In 1999 Wales had beaten England at Wembley, but 12 months later, just as the eligibility scandal was about to break, we were thrashed 46–12 at Twickenham and it could have been a lot more. To Henry’s credit, Wales recovered to beat both Scotland and Ireland that year but the coach had already fallen out with some of his key players, like Rob Howley. Things were starting to spin out of Henry’s control. When he was interviewed on TV the sparkle had gone, the self-confidence was draining away. The defeats mounted up and although there were a couple more highlights, such as another victory in Paris in 2001, these were temporary blips on the graph, which was now heading steadily downwards. The autumn of 2001 was awful, with a shocking home defeat to Argentina and a pathetic thrashing at the hands of Ireland in a match that had been postponed due to the foot-and-mouth crisis. Ireland were first up at the start of the 2002 Six Nations and the 54–10 defeat at Lansdowne Road must rank as one of the most passionless Welsh displays of all time. There was nowhere for Henry to go after that disgraceful performance and he knew it. Within a few days he had resigned.
On reflection, Henry should not have accepted the offer to coach the Lions to Australia in 2001. The invitation was made in the summer of 2000 when things had already taken a turn for the worse with Wales. He should have realised what a massive job he had on his hands and told them to appoint someone else. But he was human, fallible like the rest of us, and I don’t hold it against him for allowing ego and ambition to get the better of him. After all, I accepted the offer to captain the 1977 Lions when I should have turned it down. Henry’s employers at the WRU should have been stronger and persuaded him to concentrate on the job in hand. As things turned out, the Lions tour took a massive toll on Graham, both physically and emotionally. He came straight back home to the Wales job and it was plain to everyone he was never going to be the same again.
After the 2002 Dublin defeat, Henry was interviewed for BBC Wales’s Scrum V programme on the Sunday morning at the team hotel. He looked physically diminished, weary, his voice quiet and apologetic, and there was a haunted look in his eyes. I had seen that look before … in Kevin Bowring, Alan Davies, Ron Waldron and John Ryan. Now there was another name to add to the list. An impossible burden had again resulted in the only possible outcome. When Henry was made Wales coach in 1998, Glanmor Griffiths, chairman of the WRU, had used the phrase ‘last-chance saloon’ when discussing the future of the international game in Wales. Only three-and-half years into his five-year contract and Henry was pushing through the saloon-bar door, while Griffiths and others continue to sit comfortably at the table.
Rugby union went professional in 1995, but Phil Bennett had beaten them to it by around 19 years. I’m not talking about illicit payments or even rugby league; after much consideration I eventually rejected the two big offers I received to go north. This particular foray into the ranks of paid sportsmen was something even more secretive, more unsuspected and more alien to my own world than the other code. This was pro-celebrity darts!
My agent, Malcolm Hamer, and a pal of mine, John Lloyd, had arranged for me to take part in a tournament in Leeds. A number of celebs from various fields had been invited to pair up with some of the big names in darts at the time, a sport that was just starting to attract major publicity and lots of cash. There was the Crafty Cockney Eric Bristow, the ice-cool Englishman John Lowe and two Welshmen – the big man Leighton Rees and the larger-than-life Alan Evans. I had been drawn to play with a very friendly guy called Cliff Lazarenko, although I’ll admit the main attraction was the £200 I was told I could pocket for taking part. For a steelworker from South Wales, even someone playing rugby for Wales and the Lions, 200 quid was not to be sniffed at.
There was a packed hall and the beer had already begun to flow when I met Cliff backstage and explained that I was to darts what Leighton Rees was to downhill skiing. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘Just try and hit the board rather than the wall.’ His humour must have calmed my nerves because we won our first round without too much trouble. Cliff was throwing really well and we won our second-round match, too. The quarter-final was also safely negotiated and by now Cliff was on fire. Our semi-final was against Eric Bristow and Fred Trueman. Fred was a bit of a star when it came to pub games and he actually presented a lunchtime TV show at the time that featured darts, skittles, bar-football and arm-wrestling. It was obvious he’d played a lot of darts and it was also apparent that the local audience wanted Fred to win, to defend the honour of Yorkshire.
But Cliff hadn’t read the script and in a moment of inspiration, the Lazarenko-Bennett dream team put Fiery Fred and the Crafty Cockney firmly in their place. There was uproar. Punters were screaming and booing the place down. Fred and Bristow were at each other’s throats, each blaming the other for the catastrophic defeat. ‘You’re bloody hopeless, Truman,’ said Bristow. ‘I’m the celebrity. Cricket’s my game, lad. You’re supposed to be the expert darts man,’ argued Fred.
The storm had hardly died down by the time we had beaten John Lowe and the actress Liz Fraser in the final. A few more drinks had been consumed by this stage. If I missed the board and hit the wall, then Liz’s darts weren’t even finding the wall. Cliff threw the winning darts and punched the air in celebration before giving me a huge handshake. I assumed that Cliff’s joy owed much to the fact that as well as a nice trophy, he was soon handed a big cheque for his night’s work. I was given a smaller trophy and an envelope, as well as the dartboard, which Cliff had kindly autographed.
Once I was sitting in my car I opened the envelope. Inside was a cheque for £1,000. I was stunned. I’d never seen so much money. I put the envelope on the dashboard and drove out of Leeds before anyone had a chance to change their minds.
For the next few weeks after I had banked the cheque I walked around the house in fear. My anxiety had me breaking out into a sweat every time the phone rang. Surely, it was only a matter of time before the WRU got wind of my crime, I thought. They had their spies everywhere. They never missed a trick. My winnings would reach the ears of WRU secretary Bill Clement and I would be summoned to hand over the cash before being branded ‘a professional’ – a term of abuse in rugby union in those days – and kicked out of the game for good. But a miracle came to pass and I never heard anything from Bill or anyone else at the Union.
If you think I was overreacting then you obviously have no idea of the level of paranoia and pompous hypocrisy that ran through the administration of rugby union in those days when it came to the notion of payment. International rugby was booming and matches were played in front of huge crowds with millions more watching on television. But if you were paid a penny for playing you were ‘professionalised’ and banned. If you were paid to coach, scout, talk or write about rugby while you were still playing then the same applied. Not only that, but being in the mere presence of professionals, such as attending a rugby league trial game and gaining no payment, could taint you and again lead to a ban. You had been professionalised. If you then came back and played rugby union then you could professionalise others.
Professionalism was like a disease. And the four Home Unions of Wales, England, Scotland and Ireland saw it as their job to prevent you from being infected. I don’t know how Bill Clement used to spend his day, but it must have involved reading a lot of newspapers and watching a good deal of television. Any signs, however small, of the corrupting influence of professionalism, and Bill would be on the phone. In those days a few of us would sometimes be asked by the BBC to make a guest appearance on the show A Question of Sport. It was always nice to be recognised as successful in your particular sport, it was good fun to go up to Manchester for the filming, and you might have thought the WRU would have welcomed the publicity. Instead, the Union used to send out dire warnings that any money earned must be handed over immediately to the WRU to be put into its charitable trust.
The boys at the Beeb knew this and were sympathetic to our cause. We used to be given a cheque for £150 and £100 in cash. The cheque was sent on to the Union. The cash was put in your pocket. The show got its rugby