Читать книгу Matt Dawson: Nine Lives - Matt Dawson - Страница 8

The whistle blew and my head started to spin. The game was over and I was running on empty. As I reached the dressing room I slumped on a bench and closed my eyes. Then it all went blank. Moments after playing my first international for England, I passed out.

When I came round, I would reflect on an upturn in fortune which had brought me my first cap only months after I’d been relegated to the Second Division with Northampton, and transformed me from rugby-playing schoolteacher with casual attitude into fully professional England international.

But now wasn’t the time. It wasn’t the time either to admit to myself that I had a virus which was invading my body and would confine me to bed for a fortnight after England defeated Western Samoa 27–9 at Twickenham just nine days before Christmas, with Matthew James Sutherland Dawson at scrum-half and his best mate, Paul Grayson, wearing the number 10 shirt.

Weeks earlier rugby union had become a professional sport, but there were still amateur traditions to observe, one of which was that new caps go out and get as drunk as skunks. It is a proper initiation, with no cactus leaves involved. Each of your team-mates selects a drink and you share it with him. The outcome was inevitable, especially when Ben Clarke and Phil de Glanville came over. Clarkey had a bottle of red wine which he insisted Grays and I polish off with him, then DG ordered us each a vodka martini, which went down like paint stripper. I turned to Grays and said I had to go. He laughed at me and called me a pussy. I went to the 100 and chucked the lot up. It was 10 minutes of pain, but I got rid of most of the alcohol before it had even got into my system. Then I was back at the bar sipping a beer, feeling on top of the world.

England have had some good chunderers, none better than Bath’s Steve Ojomoh, who puked into the wine bucket in the middle of the table at the Hilton Hotel in London just as he was asked to go up and be presented with his cap. He didn’t hear his summons because he had his head buried in the bucket.

At least I discharged my cargo in private. But Grays was unimpressed. He had kept it down and was still going strong when I returned. Moments later his colour changed, and his missus suggested she take him up to their twin room. What happened next wasn’t pretty. Grays puked in his bed, got out of it, got in with Emma, then puked in hers as well. From there he stumbled to the toilet, saying how sorry he was, and puked again. He didn’t know where he was, other than that he was in a world of pain. The pussy.

The morning after the match I woke in the Petersham Hotel feeling deathly. I saw a doctor who confirmed that I was not well and had not been for a while. I had got through my England debut on pure adrenalin, much as James Simpson-Daniel would when playing against the All Blacks with glandular fever in 2002. But it didn’t matter. I had my cap.

That summer I had seen no reason to circle Saturday, 16 December 1995 on my calendar. When pre-season training began at Northampton, ahead of us lay a year playing Second Division rugby away from the public spotlight. Ian McGeechan wanted to remind us of the hard work that had earned us membership of the Saints’ playing squad in the first place, before the good times took over and softened our edges. So, a year after spending pre-season in Lanzarote, Geech took us training in parks around Northampton, the town we had taken out of the top flight of English rugby. He ran us into the ground, he watched us spill our guts, and after every session he would walk around saying, ‘It’s gold in the bank, boys, it’s all gold in the bank.’ And so it was, for having spent pre-season backing up the pledges we made the day after we were relegated, we proceeded to go unbeaten through the league campaign.

It was a vital period for me and my rugby because I was not the most popular player at Northampton at the time. I was seen as very arrogant and cheeky, which I probably was. I didn’t know where the line should be drawn. I thought I could get away with saying things because of who I was and who I played for. If I was sitting having a drink with my friends and someone came and plonked themselves down and started joining in, I would look dismissively at them and say, ‘I don’t need this.’ I was blind to my obligations as a player representing the town’s major sporting team. Winger Harvey Thorneycroft used to be the one to pull me aside.

‘Daws,’ he’d say, ‘that person thinks you’re a little bit out of order.’

‘What you talking about?’ I’d reply. ‘He’s a nob.’

Geech drummed most of that out of me. He was interested in actions, not in smart-arse talk. Who were we, any of us, to lord it about when we were playing Second Division rugby? And where Geech really got it right was that he mixed this criticism with encouragement. I have always responded to people who have confidence and belief in me; show me that and you’ll get the best out of me. It is doubt which breeds distrust in me. Geech said he believed in me, that I would reach the top if I was prepared to work with him to unlock my potential. He devised a gameplan which he said would help me achieve my ambitions; he got me working one day a week with Nigel Melville, the former England scrum-half and captain, and he gave me this single piece of advice which transformed my game: ‘Think “There’s a hole!”, not “Where’s a hole?”’ Before every game he would come up to me and say, ‘Don’t force it.’ It became a trigger phrase for me. He had seen what I’d gone through in 1994, when I was trying to create holes and was getting smashed all the time, to the detriment of the team. He could tell I needed to become more patient. ‘Keep passing it,’ he said. ‘Get rid of it, bide your time, and then, when you see a hole, go and take it.’

As the 1995–96 season wore on I began to gain the reputation I wanted for Matt Dawson. I took risks, I was a bit ballsy, I made the right decisions and I took control. I was helped massively by Geech’s ban on us kicking the ball whenever we were awarded a penalty. Unless we were right in front of the posts, 20 yards out, I was under orders to tap and go, forcing the team to go with me. Sometimes this was comical. One point behind or ahead with 20 minutes to go, we get a penalty 25 yards out and 10 yards wide of the posts and I’d be off. You could hear the crowd groaning, ‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ But we’d score – maybe not in that very play, but it would always come. We were playing at such a pace that we would congratulate a team if they stuck with us for 60 minutes. We were so fit and strong and so determined that we knew no team could last the full 80 with us.

By the time newly crowned world champions South Africa came to Twickenham in November, Northampton had won their first 10 league games, only once failing to top 40 points, and I had already scored more tries than I had in the whole of the previous campaign. My resurgence was too late to force England’s hand for the clash with the Springboks, but my time was approaching.

It helped that England were beaten far more comprehensively than the 24–14 scoreline suggested, and also that Kyran did not enjoy one of his better afternoons. Consequently, by the time Western Samoa touched down at Heathrow my cause was again being championed. ‘If England are to find the missing link, a pivot for their game,’ wrote Mark Reason in the Sunday Times, ‘they need a scrum-half who can provide fast ball and the hardness to run at defences. With Dewi Morris retired and Kyran Bracken failing to deliver, the man who is increasingly recognised as having the best credentials is Matt Dawson.’ Geech added his weight to the push for my inclusion in the side to play the Polynesians by saying, ‘If he does make it through into the international field he’ll make a significant impact. He will be one of those players who will be involved all the time.’

A week later I was on the team sheet, in the same back line as some of the all-time greats of English rugby: Will Carling, Jeremy Guscott and Rory Underwood. And not just me, either, as Grays had also got the call. England had decided to roll the dice and blood two half-backs in the same game.

It was difficult for Grays and me to come into such an experienced team in such influential positions, to play with authority and to run the game as you need to at 9 and 10. Nobody seemed to appreciate that except for one person, the England captain. I thought Will Carling was a really good lad. He was a big kid and liked a similar sort of banter to me; he was a real cheeky chappy. But what impressed me most was that he always looked after me and Grays. Will was obviously a big name, a big star, the first genuine rugby celebrity. But he was great with us, referring to us as his ‘sons’ (Grayson and Dawson). He knew it was crucial for us to have his support, and it was unequivocal.

But that could not calm my nerves in the days leading up to the game. I didn’t really venture much outside my bedroom. I was bricking myself, spending half the time on the toilet with acute stomach aches. I didn’t realise that I was genuinely ill, as sick as a dog. On the big day itself Grays and I sat together in a room in the Petersham Hotel doing anything to try to take our minds off the ordeal to come. We were just mucking about when we were suddenly brought back into the here and now by the theme tune for Grandstand on the television in the corner.

‘Oh quality, Steve Rider from Twickenham,’ I said. ‘That’ll be us later.’

Within a minute I was on the toilet and Grays was pacing around the room impatiently waiting to follow. From that point until I came round in the dressing room after the game to find Bill Bishop, president of the Rugby Football Union, waiting to present me with my senior cap and tie, everything is a blur in my memory.

People warned me that I wouldn’t remember any of it, and they were right. I still haven’t got a clue. I can’t even tell you the final score. I think Lawrence Dallaglio and Rory Underwood scored tries, and that we played left to right in the first half, but I can’t be sure. I do know that the game was quick – obviously a step up from what I’d been used to as in the last 10 minutes my legs were heavy and my lungs started to burn as the adrenalin ran out – and that we won, but more than that I have to rely on press clippings. I have never watched the game on video.

Experience brings with it a greater awareness and an ability to slow down pressure situations in your own mind to a manageable speed. It has also enabled me to manage my nerves. I no longer worry myself stupid that we are on television, or that there are 70,000 watching in the stadium. I don’t even give it a second thought. As soon as the whistle goes there could be no one in the stadium. The only thing I still get nervous about is making mistakes. I’ve done all my homework, I know I’ve got it in my head, so there’s nothing actually to get nervous about other than execution.

That does not mean I am completely dispassionate. To this day the National Anthem gets me every time. Whenever I sing it I try to pick out Mum and Dad in the stand. I watch Dad take his cap off, throw his head back and belt out the words. I feel pride in the fact that they are proud of me. I will only sing the opening couple of lines because I know if I go on I’ll start blubbing. After that I let Mum and Dad take over while I run through my key notes and trigger thoughts – which in plain speak are shorthand reminders of what is required of me in the England number 9 shirt. Why am I doing this? What am I going to get out of it? How much effort am I going to put in?

Back at Northampton the wins continued to pile up, but the complexion of the season, and indeed the Game, had changed. Rugby union, for so long the most Corinthian of sports, had thrown open its doors to professionalism.

I was at my local gym at Dallington, with Brett Taylor, Paul Grayson, Tim Rodber and Ian Hunter when the news broke. We had just finished a session and were sitting in the bar having a sandwich and a glass of orange juice. My initial reaction was that the game wasn’t ready for such a move; only later did I think of the financial repercussions. Fortunately for Northampton, Keith Barwell had cut straight to the chase. His view was that once the game was ‘open’ it would be a race between the clubs and the RFU to sign up the players. So he called an emergency meeting at which he made a presentation, and promised that the club was going to look after its players. No one asked any searching questions because no one really understood what it all meant. I had no reason to doubt Keith anyway, as in many ways he had been providing a livelihood for me for the past five years. He had opened a couple of doors for me in terms of employment, and I knew I could trust him. So when he offered me the opportunity of doing as a full-time job what I had spent a large part of my life thinking about or doing anyway, I became very excited.

At that time it wasn’t a question of money for me – the thought of playing professional rugby as my job was enough of a dream to be going on with – but Keith had that sorted as well. He handed me a five-year contract in which Northampton agreed to pay me an annual salary of £15,000. It was double what I had been earning the day before as a schoolteacher at Spratton Hall. I grabbed the pen out of Keith’s pocket and signed the contract there and then. No lawyers, no agents, just thank you very much.

Keith had divided the squad into three tiers: A1s, As and Bs. The top tier, in which I was included along with the likes of Tim Rodber, Martin Bayfield and Gregor Townsend, were deemed to be established internationals and offered an annual salary of between £12,000 and £15,000. Next came the fringe internationals, then the club players. The total wage bill for 40-odd players was £240,000, with a £3,000 bonus available if we won two-thirds of our matches, and Keith signed up all his men – except for one.

Dear Martin,

Would you consider a move down the road to Northampton Rugby Football Club? We know you are a world-class player already playing for an excellent team in Leicester, so why should you consider a move?

Let me put one thought in your mind. Northampton are going to be a great club. In Rodber, Bayfield, Grayson, Dawson, Townsend, Dods and Bell we have seven established internationals. Ian Hunter will also shortly be available. We intend to strengthen the side by recruiting two world-class players to supplement our front five. We would like you to be one of them. With Ian McGeechan as our coach and with currently £1 million in the bank we intend to ‘go for it’ during the next two to three seasons.

It wouldn’t do you any harm to have lunch with me. During the next few weeks players will have to make big decisions that will mean them signing contracts and agreeing wages for the next one to five years. We could offer you a financial package that is unbeatable.

Warm regards, Keith Barwell.

It is testament to his ambition for Northampton that Keith went fishing for Martin Johnson. He offered him a £15,000 salary and listed him as A.N. Other on his budget for the season. It is Keith’s biggest regret that he did not raise his offer by £5,000 as he is convinced that he would have lured the future England and Lions captain away from Welford Road.

But no one really knew then what amount of money was too much or too little. All sorts of figures had been bandied about in the months after South Africa had upset the form book by beating New Zealand to win the World Cup. Rupert Murdoch had signed a 10-year deal worth £366 million for exclusive rights of an annual ‘Tri Nations’ series between the Boks, the All Blacks and the Wallabies. Then another Aussie magnate, Kerry Packer, wanted to start a global circus to challenge Murdoch’s deal. The England and England A lads attended a meeting down in Maidenhead at which Ross Turnbull, Packer’s representative in Britain, promised us the world if we signed with him. I hadn’t yet made my debut against the Samoans and was a little bit starry-eyed in the company of Will Carling, Dean Richards, Jeremy Guscott and the like, but as thousands of pounds were being offered we all agreed that it was too good an opportunity to turn down. It was so far above my head that I didn’t even see it. If it all happened now I’d probably have the likes of Steve Thompson and Ben Cohen hounding me to explain what’s going on, because I did the same in 1995 to Kyran, Martin Johnson, Tim Rodber and Phil de Glanville. I didn’t have a clue. Everything was so far removed from anything I’d ever experienced. I signed a letter of intent which Kyran, who was a solicitor, kept in the safe in his office. We were told that contracts would be put in the post to our club representative, and that the quicker we got them signed and returned the sooner the ‘circus’ would be up and running. It was literally as quick as that, and then, as quickly again, nothing happened and it was never heard of again.

But there could be no holding back the tide of professionalism. Since my days playing with the Marlow under-16s I had thought that the game needed to become more professional. And when Will Carling was stripped of the England captaincy in the spring of 1995 for saying that the English game was run by ‘57 old farts’ my view was only confirmed. I was not alone in thinking that the players were professional in attitude and physical ability, but that everything else was totally amateur – the set-up, the financing, player welfare and so on. The administrators couldn’t seriously expect the players to continue to become better and stronger, and therefore to make more and more money for the game, yet not go professional. Sooner or later something had to give.

I don’t believe that the way the game went pro was right. The Blazers just announced that rugby union was ‘open’ and effectively washed their hands of the situation. It was like, ‘You wanted it, you have it, you deal with it.’ The transition needed to be managed skilfully. Had it been, then maybe the gulf between the haves and have-nots might not have been as big and the likes of Richmond and London Scottish would still be around.

I had no problem supporting Northampton in the ensuing club versus country wrangles. By then I had a mortgage and day-to-day security, all of which had come from Keith and Saints. The RFU had assumed they would get control of the players, but they faffed about with different contracts and how best to move forward. I preferred to be paid by someone I trusted and felt loyal to, so there was only one option for me. The Union was not at that time a body I felt I could trust. Relations between the two parties became increasingly strained and reached a head when the England squad boycotted a training session at Bisham Abbey. The situation had become so confused, and the players were the most confused of all. We were all geared up for the start of the season and then it all blew up. One of the lads referred to us as bargaining chips, and it did feel that way. It was a deeply worrying time. At the click of a finger we could all have had our England dream taken away. We were looking for middle ground but there was none; we were loyal to our clubs but we didn’t want to snub England, which is every player’s ultimate goal. The Union made it very awkward for us to choose between club and country when we shouldn’t have been put in the position of having to choose anyway.

The day of the boycott, when we skipped training to attend a meeting at the Heathrow Hilton, there was a sense of nervous anticipation among the squad. There were going to be offers, decent offers too, on the table to side with the clubs, but there was also unease at the ramifications of us signing an agreement and breaking away from the RFU. I thought the chances that I would not play for England again were about 70–30. That bothered me because that was what I wanted to do, and I know the club also wanted me to do it. I just couldn’t understand where the problem lay. It seemed so simple to me: you play for your club, with whom you are contracted, and if you get selected by England they pay you a fee to represent them. Rob Hardwick, a prop forward from Coventry, was the one player to turn up at the England session that day at Bisham. He would get his one cap, but the general view among the squad was that he wasn’t thinking of the other people involved. We were all desperate to play for England, but had we allowed ourselves to be rolled over by these guys then that would become the norm for the next generation.

The Union had their chance to avert such a conflict. We as a group gave them every opportunity to sign us all up on RFU contracts very early on, and they decided not to do it. They were so amateur in their approach. I’m sure there was plenty of business acumen among the members of the committee, but as a committee they were still very much old school operating under old-school rules. Yet while they wanted us to play for the honour of representing the jersey, they were quite happy to sell all the catering rights, up the prices at Twickenham, and generally make a load of money on the back of the professional era. They became perturbed that we had some bright guys in the squad who decided it was very wrong that the players, who make the occasion what it is, were not receiving a decent percentage of the income.

The game is about the players. It’s about youngsters from all walks of life aspiring to play for England and dreaming that one day they will make it and be recognized as the best in the land. No matter what people might say, you can’t mess with that dream. When we went on strike four years later, coach Clive Woodward threatened to pick a team of junior league players to wear the Red Rose. It wouldn’t have worked. They wouldn’t have been England. That wouldn’t sell out Twickenham, and that is where the RFU make their money. Eventually, the Union realized that.

Keith Barwell is a good man, one I am proud to count among my very best friends. Whether it’s going for a beer, to a barbecue or to his shoot in Bradden, we are mates. And as with all my good mates I feel a loyalty to him which I know he reciprocates. Over the years I have turned down lucrative offers from Gloucester, Leicester and a number of French clubs to leave Saints. In return, he has always looked after me. For instance, when I became a Lion in 1997 he didn’t dance around Franklin’s Gardens screaming, ‘Happy days! I’ve got Daws on a five-year contract and now he’s a Lion!’ He simply upgraded my deal, without me even broaching the matter.

I once asked him why he got involved. ‘I sometimes ask myself the same question,’ he replied. ‘Sometimes I look in the shaving mirror and have a little honesty session with myself. Part of it, at the time, I think, was to show off, to try and be involved with these young bucks. But, on reflection, I was more keen to make the club successful.’ I believe that, because first and foremost Keith is a supporter of the club. If there is one thing he has learned throughout his business career and his life in general, it is that he is one of the lads. He was originally a telesales man, and he’s never forgotten it.

Keith’s ambition for the club has never diminished. He has always wanted to bring in the best. Many players from other clubs use him a little bit because of this. They know that if they sniff around Keith when they’re coming out of contract, their club will get a bit edgy and may bump up their own money. But Keith is nobody’s fool, and when the game went professional so his attitude to achieving success hardened. ‘I was not that paranoid about winning in the early days,’ he admitted to me. ‘The game was always the thing. I wanted Saints to win, but if we didn’t I’d simply have two pints rather than one. But I began to realize once I took the club over and started raising people’s expectations that I had to deliver.’

Northampton certainly delivered in the 1995–96 season. We finished the season as champions, six points clear of our nearest rivals London Irish, having won all 18 of our games and averaged nearly 50 points a game. It was some record:

Division 2: P18 W18 D0 L0 F867 A203 Pts36

(a) v. London Irish, won 65–32

(h) v. Moseley, won 50–7

(a) v. Nottingham, won 43–7

(h) v. Wakefield, won 23–0

(a) v. Bedford, won 49–17

(h) v. Blackheath, won 69–14

(a) v. Newcastle, won 52–9

(a) v. Waterloo, won 69–3

(h) v. London Scottish, won 54–11

(h) v. London Irish, won 52–24

(h) v. Nottingham, won 35–5

(a) v. Moseley, won 46–16

(h) v. Bedford, won 48–0

(a) v. Blackheath, won 24–10

(h) v. Newcastle, won 26–5

(h) v. Waterloo, won 69–5

(a) v. Wakefield, won 34–21

(a) v. London Scottish, won 59–17

I played in 17 of those games and finished the campaign with nine tries. I could not have been happier, and I eagerly awaited the end-of-season verdict of coach Paul Larkin. When it arrived I was not disappointed:

In my summary last season I stated that with the retirement of Dewi Morris it was possible for you to come to the fore because I wasn’t convinced by Kyran Bracken. I merely emphasized that such an achievement would take a concentrated effort all season, more so since we were in Division Two. So imagine the pride of everyone who had helped you aspire to that pedestal of honour in England v. Western Samoa.

However, the accolade is all yours. You had the mental strength to overcome the psychology involved in shrugging off your lingering hamstring doubts with the help of Phil Pask, but more importantly you had the self-belief and confidence not only to grasp, but to establish yourself as the number one in the country.

If ever there was an Artful Dodger in our side, then it’s you. The Artful Dodger at the base of the scrum or ruck, always chirping, always cheeky, always ready to nick anything and, most irreverently, always prepared to make a fool of his opposite number by sniping at his heels. These are the traits of character that personify an outstanding scrum-half. You have developed them precociously. It is now time for you to review the progress you have made and decide the best way forward.

Inevitably our gameplan makes decisions easy for you. You need to concentrate on the basic skills and I am convinced that you will not neglect the drills. Everything you do should be based upon moving the ball away from the breakdown with speed, bearing in mind that the presentation of the ball is not always what it should be, especially from second-, third- and fourth-phase rucks. The game we play demands your speed of thought; you initiate everything that happens; it is important that you dictate to those around you what you want. The new laws play into your hands and I am sure you will exploit them to their fullest.

It has been a fantastic season for you. It has been an achievement that you will relish and one which you won’t relinquish easily. I feel you have the dogged determination of character to make that England berth yours, right through to the next World Cup [in 1999] and beyond. The important thing is to maintain your focus and allow your self-effacing qualities to help deal with the distractions. You are in good company at the club. The success of the club will help you secure your future. I look forward with great excitement to watching your development.

The ‘England berth’ had been mine throughout the 1996 Five Nations Championship, and my domestic success was replicated on the international front: I ended up with a winner’s medal after we pipped Scotland to the title on points difference. I only wish the campaign had been half as enjoyable as playing for Saints. It was not exactly thrilling stuff, from a spectator’s point of view or from mine: we scored only three tries in our four matches. But given Jack Rowell’s reaction whenever I tried to show any flair, it didn’t come as the greatest surprise to me. ‘Daws,’ he would say, ‘I know you like to do all those sorts of flip passes when you play for Northampton, but you never ever do one of those in an England shirt. Do you understand?’

Paul Grayson has always said to me that the part of my game he appreciates the most is that however the ball comes out I will get it to him. It’s not always pretty. I can be slapping it, kicking it, overheading it, whatever, but I will get the ball to him. Jack didn’t want any of that. Consequently, during the 1996 Five Nations, whenever I saw a bobbling ball I just fell on it or hacked it clear. It went against the grain and it started to eat away at my enjoyment of playing for England.

I actually really like Jack. I get on well with him and have very good banter with him. But as a coach he didn’t coach me. I didn’t go to England and learn anything. He wanted me to play like a robot. He wanted me to pass and kick. No wonder I got dropped in the autumn of 1996. I wasn’t playing well because I wasn’t enjoying it. I wasn’t enjoying playing for my country. How shocking an admission is that? Having learned to let my rugby do more of my talking for me, I didn’t make a huge fuss about it. In hindsight that was probably a mistake, because I didn’t raise any eyebrows with the way I played, whereas I’d spent all my career with Northampton, Midlands and England A making the odd mistake but making breaks and putting people in holes too. Always doing something to catch the eye. That’s what got me into the England side, yet when I got there I wasn’t allowed to do it. It was very frustrating, and thank God I had Geech coaching me at the club, otherwise I would never have made the Lions squad for South Africa. It was not that I was one of his players, it was that he knew what I could do but wasn’t being allowed to do for England. Take the ‘Solo’ try I scored in the first Test for the 1997 Lions in Cape Town – Jack Rowell would never have sanctioned it. He would have gone mental had I gone it alone from the base of one of his scrums.

Jack’s decision, out of nowhere, to drop me from the England squad in November 1996 shocked me to the core, and it could have had even more serious consequences as it set in motion a sequence of events that left me clinging to life.

England decided to pick Andy Gomarsall for the match at Twickenham against Italy, and decided against explaining their reasoning to me. To this day I have no idea why, and I still feel unhappy about it. I fell out with Les Cusworth, Jack’s second in command, over the way the situation was managed, or rather mismanaged. Les had rung me up to make sure everything was all right and given me all the vibes that I was in the side. Then, literally five minutes before the team was announced, they dropped me from the team and the bench and stuck me in the A team to play Argentina at Franklin’s Gardens. I confronted Les and asked if he could give me a reason why so that I could go away and work on it. ‘I don’t really know,’ he said. ‘It was Jack’s call.’ So I buttonholed Jack. ‘You don’t need to talk to me about that,’ Jack said. ‘Speak to Les.’ I took a deep breath and bit my lip. I was disappointed, gutted even, but I decided to stay calm. What good would me getting angry do? It was a rational reaction to an irrational situation and I was pretty proud of myself for the way I handled it. As I drove back to Northampton from Bisham Abbey, I vowed to show them what a big mistake they had made by starring for the A team.

Of course it didn’t work out that way. After 19 minutes of the game I buggered my knee and was out for 10 weeks; meanwhile, Gomars scored two tries against the Italians. Now I was angry. It seemed I had lost a chance to get myself into contention for the 1997 Five Nations, the shop window for Lions selection the following spring. But things were about to get far worse.

I was in hospital the following day for a scope on my knee, and I had a drip line inserted into the back of my hand by needle, through which they then injected the anaesthetic. As is routine in these instances I was asked to count to 10.

‘One, two, three, four … five …’

Then, just as I was drifting off, I heard raised voices.

‘Holy shit, his heart rate!’

Then I was gone. Out cold. And I woke up none the wiser after the procedure had been completed. Until, that is, the specialist came and sat down beside me to explain that my body had totally shut down. For some reason my heart rate had dropped to two beats a minute and they had had to get me back. Had I ever had a problem with anaesthetic before? No. Did I have any medical condition I had forgotten to tell them about? No. All right, have you ever experienced any blackouts before?

‘Er, yes.’

I recounted the story of the day I went for my jabs prior to flying off to Zimbabwe with the Barbarians in 1994. How I had gone to Dr John Raphael’s surgery in Northampton the morning after a dinner party for which I had made a very good banoffee pie and at which I had got wasted. Brett Taylor and I were sitting in chairs chatting with Raph about the night before when he said, ‘Right, Daws, let’s get this done. Drop your trousers.’ I stood up, turned around and pulled down my boxers. But as the needle went into my bum cheek I felt myself going.

‘God, Raph, I feel a bit faint,’ I said.

‘Yeah, yeah, all right, Daws.’

There was then another jab and the room started spinning. I turned round to sit down, and just before I hit the seat I passed out. However, because I was slumped in the chair it looked as though I was sleeping. Brett and Raph carried on chatting away and talking to me.

‘Daws, I know you’re listening, you prick,’ said the ever sensitive doctor. ‘Why are you being such a nob?’

Right on cue the colour drained from my face and I slid down the seat. It was then that Raph realized I had completely gone. I came round in a cold sweat, but because it was the first time I had experienced anything like that I didn’t really think anything of it. It wasn’t until now, two and a half years on, that I put two and two together. In both instances it must have been the needle I reacted to. After that I was instructed to declare my needle phobia whenever I needed medical attention. But even that did not save me from another frightening incident in 2001.

Austin Healey and I had been playing golf in Spain, and then we’d met up with Iain Balshaw and a couple of other lads in Sotogrande. During light training I jarred my foot on the artificial surface and turned my knee. When I got back to Northampton the club put me in for an arthroscopy and the doctor asked me if I wanted an epidural so that I could watch it on video. I’m well into that sort of thing and took him up on his offer. They gave me a pre-med – no problem. I then pointed out that I had a phobia about needles and had previously passed out. The doctor advised the anaesthetist who told me not to worry, she was just going to put a bit of local in my back before giving me the epidural.

‘You do remember what I said about me and needles?’ I said again, not having a clue about what was going on.

‘Yeah, no problem, it’s the tiniest of pricks in your back.’

I had this drip lead going into my hand and I could feel it pulling, so I was already feeling a bit ill. Then the ‘tiny prick’ went into my back.

‘I’m really not feeling well,’ I gurgled.

Just as one of the nurses started to say ‘It’s no problem’, I passed out. When I woke up I had these electrodes all over me. They wouldn’t tell me exactly what happened. All I know for sure is that when I went into the room there were two people and when I awoke there were seven and a lot of shouting, screaming and running around.

Why I am vulnerable to this I really don’t know. I’m told that my phobia of needles and a sensitivity to medications is caused by an excessively low heart rate. All I know for sure is that when I don’t like things, when I get nervous and afraid, I get very tired and just want to slow down and sleep. I suspect these incidents are a hugely exaggerated version of that. But now I take no chances.

When I went for a scan in Wellington before England played New Zealand in June 2003 they planned to put dye into my leg so they could see exactly what was going on. I told the England doctor, Simon Kemp, about my phobia and asked how big the needle would be. He turned around and quipped, ‘Don’t worry, it’s only about that big,’ indicating six inches.

Did I laugh? Did I hell.