Jonny: My Autobiography (47 page)

The next morning rolls around and I receive a handwritten fax from Blackie entitled ‘Onwards and Upwards’. In typical Blackie style, the key word shouts at me in capitals: ‘If we all did the things we are capable of
doing, we would literally astound ourselves. Today let yourself do all the things of which you are capable, and astound yourself. It is essential that you see yourself as an achiever and as a WINNER! Believe you can do this, and when you think positive, excellent thoughts, you and the team will be propelled towards greatness.’

I tuck the fax away and watch the seconds ticking before we can return to the Stade de France. Once there, I’m caught up in the momentum and turning back is no longer an option. I know the exact timing of a countdown to a game and I manage to fill every minute with preparation work. I do my kicking practice to an exact formula, I return to the changing room and then go back out on to the pitch with the boys. We go through our warm-up routines as a team and then we are back in the changing room again and Vicks is gathering us all together for the last big huddle.

Here, in the Stade de France, I have been so into my pre-match pattern, I haven’t had time to think. Until now. Oh shit, this is it. The big one.

In the huddle, minutes before we go out on to the field, Vicks gives us the last big hurrah. The intensity has been building and building. Now it’s as high as it gets. We’ve come so far, he tells us, we’re unbreakable, we’re like a band of brothers.

As he says ‘brothers’, Ronnie Regan is so caught up in the mood that he does something only he would do. He thrusts his fist into the middle of the huddle and echoes the words. Yeah, boys! Brothers!

An awkward pause follows. What the hell does he want us to do? Nobody has ever done this fists-in-the-huddle business before, but Ronnie’s fist remains firm. Half the team are looking around, thinking someone’s got to do something. I do my utmost to avoid looking at Taity because this is a World Cup final for God’s sake and there is a good chance that if I catch his eye I could burst out laughing right now.

Ronnie’s fist remains remains there, but Vicks picks up where he left off. Eventually, Ronnie meekly withdraws his fist. I make a mental note that, whatever happens in the next eighty minutes, we’re going to laugh about this afterwards. But first there is a pretty big game to be played.

These Springboks are one of the best teams I’ve ever played against. They are enormously tough, ruthless, deadly in the lineout, and they start building an early lead. I try to peg it back with a drop goal, but I’m forced to use my right boot and, although it’s on target, my injured foot simply doesn’t have the power in it.

We go in 9–3 at half-time, but the second half has barely begun when we have our big moment. Taity makes a scorching break out of nowhere and does what he can do so well, which is beat players for fun. He is brought down a mere five metres from the try line, and from the ensuing ruck, the ball comes out to me. I have just enough time before getting hit to bat it on to Mark Cueto down the left wing, who dives in to score in the corner.

The decision is referred to the video referee. Did he put his foot into touch or not while scoring? I watch it on the big screen with my kicking tee in hand, ready to take the conversion. The decision is long and slow and I cannot work out whether it’s a try or not.

The video ref decides not. No try. So we are chasing the game. We get the deficit down to three, but our ill discipline costs us dearly and they land two penalties, which means we are more than a score behind. This is probably the difference for us; against Australia and France, we were always in touch, always close enough to believe that we could hang in there and close the game out when the opportunity came. But here we are more than a score behind and so we have no choice but to force it against a very well-organised defence. And we can’t find the opening we so desperately need. We simply don’t have that in our armoury, not on this night, not against this side.

We had a chance to make history with a successful defence of the World Cup. Two World Cups in a row. With Cueto’s try it could have been different, but the score is in the book. It’s 15–6 and, at the last, the World Cup dream is gone.

On the coach on the way back from the Stade, Vicks issues his instructions to the boys for the evening’s activities – whatever happens, we all stick together as a team.

Under my rules, I would usually take that to mean you can all stick together and I will chill with you for a bit before sliding out the back door. This time, however, I want, more than anything, to finish it off in style. I want to be with these boys right up until the very end.

My mate Andy Holloway joins us in L’Arc, the bar that has been booked for us. He played rugby this morning for Southend RFC, then managed to leg it from his game to get on a private flight, courtesy of his boss, to be in the Stade for the final. He didn’t even have time for a shower. Later, when eventually he crawls back to our hotel, he is utterly unable to locate my room, so he sleeps on the floor in the corridor outside the room he thinks is mine, but which happens to be on the floor below. I don’t see him in the morning because he gets off to catch his flight home. And he still hasn’t showered.

My own performance is not particularly impressive either, and the reasons are twofold. One, I haven’t touched alcohol for two and a half years. Not so much as a beer or a glass of wine at dinner. Two, it’s my aim in life to avoid tequila, gin and whisky, but that’s all L’Arc seem to have.

I get into a session with Josh. We exchange champagne toasts. We toast world peace, wonky rugby balls and anything else that comes to mind. Andy joins us. Josh has a mate, too, and the toasting goes on and on and on.

I get a bit overexcited and ask the barman if I can spend some time behind the bar. It’s my party trick – except no trick is involved. And the princes are here – William and Harry – and they are in fine form. Floody is on fire. Taity is a right mess.

Shelley is having a good time, too, but she has to do a lot of looking after. Me mainly, and Taity. Sure enough, when the inevitable happens and I can stand up no longer, Shelley and her twin sister Tracey (who has come out with us too) start putting the get-me-home process into operation. A couple of the security staff who are with the England team come to our rescue. They wrap a coat round my head, so no one can see who I am, and walk me into a waiting taxi.

By the time we get back to the hotel, I have become a dead weight. They have to carry me in, one under each shoulder, with my feet dragging behind me, laces down.

Brian Ashton is at the bar and sees us making our shambolic way through the foyer. He asks what’s happened. Shelley tells him that I’ve had bad food poisoning. From what I am informed later, he doesn’t buy it. There’s a surprise.

The poor concierge comes to my rescue. I tell him I’m going to be sick, so he rushes back with a bucket. I take a good look at it, take aim and then manage to vomit right down his arm.

Shelley somehow manages to get me up to my room where I am sick again. And again.

The next day, I’m no better. From mid-afternoon, I’m still vomiting about every twenty-five minutes. A sick bug has been going round and I wonder if maybe that’s the problem. So I call Simon Kemp and he comes to my room. He brings me paracetamol and I ask him to bring me my toothpaste from the bathroom to try to remove the nasty taste from my mouth.

Simon, I ask, do you think I’ve got this sick bug?

No, he says. It’s called a hangover. And if you didn’t wait four years between drinking sessions, you might be able to recognise it.

That night, as we make our way to the end-of-tournament dinner, I recall the mood on the exact same bus journey four years ago. It’s amazing what a difference a couple of penalties and a disallowed try can make.

My phone beeps with a text from my mate, Newcastle full-back Anthony Elliott. It reads simply: great pictures of you, Taity and Floody on the front of the
Sun
today. Must have been an awesome night!

Oh my God! My heart is suddenly racing. This is my worst nightmare coming true. This is what I kept myself tucked away for all those years to avoid. I should never have let my hair down. I can’t remember a thing that happened last night. I feel a sense of panic rising within me.

I show Floody and Taity the text. Anthony has sent me the pictures and they sit behind me, all of us staring at my phone as the images slowly download. The tension is unbearable.

The first picture arrives bit by bit, starting from the top. First to appear on the screen is Floody. He is wearing Taity’s T-shirt and pouring a bottle of vodka straight down Prince Harry’s throat! This is not a good start.

Next up is me. My eyes are gone, looking everywhere but nowhere at the same time. I look a right state but nothing incriminating. Not as bad as Floody. That’s OK, then.

And I feel even better when the final member of the Newcastle trio appears at the bottom of the screen. In a fitting end to an amazing six-week competition, full of highs and lows to match any I can recall, Taity has seen off the event in style, barely awake in a silver cowboy hat with hardly any clothes on.

AT Newcastle, I don’t think I ever realised how much of a buffer role Rob Andrew played between the management and the club. Rob moved to work at the RFU last year and now we have John Fletcher as our director of rugby. He is really impressive, too. Originally, he was the academy coach, and I have never seen a guy so trusted and respected by his students. I really like working with him; his man-management skills are an inspiration.

We have a great culture here, tight team spirit. This is a club punching above its weight, and the coaches, including Fletch and Peter Walton, a teammate from the early days, are doing everything they can to help players improve and get selected for England. But we are now starting to feel pressure from above – not from Fletch, but even higher – and, as ever, Blackie has been fighting the players’ corner.

The lengths Blackie has gone to for us know no boundaries. For a long time we’d been asking for upgraded weights and gym equipment, and
eventually Blackie took it upon himself to go out and get it for us. He did motivational speeches for equipment companies and they gave him our new gym equipment in return. He never stopped. He was always there for us, requesting nothing in return but our effort and focus. He lived the dream for us 24/7. His set-up, positivity and energy are the secrets behind my career.

It was at his request that resident artist and maniacal back-rower Ed Williamson painted the wall with words that drive us. ‘If it’s not true, don’t say it. If it’s not right, don’t do it.’

But now the Blackie days are over. Some tough decisions are being made round here. Blackie wanted to provide the players with an environment to help them get the best out of themselves (energy, spirit and a commitment to getting better every day), but Dave Thompson, the owner, and to be fair the guy who puts the money in, has a different idea of how to do this. I get the impression that Thomo feels it’s better done by putting a bit of fear into us – fear of losing our jobs, fear of what’s going to happen if we don’t win. I think that’s more Thomo’s way. He likes to show who is in charge.