massive Tim Rodber hit on Colin Charvis. This is deemed to be a shoulder charge and from the ensuing lineout, Scott Gibbs breaks our line, scores under the posts and leaves Jenkins with a simple conversion to finish us off. Wales take it by a single point.
That’s that. Grand Slam lost. If there is any consolation to be had, it’s the sight of Blackie so happy with his team. But the pain is incredible. This is not a feeling I ever want to repeat.
I might be an England player, but I still feel very much a junior among the big names at Newcastle. Nick Popplewell, a nice, funny, hard guy, who is coming to the end of a long, impressive career, and struggling badly with a heel injury, is exactly the sort of player I respect hugely and would like to think well of me.
We are in the back bar at Kingston Park and the coaches are showing video clips from a game against Bedford. In one move, Rob had taken a pass coming from one side of the ruck to the other, and I spot that theirdefenders are all looking at him. I then run a line off Rob catching one of the defenders ball-watching and end up clean into space, step around the full-back and score.
I am slightly embarrassed that this is being shown in front of everyone, but Popplewell saves my embarrassment with liberal use of the F-word.
Fucking brilliant, he says, repeatedly. Screw tactics, screw all that. That is just fucking brilliant.
And that makes me feel immensely proud.
In the changing rooms at Kingston Park, the lights have been set up for me to do a photo-shoot for GQ Active magazine. I haven’t really done this kind of thing before. I thought it was going to be a simple interview and a photo, but they are saying they want me to take my shirt off for the picture.
Opposite the changing rooms are the club offices. I feel embarrassed enough without all this going on in front of the office staff. But I don’t want to take my shirt off anyway.
It’s for the cover shot, they say. They always do it this way.
Yeah, but it’s just not me, I reply. It’s not what I do. Not what I want to do.
They tell me that it’s what they always do and that the last cover shot was of Lennox Lewis. If the world heavyweight boxing champion can do it… The picture’s not going to have any impact if it’s just you standing there in a T-shirt. You’ll be fine.
But I don’t feel fine about it at all. I feel embarrassed. I don’t want to take my shirt off. It’s not who I am or the image I want to portray. On the flip side, I hate the idea that I’m letting these people down. But I’m a private person. Surely they can understand that.
I get on the phone to Tim Buttimore. What do I do? I don’t want to let them down, but I don’t want to do the picture, either. Tim speaks to the photographer. The photographer then tries to convince me not to worry. It’ll be fine, he says. It’ll look great. I later find out that Tim actually said no to the photographer. But that’s all too late.
We end up with a compromise – shirt off, yes, but doing a press-up. The picture is taken from the front, so all you can see is my arms and a slight angled view of my chest.
I feel bullied into doing this. I don’t like the way this world works. I feel I’ve betrayed my values and been played for a fool. If I can possibly help it, this will not happen again.
Our domestic season ends back at Twickenham at the Tetley Bitter Cup final, which Newcastle lose to Wasps. The defeat is hard enough to take in itself, but when I meet up again with England for our summer tour to Australia, Clive wants to talk about it. I ran the ball too much, he says. I need to kick it more.
This is on Clive’s mind because, he says, he is considering taking me to Australia not as a number twelve but as first choice number ten, which entails another level of pressure. I was just enjoying finding my feet at twelve, and now I am a ten. And Clive wants even more from me in meetings. He now wants me to start presenting
That’s that. Grand Slam lost. If there is any consolation to be had, it’s the sight of Blackie so happy with his team. But the pain is incredible. This is not a feeling I ever want to repeat.
I might be an England player, but I still feel very much a junior among the big names at Newcastle. Nick Popplewell, a nice, funny, hard guy, who is coming to the end of a long, impressive career, and struggling badly with a heel injury, is exactly the sort of player I respect hugely and would like to think well of me.
We are in the back bar at Kingston Park and the coaches are showing video clips from a game against Bedford. In one move, Rob had taken a pass coming from one side of the ruck to the other, and I spot that theirdefenders are all looking at him. I then run a line off Rob catching one of the defenders ball-watching and end up clean into space, step around the full-back and score.
I am slightly embarrassed that this is being shown in front of everyone, but Popplewell saves my embarrassment with liberal use of the F-word.
Fucking brilliant, he says, repeatedly. Screw tactics, screw all that. That is just fucking brilliant.
And that makes me feel immensely proud.
In the changing rooms at Kingston Park, the lights have been set up for me to do a photo-shoot for GQ Active magazine. I haven’t really done this kind of thing before. I thought it was going to be a simple interview and a photo, but they are saying they want me to take my shirt off for the picture.
Opposite the changing rooms are the club offices. I feel embarrassed enough without all this going on in front of the office staff. But I don’t want to take my shirt off anyway.
It’s for the cover shot, they say. They always do it this way.
Yeah, but it’s just not me, I reply. It’s not what I do. Not what I want to do.
They tell me that it’s what they always do and that the last cover shot was of Lennox Lewis. If the world heavyweight boxing champion can do it… The picture’s not going to have any impact if it’s just you standing there in a T-shirt. You’ll be fine.
But I don’t feel fine about it at all. I feel embarrassed. I don’t want to take my shirt off. It’s not who I am or the image I want to portray. On the flip side, I hate the idea that I’m letting these people down. But I’m a private person. Surely they can understand that.
I get on the phone to Tim Buttimore. What do I do? I don’t want to let them down, but I don’t want to do the picture, either. Tim speaks to the photographer. The photographer then tries to convince me not to worry. It’ll be fine, he says. It’ll look great. I later find out that Tim actually said no to the photographer. But that’s all too late.
We end up with a compromise – shirt off, yes, but doing a press-up. The picture is taken from the front, so all you can see is my arms and a slight angled view of my chest.
I feel bullied into doing this. I don’t like the way this world works. I feel I’ve betrayed my values and been played for a fool. If I can possibly help it, this will not happen again.
Our domestic season ends back at Twickenham at the Tetley Bitter Cup final, which Newcastle lose to Wasps. The defeat is hard enough to take in itself, but when I meet up again with England for our summer tour to Australia, Clive wants to talk about it. I ran the ball too much, he says. I need to kick it more.
This is on Clive’s mind because, he says, he is considering taking me to Australia not as a number twelve but as first choice number ten, which entails another level of pressure. I was just enjoying finding my feet at twelve, and now I am a ten. And Clive wants even more from me in meetings. He now wants me to start presenting
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