We won, 16–7. It was a victory based on guts, spirit and a formidable support. Playing ability was way down the list that day, but it was enough to give Wales the Grand Slam – our third in eight seasons.
The night that followed wasn’t bad either. I’d taken a bit of good-natured abuse in the dressing room when my conversation with Gareth had been overheard by some other members of the team. Someone shouted, ‘Hey, those two bastards are getting out!’ Someone else chipped in that we should have to buy all the drinks that night, but even our celebrations could not have gone better. I was presented with a jeroboam of champagne to mark our achievement and we drank most of it even before they had finished the speeches. Then, Rives and Skrela brought more bottles of wine over from the French players’ table and joined the party. When those ran out I ordered more myself and told the waiters to put it on the bill of the Welsh Rugby Union. I knew it would mean an inquest on Monday to find the offender, but I didn’t care. By Monday I’d be a former international.
There was some talk of convincing me to stay on, but I knew it was the right time to go. Wales were off to tour Australia and the thought of another summer spent away from my family was not very enticing. But there was also that nagging feeling again. This was it. Our time was up. I had been in the squad since 1969, so had JPR, while some of the boys like Gareth and Gerald had been there since 1966–67. I realised that if we were a soccer side then any manager worth his salt would now start clearing a few of us out. It was best to leave through the front door, I thought, than be pushed through the back.
Besides, there was young talent coming through. Gareth Davies and Terry Holmes were the ready-made half-backs, and there were other good youngsters like David Richards pushing for a place. Other countries were learning from our success and I could see that Wales might not have it all their own way for a while until a new team was established. It might take a couple of years – in actual fact Wales won the Triple Crown again in 1979 – but the baton would be smoothly handed on. Now was the time to stand aside and let the youngsters take the reins. The talent was there. Wales was flooded with talent. Once a new posse had found their feet then I had no doubts whatsoever that the Triple Crowns and Grand Slams would continue to be the Welsh currency. The economy may have been heading into a deep recession, but rugby was our business and business was booming.
Fast forward 20 years. It’s 5 April 1998. Wales have just played France in another Grand-Slam decider. I am walking down Wembley Way on a Sunday afternoon and the weather is glorious. But all I notice is the litter and the debris on the ground – crushed paper cups and ripped flags. I also feel crushed because Wales, too, have just been ripped to pieces. France are champions and Grand-Slam winners, having beaten Wales 51–0 in what was supposedly a home game for Wales. And as the old gag goes, Wales were lucky to get nil.
That afternoon marked 20 years since Wales last won the Grand Slam. Five more years have passed since. If someone had said to me as I left the field in 1978 that Wales would spend the next quarter of a century looking for their next Grand Slam then I would have told them to lie down in a darkened room while I fetched the doctor.
I hated Wembley. I loved it as a football venue, as the home of the FA Cup Final and England’s internationals, but as a temporary home for Welsh rugby while they built the Millennium Stadium it was a pain in the arse. The first time I watched Wales play there it took me three hours in the car to crawl the final five miles and the same on the way back. By the time of the home match with France I had learnt my lesson. Pat and I drove up from Llanelli the night before, ready for my day’s work with BBC Wales and the Sunday Mirror. On the morning of the game we called in at a teashop in Gerrard’s Cross and then caught the train into Wembley. The sight of Welsh fans, who had come from all over Wales and England for the game, taking over the carriages with their colours and their singing, filled me with optimism. I spotted one young kid with a scarf and rosette who was almost climbing the walls with excitement as he sat next to his grandfather. Watching him made me feel good about Welsh rugby. It could still excite and inspire, convince a young boy and his grandfather it was worth getting up at the crack of dawn on a Sunday for an expensive 500-mile round trip to see what was meant to be a home game.
Then came the match itself. Wales 0, France 51. I just couldn’t believe what I was seeing. France were so superior to Wales it was like watching a training exercise where one set of players practise their attacking and the others half-heartedly pretend to try and stop them. The only difference was that Wales were actually trying to stop them. They just couldn’t. The gulf in class was a chasm.
Thomas Castaignede was simply magical for France that day at outside-half. He gave poor Neil Jenkins the worst runaround of his life and ran the show from beginning to end. It was one of the best displays I had ever seen from a No. 10 in a championship match. But France weren’t just better in one position. They were streets ahead all over the field. The body language of some of the Welsh players summed it all up. They were dragging themselves around the field with their shoulders slumped and their heads bowed, especially Jenkins who looked as though he was living out a nightmare. The pain of their humiliation at being so outclassed was agony to watch. They looked totally devastated. So did the crowd. I know that’s how I felt. France scored seven tries and should have had ten. Jean-Luc Sadourny, their classy runner at full-back, scored two, so did Xavier Garbajosa, one of their new boys. Stephane Glas, Thomas Lievremont and Fabien Galthie were their other try-scorers and Christophe Lamaison kicked five conversions and two penalties. Wales looked as if they wouldn’t get near the try-line if they stayed at it until the following Sunday and the final insult was when the French put on all seven of their replacements to reinforce the feeling that they were in a training session. The final whistle went and all I wanted to do was get out of there, get away from the shame and indignity of it all.
We walked down Wembley Way among hundreds of Welsh supporters, but in complete silence. No complaints or excuses, no rancour or accusations – not even any of the dark humour that had often followed some of the worst Welsh defeats in the previous years. They were all stunned at the awful magnitude of the defeat. There were no saving graces – absolutely none.
We waited on the platform, among hundreds of Welsh fans and this deathly hush. Incredibly, I spotted the same young kid I had seen before the match with his grandfather. All the bounce and energy had left him long ago. It struck me then how this kid had gone to the game so expressive and come away looking numbed and bored. If he was going to be hooked by rugby then he needed heroes, but Wales had nothing to offer when it came to heroics that afternoon. It hadn’t been a surrender, but the resistance had been brushed aside.
Pat and I were meant to meet friends for dinner that evening, but I couldn’t face them. I couldn’t even face food. I just wanted to get home and forget all about it. It was one of the emptiest feelings I’ve ever felt after watching Wales and I couldn’t even be bothered to fill my empty stomach. If 1978 provided bread of heaven, this was starvation rations for every Welshman there.
Kevin Bowring quit as Wales coach within a few weeks and I thought, ‘This is it. Welsh rugby cannot go any lower.’ I was wrong. Two months later Wales went to South Africa and lost 96–13.
Rugby used to be the undisputed national sport within Wales. But in the 20 years between the Welsh Grand Slam of 1978 and that awful day at Wembley, a rival pastime has emerged – talking about what went wrong. The pub