Why I had to drug my team-mate on Lions flight back from New Zealand
My behaviour did not really change much when I got drunk, apart from getting even louder than usual. But that was not the case with some of my England team-mates. When they got hammered, there was almost nothing anyone could do to control them.
On the flight home from Australia in 2016, one player was crawling down the aisle, because he had been celebrating so hard. Others were throwing peanuts at him and hitting innocent onlookers instead. Then this player started wrestling with a team-mate, which must have been quite alarming for everyone else in business class – two 18st blokes rolling around on the floor is not what you expect when you have paid a couple of grand for a flight.
One player was standing on his seat, swearing his head off. Another had thrown up on his blanket. I was saying to them: “Lads, we’ve just had the best tour ever, beaten Australia 3-0, and you’re f------ it all up. Go to bed!”
Most listened, except one, who no matter how hard you reasoned with him would never stop. I took him back to his seat about 10 times, while all the other lads slept on. He kept sneaking up, peering around the curtain, trying to get to his mate at the other end of the cabin. He tried crawling under the seats to reach him. It was not good and the air staff were getting upset. I was not captain – Dylan [Hartley] was not on the flight – and it was not my job, but I saw where this was going and managed to nip it in the bud.
Another flight that could have gone horribly wrong was the return flight from New Zealand with the Lions in 2017. One player who was known to be a nightmare when drinking was living up to his reputation. He got so drunk that he was just climbing over seats and walking through all the lads’ business-class
I got three sleeping pills, crushed them up and stirred them in with a vodka cocktail
pods without a care in the world. He then thought it would be a good idea to practise his dive passing with rolled-up inflight magazines. He was getting progressively more drunk – hitting people with passes, rowing with people, singing his head off – and I eventually said to a couple of his team-mates: “Lads, you’ve got to stop this. This is just crazy.” They looked at me as if I was mad, before replying: “Mate, we can’t stop him. And I wouldn’t try if I were you, unless you want to get punched in the face.”
Things went from bad to worse and no one was doing a thing about it. I could see that this was going to end in a fight. So I decided to take drastic steps. We had each been given a sleeping pill, so I got three of them, crushed them up and stirred them in with a vodka cocktail. I called him over and said: “Mate, well played this tour, it’s time to do a shot together.” I gave him the spiked drink and he took it down in one. He then stumbled off down the aisle, knocking someone’s drinks off their table. It was like watching a toy run out of batteries. He got slower and slower, and quieter and quieter, until he started yawning, went back to his seat for what he thought was a moment and though I could see him trying to fight the enveloping darkness, he conked out and started snoring, with his mouth gaping and saliva running down his chin.
To this day, he does not know I drugged him. He just woke up in the UK with little memory of what happened. We did not have much choice, and it is quite possible we saved him from some horrible newspaper headlines. Not many of the lads know that I did this, but my conscience is clear. Beware if you are a loud dog or a misbehaving scrum-half around me, as you will get drugged for some peace.