Phil Bennett: The Autobiography

Things started quite slowly after that initial jolt. Wales were beaten by Scotland in the opening match of the 1999 Five Nations and then lost at Wembley to Ireland in a rather shabby and disorganised display. With France and England to come there seemed every possibility we were going to be whitewashed again in the championship.

But then something quite extraordinary happened. Whatever message had temporarily lifted the players against South Africa, suddenly returned. Henry’s claim that Wales could play a fast, open, expansive style was gloriously proved right with a thrilling 34–33 victory over France in Paris. The first half of that match was rugby of the highest standard and Wales were simply magnificent. Scott and Craig Quinnell tore into the French pack, Colin Charvis was everywhere, and Neil Jenkins controlled things from outside-half. The French darling, Thomas Castaignede, had a chance to win the game for the home side with the last kick of the match but struck it wide. Wales had won in Paris for the first time since 1975 and the scenes inside the Stade de France, and in Paris that evening, were wonderful. So many people had waited so long for that victory that they were ecstatic.

Who knows what might have happened if Castaignede had put that ball between the posts? Wales would have lost and may then have been beaten by England in the final match of the championship. Sometimes matches, reputations, whole careers can turn on such small margins. But Castaignede missed and a newly confident Wales beat Italy in a non-championship match a fortnight later. Then came the unforgettable 32–31 victory over England at Wembley and that astonishing last-gasp try by Scott Gibbs. Wales had turned a corner and the players believed Henry was the man responsible. Whether it was he or not doesn’t matter. It mattered only that the players thought he was the reason for their change of fortune. They believed in the Henry factor.

After beating France, Italy and England, Argentina were beaten twice in their own country – the first time any team had whitewashed the Pumas on their own soil. The Henry bandwagon rolled on. In June of that year, Wales beat South Africa for the first time in 93 years of trying. Then Canada and the USA were brushed aside before Wales proved the Paris result was no fluke by beating France again just prior to the World Cup. At this point, a month out from Wales hosting the tournament, Henry was undoubtedly the most popular man in Wales and probably the most instantly recognisable. He was mobbed wherever he went. He was a guru, a national hero, a huge celebrity, and a prophet all rolled into one. People outside of Wales were unable to realise just how overblown this profile became. Henry didn’t ask for it. It just happened. He actually called for some realism and perspective. But the more he growled and grumbled like a dour Kiwi, the more praise would be heaped on him from every corner of Welsh society. It was the natural overreaction of a nation starved of success suddenly gorging on victory after victory.

I met Henry a few times during this period of heady optimism. He had a presence about him, and a nice line in dry wit. He was impressive and yet there were odd moments when glaring gaps in his rugby knowledge would suddenly emerge. But he had some very good ideas and his drive, energy and sense of purpose made you feel you wanted to be alongside him on this incredible journey.

He was shrewd, too. All Welsh coaches take it as read that they will suffer a lot of stick from former internationals. It goes with the territory. It’s not simply the regular voices in the media; there are always plenty of ex-internationals who will gladly be stirred by a poor performance into saying that the current coach has got it all wrong and things were so much better in their day. It’s not that all ex-Wales players have a mean, vindictive streak. It’s just that we care enough to want the team to do well.

Henry was obviously aware that this could present a problem for him and as he was an outsider the criticism might become harsher than normal if things went badly.

His solution was to invite a whole host of former internationals to attend a series of trial matches at Swansea one Saturday afternoon and then ask them to sit in on selection. Glad to be of service – or perhaps flattered – we all trooped along. There must have been around thirty of us. We enjoyed a pleasant lunch in the clubhouse before the action and then took our seats.

Henry had asked us all to concentrate on our own particular positions. I sat alone in the stand, with David Watkins sitting not far from me, and we watched the four guys vying for the Wales No. 10 shirt. It was hard work as we were required to watch one player constantly whatever action was taking place. But I also felt it was a useful exercise in establishing how we regarded the players in our positions. They were under real scrutiny. Afterwards, everyone was invited to join Henry for a selection meeting at which all the positions and various candidates were discussed in detail. JPR Williams gave his view on the four full-backs, JJ Williams and Ieuan Evans chatted about the wings, and so on right through from 1 to 15. Henry listened to all shades of opinion and made occasional notes. Finally, he thanked everyone for coming and every ex-international in that room went home thinking they were now part of the inner sanctum.

They weren’t, of course. I don’t think for a minute that Henry pored over our opinions. He probably folded his notes, put them into his pocket, and promptly forgot all about them. I don’t imagine our musings made the slightest difference to the Wales team he eventually picked. But the point is that he had charmed us, won us over, and made everyone feel part of the action. There was an element of an elaborate con trick to try to muzzle his potential critics and for a time it probably worked. Yet even then there were certain things about that afternoon that made me suspicious. He wanted to charm us, but he also wanted to put a few of us in our place. Henry asked me which outside-half had impressed me. I told him Neil Jenkins should be his first choice but that Shaun Connor had caught my eye and explained why. Henry stroked his chin and said, ‘That’s interesting.’ Then he turned to Leigh Jones, one of his advisors at the time and now coach of Newport, and asked, ‘What do you think of Connor, Leigh?’ ‘Not up to it,’ said Jones, without looking up. Henry glanced back at me, with a smile on his lips and then moved the discussion on.

I felt hurt by that. Henry appeared to be trying to de-value my opinion in front of a large and illustrious gathering. I thought, ‘Who the hell does this guy think he is?’ But I bit my tongue as I genuinely felt there was a useful point to the whole meeting and I didn’t want to be seen as someone who was trying to undermine things. Within a week or two, Henry had developed his elaborate trick a little farther. He invited the same bunch of ex-internationals to the Vale of Glamorgan Country Club and Hotel just outside Cardiff, which had become headquarters for the Wales management and the team. A grand title had been given to the project now. I think they called it ‘The Mentors’ Scheme’. Basically, this involved making every former Welsh international present a personal advisor to the man who currently played in their position. In theory, this was a perfectly good idea. I’ve always felt that current players could benefit a great deal by talking to some of the older ones. For instance, young Welsh props like Iestyn Thomas, Ben Evans and Darren Morris could learn so much from informal conversations with a legend of the front row like Graham Price, someone who has not only achieved great things but recognises the finer points of that area more deeply than anyone else and commands such complete respect.

Henry, however, wanted to formalise that kind of relationship and guide it himself. Again, there was plenty of good food on offer and the wine flowed freely amongst the invited guests. Gareth Edwards sat and chatted to Rob Howley, while I enjoyed the company of Neil Jenkins and Stephen Jones. I knew Stephen well as I had followed his career closely since he was a young boy in Carmarthen. I had met Neil on a couple of occasions and found him a likeable bloke. Quite what I was meant to teach Neil, who had done pretty much everything in the game, I wasn’t sure, but he asked me for my phone number and I gladly gave it to him. I joked that if every he wanted a good tip on the horses he should give me a call. It was all very relaxed and light-hearted, just exactly how that kind of relationship should be if it’s going to work.

But Henry wanted something more structured, with reports and assessments. He talked about how they did this kind of thing in New Zealand and what a good system they had in place. I had an entirely open mind and was willing to be part of anything Henry wanted to do, but three months down the line it was as if that evening had never taken place. There were no follow-up conversations with me, or any of the other mentors as far as I could gather; no one from the Welsh management ever asked for a single word or opinion on how the boys were performing or what feedback we had given them. There were no files or paperwork. The system that Henry had trumpeted simply didn’t exist.

Looking back on it now, perhaps it was just that Henry and his large back-up team simply had too many other things on their plate to concern themselves with the mentors’ scheme. Or maybe they had second thoughts. It would have been nice to know, because the nagging thought is there in my mind that perhaps it was just a cynical exercise in silencing potential critics. Former internationals were hardly going to slate Henry if they were supposed to be in partnership with him. But the reality was that none of us were briefed by Henry or by his team manager David Pickering, any more than we were briefed by Tony Blair. It was a sham.

In professional sport, however, the real judgements are not of a person’s sincerity. You are judged on your record. And Henry’s record throughout 1999 was incredible as he took Wales on an amazing ten-match winning streak. He restored pride and dignity to the team after the depths of a year before and I, for one, will always be grateful. Suddenly, during that summer of 1999, everyone in Wales was talking about the rugby team again and was proud of their efforts. Even the fact that two of his players – Shane Howarth and Brett Sinkinson – were New Zealanders who had no right to be in a Welsh shirt didn’t seem to matter. I felt uneasy about their presence, but like most of the Welsh media I was swept along with the euphoria of success and it took newspapers from outside Wales to expose their bogus credentials in early 2000. Looking back, I feel a certain sense of shame that I did not voice my concerns and discomfort about the two Kiwis before the Kiwigate scandal had broken and it was discovered that their grandparents had no Welsh connections after all. I admire guys like Byron Hayward who spoke up and was critical of their selection. At the time Byron’s complaints were dismissed as sour grapes because he wasn’t in the team, but he was completely right to be concerned about the tarnishing of our heritage.

Whether Henry knew he was breaking the rules we shall perhaps never know. The International Rugby Board cleared him of misconduct and found the WRU guilty of administrative incompetence rather than cheating, but it was certainly a stain on his reputation. He misjudged the mood of a nation when he expected the public would be as flippant about the issue of Welsh qualification as he and his management team had been. The team had begun to lose its sparkle and now one of the great magician’s tricks had been exposed.

Strangely, that summer of 1999 when Wales beat the Springboks for the first time, was the pinnacle of Henry’s achievements and influence. The World Cup of that year showed the team had already begun the descent that would finally end with that humiliating defeat to Ireland in the Six Nations of 2002.

Part of the problem at the World Cup seemed to be that players began to believe their own publicity. They thought they were better than they were and the hard work that had led to such huge improvements was obviously on the wane. Almost every individual Welsh player at that time began to let his own standards slip. Wales lost to Samoa in the pool stages and were bundled out of the tournament in the quarterfinals by the eventual winners Australia. I noticed, for the first time, that Henry had begun to criticise his own players for their mistakes and shortcomings. Cracks were beginning to appear.

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.

CHAPTER 5 (#ulink_b6c0cd87-8f68-5304-adf1-d30165ea472f)

Brown Envelopes, Whites Lies (#ulink_b6c0cd87-8f68-5304-adf1-d30165ea472f)

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 players, the Union got their cheque, and the players kept a little cash. Everyone was happy. Well, everyone it seemed except Bill Clement. Bill was a nice man but he was as tight as a duck’s backside. He phoned me three days after one appearance and reminded me to send him a cheque. I did. About six months later, the programme happened to be shown again. Within a couple of days he was on the phone. ‘Phil, I noticed you did another A Question of Sport, this week. I trust you’ll be sending us the appearance fee.’ I lost my cool and shouted, ‘Bill, mun, it was a bloody repeat!’ ‘Well, don’t they pay you for those, too?’ he asked.

If ever a man was well named it was Bill. Even getting legitimate expenses out the Union’s coffers could still leave you out of pocket. Early on in my international career, I had yet to come to a generous arrangement with my bosses about time off from the steelworks and spending a weekend in Dublin to play for my country was leaving me around £40 out of pocket. Delme Thomas, Norman Gale and I travelled from Llanelli up to Cardiff Airport together in one car in order to fly out for the game. But since the mileage rate entitled us to about £3.50 each we all decided to put in individual claims. Almost as soon as we had checked into our hotel in Dublin, we were summoned to see Bill for the Spanish inquisition. ‘I know you all shared the same car, so why are there three claims? Either you rip up this claim, or else this will be the last Wales match any of you are involved in.’ I was young and prepared to let them put the cuffs on me there and then, but Norman had been around a bit. ‘Listen, here,’ said Norman. He then listed how in debt he was to friends, family, work colleagues, the bank manager and a few others who had helped in different ways to allow him to play for Wales. Grudgingly, Bill backed down.

The best Bill Clement story, though, was told to me by my old mate Bobby Windsor. He insists it’s true. Having given sterling service for Wales and the Lions all over the world in the furnace of the front row, Bobby decided that the WRU should at least help him with the hire fees for the dinner suit he was obliged to wear at official dinners. So he went to see Bill Clement. Bobby explained how times were hard in the steel industry in Gwent, and, like many others, he had been put on short time. His wife and family were feeling the pinch and every bit of extra cash could help. ‘So, if maybe the Union could help me out by hiring the dinner suits then that would be appreciated,’ said Bob.

‘I’m sorry,’ said Bill. ‘That’s against the rules.’

‘Well what about my shoes?’ said Bobby, getting a bit desperate. ‘Surely, you could help me out and allow me to buy a decent pair of shoes to look smart in? These ones are falling apart.’ At this point, according to Bobby, to emphasise the point he took off his shoe and showed Clement across the desk how the sole was flapping at the toes. Bill thought about it for a few seconds and then quietly opened a drawer on his desk marked ‘Ticket Money’. He took out a huge bundle of notes and untied them from their tightly wound rubber band. As Bobby was waiting for him to count out the cash, Clement chucked the rubber band over to Bobby and said, ‘Here, that should sort out the problem with your shoes.’

I never had to wear rubber bands to hold my shoes together, but neither was I was ever paid to play rugby. I had 16 years of first-class rugby – 10 of those were spent at the very top level. But until I decided to write a book near the end of my playing days in 1981 it was all done without reward. I’m not bitter and I don’t begrudge current players the money they earn nowadays. In fact, professionalism should have been accepted years before it was and good luck to those who can make a career out of rugby union. I loved the opportunities rugby gave me and I would hardly change a thing. The sport had its own freemasonry. It gave me respect, and meant I travelled the world for nothing. Thousands of boys who grew up near me never saw anything of the world, but rugby gave me a passport to explore. I met the emperor of Japan and the king of Fiji. I saw wonderful countries like Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and Canada. And, as an amateur, I had the freedom to take a week off from the game on the very rare occasions when I felt tired.