THE 2015 World Cup summer training camp consists of miles and miles of running in the thin Colorado air.
Everyone in pieces, their bodies screaming. Ridiculous amounts of running, constant fitness tests, a total waste of time.
But I can’t complain.
Lanny [coach Stuart Lancaster] has forgiven me, while others have been jettisoned for lapses in discipline, including Dylan Hartley for headbutting an opponent and Manu Tuilagi for assaulting some coppers.
After a running session, they ask us to play 15v15. The quality is woeful because everyone is knackered.
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I don’t think we’ve played any decent rugby since we arrived.
The tone is set by Andy Farrell so it’s all based on emotion. Andy’s a big personality with a commanding presence so no one wants to confront him, including Lanny.
An example of the madness — they’ve started recording how long players spend on the floor and how quickly they get back on their feet.
Chris Robshaw the best getter-upper. No wonder he’s captain. If you tell a group of athletes, “This is what you need to do in order to be seen and picked”, that’s all most of them will think about.
I’m thinking, “Who gives a shit?” Surely it’s more important what they do when they’re on their feet?
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I’ve hit it off with Sam Burgess, who’s been brought over from rugby league. Like me, Sam realises things aren’t right. “It’s meetings about meetings,” he says. “Why is everyone being treated like kids?”
He’s bang on, it feels like we’re on a school trip rather than preparing for a World Cup.
Lanny’s obviously read all the right books, and is a whizz with a whiteboard, but he’s not big on feel.
All this stuff about putting pride and passion back into the Red Rose — ‘DO IT FOR ENGLAND AND ST GEORGE!’ — sounds great to some.
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But pride and passion in abstract things like symbols has got nothing to do with playing good rugby. It’s performative, and means nothing when you step over that white line.
The first chance we get, Sam, I, plus a few others, decide to escape the intensity and let our hair down.
Going out is not strictly against the rules but what we get up to is. We’re at a strip club when we find out about a house party in Denver, so we jump on the back of some guy’s pick-up truck and head over.
We’ve been at the party about ten minutes when Sam starts feeling sick. Too much Jack Daniel’s.
But thank God for that, because we head back to the hotel and manage to slip into our rooms without being spotted.
A clique of players helps run the team: Owen Farrell, George Ford, Chris Robshaw, Dan Cole, Ben Youngs, a couple of others.
I have to be the problem, because the truth doesn’t fit the narrative they’ve been spinning
Danny Cipriani
They’re called “the leadership group”, but more like the mafia, always appearing to be scheming.
Still, I get on fine with most of them. At least I think I do.
Sam’s in a WhatsApp group with the mafia, until one day, he posts a picture on Instagram of me and him in a coffee shop. A few hours later, George screenshots the picture and messages it to Sam, before removing him from the group.
Sam couldn’t care less but I’m not sure what I’ve done to offend them. Clearly I’m not as welcome as I thought I was.
I’m picked on the bench for the warm-up match in Paris in August.
When the coaches finally give me a run after 63 minutes, it’s not difficult to see what’s going through my mind. Don’t you think I can do anything in 17 minutes? F*** you . . .
I’m on at full-back but still catch the eye. We’ve suddenly got some zip and I score our first try with eight minutes remaining.
A bit of footwork, slowing down to sow doubt in the defender’s mind, then speeding up and powering over the line. Another late try makes the scoreline look respectable, 25–20 to France, but apart from those final 17 minutes, it’s been a DISMAL performance.
I’m voted man of the match and most people seem to think I’ve done enough to secure my place in the final World Cup squad.
But I hear Lanny being asked about my performance. “Danny was good,” he says, “but everyone else who came on was good as well.”
That’s when I knew they had already made their minds up.
Lanny breaks the bad news the following Tuesday. He’s only picked two fly-halves, Owen and George, and he’s gone with Mike Brown and Alex Goode at full-back.
I say to him, “You copped out, mate. You never even played me at No10. But I did all I could and I respect your decision.”
And that was the end of it. I’ve just been told I’m not in the World Cup squad and now I’m pushing a heavy sled around the field.
It’s as dumb as it gets, but I’m mucking in. Suddenly, attack coach Mike Catt screams, “For f***’s sake, Danny, put your back into it!”
I don’t say anything, but I think, What the f*** is his problem? Catt’s had beef with me for years.
He’s slagged me off in the papers, called me a liability and once whacked me around the head when I was playing for Wasps and he was playing for London Irish.
At the final whistle I refused to shake his hand and his team-mates accused me of being a d***head.
But as far as I was concerned, it was all water under the bridge. I get back to pushing this sled and a couple of minutes later, Catt comes at me again: “F***ing hell, Danny, is that the best you can do?”
I stop what I’m doing, give him my best “don’t you f***ing speak to me like that” stare and get back to pushing, but my heart’s not in it.
SCAREDY CATT
They’ve just told me I’m not playing in the World Cup and now this w***** is taking the p*** out of me.
It happens again — “F***ing shit, Danny, work harder!” — this time I’ve had enough.
I walk straight towards him, get in his face and say, “Have you got something to say to me, Mike Catt?”
He starts stuttering, before screaming in my face, spittle flying everywhere, “As long as I’m involved, you’ll never play for England again!”
There’s a short, pregnant pause. Then I say, “You’ve just shown your true colours,” before walking off.
Lanny’s in a tizz. “What’s going on? Why did he say that?” I say to him, “Go and ask him.”
Some of my team-mates tell Catt he’s been out of order.
Joe Marler and Dan Cole, who were pushing the same sled as me, say I was putting my fair share in. Chris Robshaw asks me if I’m OK.
They’re sensitive to the situation.
It looked unjust, like straight-up bullying. But when the story is leaked, I get the blame.
It doesn’t matter that I tell the press it was just one of those things, and that me and Mike Catt have a good working relationship, because I don’t want to disrupt England’s World Cup preparations.
I have to be the problem, because the truth doesn’t fit the narrative they’ve been spinning for the best part of a decade.