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| The Waratah Flower |
The University of Worcester boasts four rugby
teams. There’s a women’s team and the men’s section runs a first team, a
constantly changing Saturday team as well as a second team, better known as the
Worcester Waratahs.
According to the dictionary, a Waratah is a
straggling shrub with narrow leaves and conspicuous red flowers in dense
globular racemes, a low woody perennial plant usually having several major
stems.
Read into this what you will, but the way I see
it is the narrow leaves represent the newbies, the freshers both in stature and
appearance. They are fresh, they are active and they are the energy source of
the team. The perennial nature of the plant is reminiscent of that of the team
and its outstanding member’s longevity to remain a Waratah for years. They are
the major stems, holding the team up and protecting it. This leaves the
conspicuous red flowers, and that is the embodiment of the team and its
character. It shouldn’t be beautiful given its rugged, insensitive nature; but
its splendour is unquestionable. Its aesthetics may not be as striking as some
of its compatriots, but its brutal resilience holds it in the same regard as
its prettier, more pleasant brethren. We’d heard of the legend, it was now time
to become a part of it.
As fresher’s, we had
all been waiting patiently for our chance to prove ourselves and that chance
revealed itself when a 30-strong squad travelled up the M5 to Stourton Park,
home of Stourbridge RFC. From the moment we arrived it was clear that we’d be
coming up against a useful team given the decent facilities on show.
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| Stourton Park: venue for the 55-0 drubbing |
The word from the senior boys was that our opponents would be a blend of
experience & youth, but one man’s name in particular was mentioned more
than anyone or anything else; Ali Mac. He was a student who’d been poached by
Stourbridge for his grotesque physicality and surely that smile. When he
smiles, it imitates the rest of him; wide, big and bold.
Incidentally, it was
Ali Mac who gave me my first experience in a Worcester jersey. I was starting
on the bench watching Gary Dipple wearing the number 10 shirt when this
colossal human being flew from the back row straight into the prominent nose of
the Tottenham fan looking fly half. Although we didn’t know it at the time,
Dipple’s broken nose at the hands of Alistair Macdonald would be the start of a
comical relationship between one man and his beak. It has held him back so much
in his quest for academic greatness that he remains a studying member of the
university. From ruining near sexual encounters to forcing him to play a large
number of games with a foot of cotton wool sticking out of his conk; his nose
has been nothing but a let down for him. Anyone who’s played in a backline with
a bloody-nosed Gary Dipple knows the impossible position he puts you in, as we
try and convey a call to him and he stares gormlessly back at you with two
pieces of cotton wool hanging from his nose as if he’s just broken free from his
straight-jacket. Even in the most tense and serious game-situations, you can’t
help but laugh. Although, it’s not all bad; the damage sustained to his sense
of taste does enable him to eat such dishes as his infamous watery goulash.
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| Gary Dipple's leaky nose. Yes, that's Ben Shore |
Bloodied and battered
a mere couple of minutes into the match, Dipple was heading towards the
touchline. The glare flashed my way and I was stripped off, ready to enter the
fray. Again, my memory of the game itself is hazy but there are some things I
can recall from the evening:
- Tom Winterbottom playing at scrum half & getting his ear ripped off.
- Sam Brookes being my go-to man at 12.
- Guy Griffiths coming on at 9 and applauding everything I did; regardless of what it was.
- The marrow-like head of Alistair Macdonald.
- The strong, quick Stourbridge backline who all looked like public schoolboys.
- Getting slated for my post-match baby blue shoes.
We’d lost the game in
pretty ugly fashion, but we’d all had our exposure. It was raw and
uncompromising, but it was exposure nonetheless. Nobody likes losing, but
realistically we never stood a chance. They were simply too strong and we had a
squad full of players who’d never played with each other before; and Pete Kemp.
The next step was to
train hard in an attempt to book your place on the prestigious first team
training weekend up in Wakefield. I hadn’t performed anywhere near my best,
therefore when I wasn’t named in the training camp squad, I’d already resigned myself
to the fact that I wouldn’t be going. Having talked to Luke Milton, we were
both of the same opinion that it wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world to
spend a season in the seconds; how wise we were in our youth. There were a
handful of freshers who’d given a good account of themselves and earned a place
in the squad; Chris Underwood, Lewis Joiner, Gary Dipple, Guy Griffiths &
Jack Girdlestone. They were all about to experience a baptism of fire, but for
one man it would be particularly painful.
Ed Cook drove the most
feared vehicle in the West Midlands; that silver Citroën Picasso. When it turned
up at training, a game or a social event, conversation would stop immediately and
an eerie silence would fall upon those in the vicinity. Once, this deathly
silence was broken by the sound of the bonnet of the car coming into contact
with human flesh. Unfortunately for Luke Milton, it was his thigh that became
overly familiar with the front of the Picasso as Cooky essentially ran him over
outside The Dive as we waited to
depart for a training session; almost predictably, no-one batted an eyelid.
The Picasso played
centre stage as Jack Girdlestone was taught an invaluable lesson in how to keep
himself to himself. Here’s what happened according to Gary Dipple,
“Well, it was the pre season camp in
Wakefield and we had been instructed to
meet
either at El Divos or at the roundabout by the M5. Despite still having
been
told ‘beware of Cooky’, me and Joiner jumped in the Picasso and his
right-hand man Brookesy was there. We drove to
the roundabout. Girdles was there and had been refused by every other car and
in desperation threw his bag into the back thinking he had a lift. Cooky, in
disbelief, turned to the three of us, grabbed the bag and chucked it into the
road. ‘I’m not having that c*** in my car.’ he said before speeding off.
Girdles had to settle for being Cush’s co-driver to and from Wakefield.”
In the first few weeks of his university
career, Jack was a self-confessed knob-head. (early picture) One social in
particular when he claimed his love for the colour pink and apparently himself,
the senior contingent of the rugby team turned against the former Saracens
academy product. He got fined heavily for almost everything and in a state of
blind drunkenness, left his mobile lying around in amongst the snakebites. Luke
Milton, tells the rest of this story through his glazed eyes,
“It was one of our first socials. I’d just had
the delights of Cooky’s Corner and blue fire & ice. It’s hazy but I
remember Pumba saying, ‘fresher, here’s Girdlestone’s phone. Abuse it.’ I think
he thought text people etc but I decided to chuck it against Berry’s wall, shattering
it into a thousand pieces. As the phone crashed to earth, a Northern voice
yelled, ‘THAT’ S MY FOOOOCKING PHONE, YOU TWAT!!’ It wasn’t the best start to
me and Dave’s friendship as the night before was the first time I ever met him
and I £300d him at the cashpoint.”
Upon further investigation, it was discovered
that Jack Girdlestone & Tom Shepard not only shared a similar state of
intoxication, they also had the same Sony Ericsson phone; Girldestone’s in his
pocket in one piece, Shep’s all over the floor in Berry’s. This
misunderstanding lead to Shep using the payphone in Malvern Halls for his
telecommunications. Inevitably, upon our drunken returns from town, the
payphone got damaged more and more every week to the extent that Shep was left
with a metal chord hanging from a box with the numbers 4 and 8 on it to keep in
touch with his family. Girdlestone quickly corrected his early flaws and became
an integral part of the social scene which saw him renamed ‘Girthlestone’ and
the ironic ‘Jack the Twat’. He’s also the finest diver in WSRFC’s history and
he theoretically gained two degrees; his own and that of Guy Griffiths.
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| Jack Girdlestone didn't make the greatest first impression |
Our next club fixture was by far the most
significant, when a first and second team travelled this time down the M5 to
face Bristol University. We’d been training together for a few weeks and we’d
started to come together as a group. With the first team squad away, everyone
else realised that we’d be the ones battling it out for a place in the Waratahs
starting line-up which was lead by a very enthusiastic Ian Rowberry. By this
stage I’d become good friends with Luke Milton and lo and behold it was he and
I vying for the 10 shirt. Disappointingly for me, he beat me to the starting
berth but given the nature of the game, I was confident I’d get my chance.
As expected I replaced Milts, who shifted to
fullback, and was playing my first Waratah game. With my first significant
touch of the ball, I spun a pass off my left hand (yes Cush, a fucking spin
pass) to Ian Rowberry who went bursting through a gap. Looping around him to
rejoin the attack I began to shout very loudly for 20m as he lined up the poor
fullback. Catching a glimpse of me through his tunnel vision he popped the ball
to his right. With 30m to go, I focused my very minimal speed on the
corner-flag and pinned my ears back. About 16 seconds later I slid in for my
first University of Worcester try. I was greeted with an ephedrine-fuelled
headbutt from my deaf captain and I was forced to try and rid the stars from my
eyes to attempt my touchline conversion following our celebratory hug. I’d
pictured this moment, my first kick, since I’d been at Worcester and I was
determined to slot it. My technique was sound and it sailed through the posts
much like the rest of my kicks that afternoon. All apart from one. As I lined
up a shot from near the halfway line, the linesmen made their way behind the
posts. I struck the ball cleanly and although it flirted with the right hand
upright, it was over; or so I thought. The opposition linesman had his flag
aloft but our linesman, a clean-shaven and shorthaired Matthew Roberts wearing
what would become a very familiar ski jacket, had decided it hadn’t gone
through the posts. In blind rage I explicitly voiced my disapproval of the
decision and was rightfully penalised for foul language.
The rest of my afternoon went swimmingly and I
even managed to inflict my first dose of destruction upon a rival university.
As I kicked to touch, the ball hurtled end-over-end towards the touchline and I
set about calling the backs move from the lineout, safe in the knowledge that
the ball had reached touch. Whilst chatting with the centres, we heard an
unusual noise followed by guffaws coming from our bench. When the crowd had
cleared, it became clear that what was once a perfectly good minibus was now
very much a minibus with a shattered windscreen.
The Oxford Brookes students returned to their
bus and they were less than impressed by the state of their ride home and began
asking who was responsible for the damage. Ryan Hill was sent to clear things
up and he used one of his limited arrays of talents in which to do so,
confrontation & controversy. The conversation went thus;
“Who did this?”
“Our
Fresher, him who’s kicking now.”
“Well
go and get him, we need to sort it out.”
“Fuck
off!”
Coming off the field victorious, we were all
feeling a sense of satisfaction. Having consoled the opposition, I was greeted
by the smiling Cheshire cat that is Thomas Raymond Leigh who said,
“So, basically, you just kick it from
anywhere.”
“I
try.” was my sheepish reply.
As we lined our stomachs with as much stodgy
food as we could, knowing that an impending bottle of port was on its way;
Stuart James Vincent asked across the room about my performance. Proudly, I
stated the facts. He smirked, shook his head and simply said,
“Oh dear.”
Oh dear, indeed. We got on the bus wearing our
mandatory dresses and were equipped with three things; a bottle of port, 4 cans
and a block of Brie. Some customary fines were dished out amongst the seniors
and then the match fines began. I knew I was in trouble when my name wasn’t
called out early and I sat facing the front doing my very best invisibility
act. It didn’t work and the familiar sound of Stu’s voice echoed around the
carriage from the back seat,
“Gareth Davies! To the back!”
My fines list was extravagant;
· First Waratah game :
1 Finger of port
· First Waratah try :
1 Finger of port
· First Waratah points :
1 Finger of port
· Try on Debut :
1 Finger of port
· 19 points: no-one likes a show off :
2 Fingers of port
· Swearing at officials :
2 Fingers of port
· Man of the Match :
4 Fingers of port
· Dick of the Day :
4 Fingers of port
16 Fingers + 2
Dirty Pints
I spent what felt like an eternity in the
middle of the aisle facing the Ed Cook, Pumba, Tasty, Stu, Watto and some more
generally large men trying to force this bottle of port down my throat
interspersed with the odd bite from a block of what had become very warm Brie.
After somehow drinking half of the bottle, I
was desperate. The taste made it feel like there was a hole being corroded in
the back of my throat. It dawned on me that if I could somehow dilute it, it
would become easier. I stared into the loving eyes of John Clark and asked,
“Can I please have some cider with it?”
To which he replied,
“He does know Bubsy!”
and handed me a glass. After adding cider,
drinking did indeed become easier, though walking, talking and basic motor
skills became peculiarly more difficult. Who knew?
Seeing my pain, Guy Griffiths in his infinite
wisdom decided the best way to go about getting rid of his port was by downing
it too; a decision he almost immediately regretted as he slumped into a coma.
Most of the boys stuck to the conventional method of drinking the bottle
steadily and frequently to try and get rid of its contents. Regardless of how
it’s drunk, it doesn’t leave the consumer in a very good state. My only
recollections of the ensuing evening are the photos on facebook, like this
pearl below.
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| Griffbag and myself, probably talking politics |
Any light-heartedness that had surrounded
training previously disappeared in the week leading to the first competitive
BUSA fixture. The tone was set at an indoor RGS session when Cush sat us down
on benches in the school hall and we were all made to feel like very naughty
pupils as he recapped the previous year’s campaigns. The first team didn’t have
a fixture on the Wednesday, but they’d use the time as a training session
before watching the Waratahs take on Warwick at Malvern RFC.
I was named at fly half and Milts would line up
at fullback in what would be his second worst performance in a Worcester shirt.
Before the game, we were introduced to our captain’s fiery
leadership as he bounced around the changing room mindlessly shouting,
“Come on boys! Where the fuck is the
intensity?!”
“Intensity,
come on!”
“Come
on! Fucking intensity!”
in his West Walian deaf speak that only those
who have heard it can truly appreciate. His assistant and calming influence was
Pumba who drove home what it meant to be a Waratah. With the words still
ringing in our ears, literally, we took to the field with an assuring
confidence.
We tore Warwick apart that afternoon as Jordan
Higgins ran in two tries in a comfortable 42-10 victory. I managed a flawless
kicking performance with 8 from 8 and this was in the face of a lunatic
Irishman bringing my tee on and complimenting my ‘shiny’ & ‘smooth’ legs.
Our team ethic had been unquestionable and despite looking like a mish-mash
group wearing all sorts of different shorts & socks; we were a team.
The year before we arrived at Worcester, Dan
Allen produced a poem that’s gone down in Waratah folklore. It encapsulates the
emotion and experiences each of us felt playing for the ‘tahs, it’s beautiful.
There it is, that magical scene;
The stage is set for our play on the velvet
green.
Poetry in motion – hard hitting act;
Just trying to keep ourselves intact.
With a Cheeseman ball, the forwards roll on;
In the blink of an eye the backs are gone.
Ali Mac – SMASH – a player goes down;
He runs to the rest with a mean Welsh frown.
Wilson’s hair, blowing in the breeze;
He doesn’t go around but into everyone he sees.
“Pitching Pumba” as we win another ball;
“Derek” Waratahs, as we set for the maul.
The backs are released with their cutting
lines;
If they drop one fucking ball they’re getting
fined.
Lincoln goes in with a hard sidestep;
But into the player he goes not around – he
sometimes forgets.
Quick scoot ball and we hear Brisbane;
I know if we win it, the backs are in.
The ball finds its way to Rash out wide;
Twis, the linesman, can’t keep up on the side.
Round one player, inside two;
He looks for Martin, flying through.
“Run really fast!”, great advice Tasty;
But our smiles are a little hasty.
We pile into the ruck and fight for the ball;
Slice one (whatever that is) is the call.
They do summit good and it works really well;
But we’re stopped on the line, Cayman was held.
I know if we lose, Penners will cry;
So we give him the ball and he dives for the
try.
Cayman missed from in front of the posts;
But it doesn’t matter cos we beat the hosts.
Turn around to see the front row hug;
Look around everywhere – there’s WARATAH LOVE.
A true masterpiece from the undoubted talent
that is Dan Allen. Had his creative prowess mirrored his rugby skills, he’d be
playing professional rugby. Instead, he’s the world’s best at making stash look
ugly and his running style can only be described by a mimic from Pumba.
Admittedly, I’m narrowing my audience here, but if you’ve seen this
impersonation, close your eyes and relive it. Now laugh. Loudly.
I’ve added a few lines of my own to
bring the poem full circle. It goes like this;
This was the scene a few years ago;
When The
Dive was a bar, not a fucking bistro.
It served maligin, snakebite & alcopops;
Not cappuccinos, mochas & espresso shots.
Malvern and Bottom Field was where we played
our games;
Not the depressing morgue that is Sixways.
Being a Waratah wasn’t just something you find;
It was built in you, it was a state of mind.
I often gaze up at the heavens above;
Praying for the return of WARATAH LOVE.
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| Victorious Waratahs |
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