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.
4(i) Heaven and Hell LION CUB TO KING OF THE PRIDE
I can still see it now. The look on the faces of those Springboks as I feigned to pass infield that night in Cape Town. South Africa knew best. They were going to mash the Lions, send us home with our tails between our legs. Yet here they were buying perhaps the most outrageous dummy in rugby history.
South Africa, the world champions, were 1/5 favourites to win the series. A whitewash was the popular bet. In the eyes of the home media we were pussycats, not Lions. We could not buy respect. ‘There are only 47 people and their close family who believe that we’re going to win,’ said our coach, Ian McGeechan, and that was the size of it. None of the media thought we would, no one across the world thought we could. And as for me playing a pivotal role …
There were just seven minutes left on the clock in Cape Town when Tim Rodber turned to me and called the ‘Solo’ move which would change my life for ever. We were down by two tries to nil and the ‘told you so’ headlines were being prepared, even if there was only one point separating the sides on the scoreboard due to a combination of South African indiscipline and Neil Jenkins’s golden boot. Rodders was always ‘picking and going’ because our gameplan revolved around setting close targets. But he was getting munched all the time. So when we were awarded a scrum 35 yards out from the home line, he came over to me and said, ‘Daws, just go, mate. I’m getting bashed. Do a Solo. Do a Solo.’ It was a move we had rehearsed in training. The scrum-half would break blind and then have the option of feeding the winger on the outside or the number 6 inside.
To this day I remember the whole move in slow motion. Flanker Ruben Kruger had been constantly breaking his binding on the short side and I had been pointing at it all match to try to get referee Colin Hawke to penalize him. This time, perhaps sensing the ref’s stare, Kruger held firm. I saw my chance and went. I like to think I am a little bit quicker than Rodders, and I got round Kruger and then past their number 8, Gary Teichmann. Ieuan Evans was on the right wing, and he cut inside on a run I didn’t even see. He always ribs me that he would have been in under the sticks, but he went so early that I had no chance. Nor was Lawrence Dallaglio in position to take a pass. On my own, my only chance of avoiding being smashed into touch by either Teichmann, scrum-half Joost van der Westhuizen or full-back Andre Joubert was to throw a dummy and give myself a couple of yards to work with.
So I threw it – a theatrical, over-the-top number – to precisely nobody. As I did so I started slowing down, and to my amazement the Boks stopped. Even Joubert, coming across, hitch-kicked. I couldn’t believe they’d all bought it, the suckers. It was a score which won us the match, which convinced us all beyond doubt that we could win the series, and which, quite simply, stands as the single most memorable playing moment of my career. Even now people ask me about it. They know exactly where they were when I touched down, what pub they were in watching the game, how they reacted, even how drunk they got. And