The Worcester Years Part IV

That moment had finally come - my first team debut.

The glare that once kept me awake at night had taken a shining to me and he wanted to bring me into the fold.

I'd played all my Waratah and Saturday rugby at 10. 1,120 or so minutes worth honing my skills and developing my game.

Another Gary Dipple's injury meant the 10 shirt was empty, so Cush shifted the whole backline around, moved Sam Brookes to fly-half and started me on the wing.

It was the beginning of my temporary role as WSRFC's kicking back - and I hated it.

The journey up, and indeed back from, Sheffield escapes me but I do have a couple of memories of my big day.

In the changing rooms before kick off as Ben Hoyles was giving his final orders, I scrambled around desperately to find somewhere to throw up my breakfast. 

I could only find a big, black bin. And I had to share it. Not the greatest prep.

On the field I did what was expected of me from the boot, but Brookesy decided to bring me into the game a bit more.

About 20 minutes in we had an attacking lineout in the Sheffield Hallam half and my fly-half turned to me and said: "Japan."

That's a dummy switch with 12 and then crash the blind-side winger up. Me. 11st dripping wet.

We won the ball at the front of the line, off the top, perfect dummy switch and then I carried into their entire back row, who swallowed me much like a second-year Tom Shepard swallowed his cheese sandwiches.

But the game will be remembered for one thing - the fight.

A scrum erupted as Andrew Murphy and John Clarke turned some poor front-rower's face inside out, and as the mêlée spread, I got a shove in the back from Stuart James Vincent.

He started punching people from behind, so I followed suit. The only way to fight.

Tom Shepard returning to his home county remembers it well: " It was a typical northern day at the Michael Vaughan Cricket Academy, and the tradition of having an annual dust-up there was to be started.

"I’m not quite sure how it came about but suddenly there was a flashpoint and a line of miniature fights broke out.

"SJV was being molested for his good looks by two players, the usually placid Sam Brookes and Tasty were busy piling into a Hallam prop and Murph was doing his best impression of William Wallace as he preceded to bludgeon at least three of the opposition.

"Tsangy says he helped.

"The person who was enjoying the brawl the most was Chris The Piss as he flitted between each group inflicting some chav justice on unsuspecting players.

"Luckily for Sheffield Hallam, Ed ‘The Punisher’ Cook was still jogging across from the other side of the field before the referee finally broke up the fight, otherwise an air ambulance may have been needed."

It would be the beginning of me establishing myself in the first team, but before that, I had a bit of history to make for the Waratahs.

Playing against our most fierce rivals, a customary scrap broke out.

Somehow, out of 30 blokes on the pitch smashing seven bells of shit out of each other as well as Lee Thomas adding the occasional boot and uppercut from the bench, the referee managed to pick me and Tom Baxter out for punishment.

Two red cards. And here, Renard's Magic XIII was born.

The Worcester Years contacted Ian Renard and Matthew Roberts, but when we went to press last night, they failed to comment.

Therefore, this story will have to wait.

As much as it might sound there was a first and second team divide, away from the field there was no such separation.

This is perfectly portrayed by the annual WSRFC Bowling Day.

By the time we'd left, this day had become sometimes more fiercely fought than some BUSA (fuck off, BUCS) matches.

My first one will forever be remembered for one of the biggest paddies ever thrown by anyone, ever.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you - Jonny Contact: "My shirt was made with my bowling name "curve ball contact" proudly displayed on the back.

"I had my two pints, got drunk, and decided I was a millionaire thanks to a HSBC credit card.

"I bought a gold pin from the pro shop to give as a prize.

"I can't remember who stole it however, being a ginger northerner, I didn't let it go as a joke.

"I threw all my toys out of the pram and went mad.

"Obviously this fuelled the rest of the lads, so after what seems like an age but was probably five minutes, I went to sulk on my own in the corner.

"I can't remember who started it but I would guess Pumba, Hemming or Cookie."

At this stage I'd like to plead the fifth.

Another event where the whole rugby community got boiled down in the social melting pot that is WSRFC is Sin Ball, not that I'd know anything about it.

Luke Milton and I had been told, I think by Sam Golding, that you get pissed quicker if you drink in a hot bath.

Apparently, you sweat so much that you become dehydrated and thirsty, so you drink quicker and it affects you more.

I equipped myself with Strongbow, Milts with Fosters and away we went.

Turns out he was right.

I don't remember getting out of the bath, but by that stage it would've been mainly urine seeing as neither of us left the tub having knocked back 10 cans each.

Allegedly I was so pissed in Sin I threw a middle-aged woman out of the way to get to the bar.

It transpired that woman was Andrew Cushing's wife.

Luke Milton, who remembers as little of the night as I do, said: "We were in the early beginnings of a blossoming, intimate, and at times highly homosexual friendship.

"So quite obviously, wearing nothing but a hat - babe wore a Fez, myself a traditional cricket cap - we sat in a bath and got stuck into a warm crate.

"Obviously we sang every rugby song going at the top of our voices, confirming my multi-national flat members' hatred of myself.

"The night before they had been woken up at 3am by Sam Brookes pulling babe around halls by his foreskin.

"Obviously neither of us got out the bath while we were in there.

"Obviously we both fell out the bath when we left it.

"Obviously we both went straight to Sin Corner.

"Obviously it produced pictures like this."

But away from the social scene, there was some seriously hard graft being put in to try and make the matchday Varsity squad.

One man trying harder than most after a shaky start to his WSRFC career was Mark Lowbridge.

He had flirted in and out of the social scene because he was still trying to make it with Gloucester (spits on floor) and their academy set-up.

He soon saw the error of his ways and was up to his nuts in training.

One weird Monday morning session was turned into a full-contact affair by Cush, and - shock horror - Lowbridge was prominent.

He recalls: "It was a cold damp wet Monday just after we returned from Christmas.

"The mood was tense, first team places up for grabs, and two sessions were to take place that day.

"Not a usual 7am fitness, instead it was a 10am full on contact session which felt like freshers v everybody else.

"After putting heart body and soul into the session we were told we'd be returning around 3pm to do a Andrew Cushing 'light session' this was another bone crunching full on bosh.

"Being the keen 19-year-old I was and looking to impress, I thought it be a good idea to sprint away from any support to meet a head on collision with 23 stone Watto and hard nosed northerner Jonny Contact.

"The outcome was a bad ankle I thought I'd broken it.

"Followed by the ever so supportive Cush's comments of ''If he wants to be an all black and die, then let him die".

"Cheers Cush.

"In the hospital whilst nursing a sore ankle it aspired my hand hurt a bit as well.

"Which to the nurses dedication was to x-ray that as well.

"A buy one get one free offer.

"What transpired was a sprained ankle nothing more and bost hand.

"When returning to campus feeling a little silly to "how's the ankle, mate, I could only respond "Ah sound it'll be right in two weeks."

"The second question of, "Why's your hand in a cast?"

That got, "Well, I broke that as well."

"Marvellous."

It warms my heart to think of him in hospital pointing at all parts of his body saying, "it hurts here, here, here, here, here, here and here."

Doctor looks, holds back laughter, and says: "Mr Lowbridge, that's because you're pointing at everything with your right hand. It's broken."

Some of us managed to pull through the sessions and made the squad, but this both a blessing and a curse.

Yes, we were all delighted to be selected, but there was a twist.

We had to dye our hair blonde and blue.

As freshers, we were not adverse to peroxide, but this time it went badly, badly wrong.

As bad as my hair looked, at least I was able to dye it back its natural colour.

Not the same can be said of Jonpaul McGrane.

I'm not sure if this has ever been made public knowledge, but if it hasn't, he had to find out eventually.

Seven years is a decent enough amount of time.

The days ensuing Varsity, while I was still laying in bed with what can only be described as AIDS from the River Severn, the rest of the boys went about returning their hair to its natural state.

The Bend, being the fucking moron he is, decided not to go for a brown, but a maroon.

He came out looking like an 82-year-old woman's handbag and although he persevered with it for a couple of days, the ribbing he was getting proved too much and he wanted to dye it again.

Myself and Luke Milton were heading into town, and he'd asked us to grab him some more hair colouring.

On the walk into town across Sabina Bridge, we both stopped in our tracks when we realised the power that had just been gifted to us.

There was still a blonde hair pack in the flat from our mass bleaching session, and there was still an empty pack of black hair dye I'd used the day before.

We took Bend's £10, put the blonde hair dye in the black hair dye box, and roped one of the girls into the prank.

When Bendy sat down in his chair in the lounge at Malvern Flat One, he thought he was finally getting rid of his hanging, maroon lid.

But it was only just beginning.

The red mixed with the blonde to produce a hideous salmon pink colour and as we fought back the tears, we had to express our disbelief that this black hair dye was turning his hair lighter.

A very aggressive phonecall to the customer service team at Schwarzkopf Hair Colour later, and we convinced the only way out for him was to shave it off.

"It's dead hair, Bend, it won't colour. It happened to me before - I had to shave it off."

So off he trotted to grab the clippers and get rid of the rest of the ridiculous hair he had on his head.

Little did we know, the amount of colouring had produced dozens of scabs on the back of his rock-shaped head.

To make matters worse, he was laughed into Tasty's BBQ that afternoon and was forced to take the 

Bic to it for a smoother finish.

Sorry, Bend.

Well, sorrynotsorry.

Luke Milton said: "In a display of team bonding that led Cush to say "you look like a bunch of cunts, make sure you don't play like a bunch of cunts" we had all dyed are hair various shades of blonde, yellow, ginger and orange.

"In the following days we set about returning our flowing locks of hair back to a normal shade of colour.

"We convinced him - this is where Gaz's Gavin Henson esq product knowledge came in handy - that the only thing to do was to shave it off.

"He did. He looked terrible.

"Crazily, we ventured over to the Tasty and Pumba house for a Thursday pre-lash.

"Poor Bend lasted five minutes before a blotto Watto was bicking his head.

"Thing is though, it really suited him."

This meant he went to Colours Ball looking like Barry the Baptist and his smaller body double Daz 

McAleese ended up on top of a table singing Champagne Supernova.

Anyway, back to Varsity.

On the bus there we got stuck in a cockload of traffic, which meant pissing in bottles - again, not the best prep.

Every one of the squad donned a beanie because Cush had no idea what we had done to our hair.

Once we took these off during the warm-up, a shrill blast came from the gargoyle, but it was nothing compared to the noise that greeted us as we walked out of the changing rooms.

That was something else.

It was impossible to bring yourself down after that to sit on the bench, so me and Milts patrolled the touchline.

It was a crazy game and discipline, as we had become infamous for, was not a strong point for us again.

Jonny Contact got sent off for gouging someone in open play and Tom Shepard served a 20-minute sin bin.

We'd scored a try through Ian Renard, who got on the end of a Stu Vincent break from a set-piece.

The issue was, they were playing on separate wings, so as Stu offloaded to his wing partner, he let out a "Renard, what the fuck are you doing here?"

Going into the last five minutes, we were trailing 13-16, and none of us expected to be put on.

But the inconsistent Andrew Cushing called me over and said: "You're going on. If we get a penalty - I want it over."

I warmed up and, shitting myself, entered the fray on the wing.

Within a minute, I could've won the game for us.

Ben Hoyles had wriggled free and was one-on-one with the fullback with me outside him.

Had he not been knocked out earlier in the game, he'd have probable passed it to me and I'd have strolled in from 40m with nobody else around, but he didn't know what planet he was on and ploughed into contact.

With a minute to go, we had a penalty 50m out.

I turned to our skipper Andrew Murphy and said I wanted to take a shot, he strained, looked at the posts and told me to put it in the corner.

It came to nothing, but as Gloucester cleared their lines, we were gifted one last chance to launch a counter-attack.

With the clock red, we worked our way into the opposition half and I took myself from the wing to stand-off in anticipation of a drop-goal attempt.

I wouldn't get a chance, because the referee blew up for a penalty 42m out between the 5m and 15m lines on the right hand side.

It was the furthest point away from the stand, but it was as if the crowd were stood under my nose.

The worst part was that I'd forgotten my kicking tee, so I had a makeshift one made out of a cone 

and a smaller tee.

Not a big deal to many of you - if you're a kicker - you'll feel my pain.

As I settled down having placed the ball on my home-made catastrophe, I could hear the Worcester half of the crowd try and hush the Gloucester half.

Shock-horror, they didn't oblige, and the PA announcer even started singing the Gloucester anthem.

It was just what I needed to help me focus.

I released my hands, stood up tall, one step back, five forward, head down and bang.

Straight through the posts from the moment it left the boot.

I didn't get a chance to turn around to gesture to the crowd, because I was swamped by my team-mates.

We may have drawn, but it felt like a win.

One moment in particular stands out to me in the aftermath of the game, which was in the shower, when Stu turned to me and said: "I'm so fucking proud of you. If there's any fresher here that deserves that, it's you."

I don't know whether it was the countless hours I'd put in kicking, the fact I'd come back after Cush told me to fuck off, the fact that I'd done whatever I was told at socials and kept quiet or that he just liked me - it was a good moment.

But I can't help thinking how much better that day and night would have been if we'd have won.

I'd never taste Varsity success during my time at Worcester, and it's still something that pains me.

Many will be in the same camp as me, which makes the current crop of students' achievements so impressive.

Delivering under pressure.

Winning when others would give anything to make you lose.

We never got that, and for succeeding, I doth my cap to you.

I look forward to you telling me all about it at Old Boys Weekend 2015.

We.

Are.

The...

The Epilogue

To the Prince of Wales Stadium in sleepy Cheltenham,

The stage was set for the ultimatum.

No points, no cup to lift, no relegation to fight,

Just the pride of beating the scum on the night.

Peroxide blonde - one to fifteen,

We never played dirty, but definitely didn't pay clean.

A yellow and a red for taking out someone's eye,

Jonny Contact left 14 men who for Worcester they'd die.

Renard found himself in no-man's-land,

But touched down to score in the grass, mud and sand.

My nerves were jangling when Cush sent me on,

But I entered the fray and my chance didn't take long.

"I'll have a shot, ref." as he pointed to the sticks,

"This is the last play, you better not miss."

My tested routine held when I needed it most,

Bang, three points, straight through the posts.

A memory I can re-live time and again,

When we all meet up now and then.

We all have our moments that we remember best,

But we all know the feeling of WSRFC on the chest.