971 but he wasn’t the world’s best coach and I suspect he had pushed for Phil, who had captained Wales, to be given the job in New Zealand. Phil is a nice guy but rather shy and he lacked the personality of Willie-John McBride who had led the all-conquering Lions in South Africa three years earlier. Indeed, Phil was the first to admit that he shouldn’t have taken the job and, by the end of the tour, he had lost form and was homesick, something that seemed to afflict the Welsh lads more than the other nationalities.
Once I had heard about the inclusion of Moss Keane I was so brassed off that I booked a honeymoon in Majorca during the time when the Lions were away, and when the factory closed down for the annual Whitsun holiday, Hilary and I took ourselves off on a camping holiday to the Lake District with our long-standing friends Steve and Sue Braithwaite. In fairly typical Lake District fashion the weather was terrible. It poured down so, in the end, we packed up and returned home. We arrived back on a Monday evening and I suggested to Steve that we take the wet tents to the factory where they could dry out while the workforce were away on holiday. When I went into the office I took a telephone call from Malcolm Phillips, a Fylde member and Lions selector, telling me that Nigel Horton had broken his thumb playing against Otago and would be in plaster for six weeks. I was about to become a Lion.
