Rogue who stayed out in the cold

Jim Hamilton endured a troubled childhood before rugby saved his life. Now as a podcaster and interviewer, he has a lot to say about where the game is headed

What’s the big deal with Jim Hamilton? Well, there’s the numbers, obviously. He’s the 1000th man to play rugby for Scotland, stands six feet, eight inches tall, won three Premiership titles, two European Cups and 63 international caps. He played for Leicester, Edinburgh, Gloucester, Montpellier and Saracens, started a podcast that’s become “the most listened to rugby podcast in the world,” and a TV show watched by millions at the World Cup.

But it’s not that.

Maybe it’s the chaos. On the day we meet he was supposed to be in Los Angeles for a Rugby Sevens tournament and was making plans to travel to South Africa and Japan. The interview was fixed for a Monday in London, then a Thursday in Edinburgh, and then he started twitching as soon as we sat down.

“Will this work?” he said.

“What?”

“With that music on in the background?” “It’s not bothering me,” I replied.

“Is it not?”

“No.”

“Sorry, that’s the ADHD.”

But it’s not that either.

No, the big deal with Jim Hamilton starts in a hospital in 2005, with a kid breathing through a ventilator and paralysed from the neck down. Matt Hampson is telling me a story about the months before the accident and a moment shared with a teammate after a game with the Leicester Tigers under 21s.

“We beat Gloucester in the final of the league that season,” he says, “and were celebrating with a crate of beer in the changing room at Welford Road when Big Jim whipped out a bottle of Tabasco sauce. ‘Okay, this is the challenge,’ he says. ‘Nobody gets out of here until we’ve all had a swig of hot sauce.’

“He handed me the bottle and I almost coughed my tonsils out, much to the amusement of Jo-Jo Ajuwa, our massive Nigerian winger. ‘That ain’t hot sauce,’ he scoffed, reaching for the bottle. ‘My momma has hotter sauce than that!’ And to prove it he downed it in one. I have never seen a black man turn so green in my life. His eyes almost popped from his head. We laughed so hard we thought we were all going to die.”

And that’s it. That’s all of it. The thing about Jim Hamilton is that he still made Matt Hampson laugh.

Six years later, when Matt’s story had become a book, Hamilton was playing for Scotland at the 2011 World Cup. He had put a copy of Engage in his suitcase and was planning to have a line from the book tattooed on his arm.

onf “It’s the title [‘Proximo’s Rules’] of one the chapters that talks about us when we were growing up,” he told Tom English of The Scotsman.

“It’s about the mind of a gladiator, how the men are thinking they can’t fight, or won’t fight, until they go out and have to fight. It reminds me of us playing together when we were younger.”

Thirteen years later, on a beautiful morning near his home in Edinburgh, it seemed a logical place to start.

“Where’s Proximo?” I ask. “Is he still there?” Jim smiled and rolled up his sleeve: “Still there.”

Paul Kimmage: Let’s start with a quote I pulled from somewhere on your burgeoning media career: “After a glittering career for Saracens and Scotland, Jim has established himself as a self-proclaimed media mogul and produces editorial, interviews, documentaries and features for RugbyPass.com.”

Jim Hamilton: I should probably go back a bit before that because it was a kind of perfect storm. Let me start with that bit actually ... I’m 32 years old, playing for Saracens and coming to the end of my career. My wife has a job in Cheltenham and we’ve moved to the Cotswolds, so I’ve this long commute to Saracens down the A40 and the M40 and the M25, and I’m listening to podcasts. The initial genre was crime podcasts, then I branched into a bit of Joe Rogan, because I love MMA, and after a while I started thinking: ‘Actually, there’s something in this. We don’t have one in rugby.’ And my legacy as a player if you spoke to anyone was, ‘He’s a storyteller’. I like conversation. I like the crack. I like to ... not embellish but to polish a story, and I’ve been like that my whole life.

PK: (Laughs)

JH: Now there was actually a podcast called The Rugby Pod that no one had really heard of, and the perfect storm was that I got approached through a mate of a mate’s brother who said, “Look, there’s this podcast with Andy Goode and they’re looking for another. Would you be up for it?” And I said, “Yeah. Why not?” So we had a meeting and I said, “Look, if we’re going to do it, it needs to be unfiltered. We’ll just go out and be us. No narrative control.”

Because you know better than anybody what those press conferences were like. “Here’s a sheet of paper. These are the key lines.” But I was like, ‘f **k that! I ain’t doing that!’ The intention was to bring people into the changing room, so we tore up the playbook.

PK: Who was the meeting with?

JH: A guy called Fred Culazzo — the owner of The Rugby Pod — and a mate of his, Andy Rowe, who went on to be our host. I went back and listened to the first one [July 28, 2016] recently just to see how it’s evolved, and how I’ve evolved.

PK: And?

JH: The podcast back then was Jimbo with the lads ... Jimbo on the piss ... Jimbo doing ‘loose’ things ... nothing massively untoward but very lad banter. Things have changed now. It got so big and there are so many other podcasts out there, so the narrative had to change. Because, as Spiderman’s uncle says, with great power comes great responsibility, and I’m not saying we’ve great power, but you have influence over younger people, so ...

PK: It’s not “dicks and bushes” anymore? JH: It’s not dicks and bushes anymore, and that’s a good thing.

PK: Says the wife.

JH: Says the wife (laughs). I mean, can you imagine it? We were out walking in Princes Street Gardens when the twins were younger, and this fella runs past: “All right, Jim? Hell of a bush!” And the wife looks at me, “What the hell is going on?” She’s got no idea.

PK: (Laughs)

JH: So we’ve had to change. Well, I’ve had to change. But looking back, yeah, I found a back door into the media which seems crazy really because if you’d asked anybody they’d have said, ‘Naah ... average rugby player ... a bit rogue.’ PK: What about the TV stuff ?

JH: This is where the stars aligned with the podcast: RugbyPass was an online streaming platform in Asia, so if you lived in Singapore or Hong Kong or Beijing, where there’s a big ex-pat community, and wanted to watch rugby you’d go to RugbyPass. And Fred Culazzo, who I mentioned, was working for RugbyPass in Singapore. I said to Fred, “Look mate, there’s all these wonderful stories about rugby out there that aren’t being told. Why don’t you use RugbyPass as a vehicle to do that?” So we set up a YouTube channel, and they sent me to South Africa and Singapore and Hong

Kong, to eat weird and wonderful things and do features and stuff. So rugby storytelling, but there was no script, [it was] just go out there and see.

PK: Sure.

JH: Then I started doing interviews. So during Covid we did a series called ‘All Access’ where I’d interview the best players from around the world on Zoom. Then RugbyPass was bought by Sky New Zealand and I thought, ‘I need to look at a few other things here.’ I still had the podcast, but ITV would only use me once or twice a year.

PK: Why do you think that was?

JH: Rogue. I was viewed as a rogue. I didn’t like wearing suits so I’d come in with a T-shirt and a jacket and wouldn’t butter-up the producer ... I don’t know, maybe they just saw me as different, and I’d get as nervous as hell because it would be like ...

“Five!”

“Coming to you Jim”

“Four!”

“Ready Jim!”

“Three!”

“Keep it short Jim!”

And my leg would be shaking as I waited for my turn. And there was never any feedback, so I applied for a job in America with Harley Davidson.

PK: How did that come about?

JH: I’ve always been a big believer in making stuff happen for yourself. And what else was I going to do? Sit at home and moan?

PK: What was the job?

JH: Content. Social media. I got chatting to the CEO, but by this time RugbyPass had been offloaded by Sky New Zealand and acquired by World Rugby as part of a rights deal. The head of marketing and content was James Rothwell. He said, “Look, we want you to come back in.” I said, “I don’t think World Rugby and me fit.” He said, “Well, hear me out. If you had one opportunity, what would it be?” And I had something in the back of my mind.

PK: The interviews?

JH: Yeah, I said, “You’ve got the World Cup. It’s in France. There’s a lot of people interested in rugby. I hear them on podcasts. I know Jason Momoa loves rugby; I know The Rock loves rugby; I know Henry Cavill comes to rugby. I’ve seen Niall Horan at rugby. How do

I’ve always been a big believer in making stuff happen for yourself.

we bring them into our game?” So we had this idea to do a pitch-side thing — to interview the players as they walked off at half time and follow them into the changing rooms, but that was a step too far.

PK: What do you mean?

JH: It had to be all signed off in contracts in terms of participation.

PK: So you couldn’t go into the changing rooms? JH: No.

PK: That was your plan?

JH: Yeah, that was my pitch, and even to do what we did was a risk. I mean, ITV had paid huge money for the rights and there’s me doing interviews pitch-side! But World Rugby owned the event, and my boss saw it as I saw it. The tagline — and you’ll hear this a lot now — is cultural relevancy. I’ve got young kids. I’ve seen how they consume media. I’m not from the old school. American sports are the barometer — everything they do is culturally relevant. Look at the Super Bowl in Las Vegas — you’ve got music, sport, drama, crime. Everything is thrown into the mix and it builds to this perfect circus. We are the polar opposite, so the World Cup was a snapshot of where we could go, and a big step for them to take.

PK: Sure.

JH: My abiding memory was the interview with Rita Ora. She put her handbag down beside the South African water bottles to take a video with her phone and the broadcast team were going ballistic: ‘Get her off the pitch!’ But I was like, ‘Get her on the f **king pitch!’ Let’s cause carnage! Let’s rip up the blueprint of how things have always been done. But it was stressful at times because we didn’t know who we’d get. There was no script.

PK: You were doing everything on the hoof ? JH: Literally on the hoof. So I’m on camera and I’m told, “We’ve got George Russell!” I’m like, “Who’s George Russell?” “The Formula 1 driver with Mercedes.” So it’s, “Right, we’re here with George Russell, the Formula 1 rider, I mean driver.”

PK: (Laughs)

JH: I think that got about 10 million views — 10 million views in rugby! I came away that night and thought, ‘We’ve f **king nailed this!’ Because that’s what people want. They don’t want to hear about the offload or how someone is setting up for a drop kick ... well, some people want that, but for most people it’s, “Oh my God! What’s George Russell doing?”

PK: “Why does he like rugby?”

JH: Yeah, so then I doubled down. I’d talk about the players as gladiators, which I believe, and as some of the greatest athletes in the world. A perfect example was Javier Bardem and the respect he had for the game. He’s like, “I can’t believe I’m here.”

PK: How much of a heads up did you get with that?

JH: Well, I knew he liked rugby, so I said to my boss. “Get him whatever he wants and ask him to come pitch-side.”

PK: What about Rory and Shane?

JH: Ahh, they were mad keen. They’re big rugby fans, aren’t they? And not just rugby fans, they’re Ireland fans.

PK: That got a lot of traction back home. JH: And the Ryder Cup was the following week, so it was almost like, ‘this is the smartest thing we’ve ever done.’ Because we had two golf stars pitch-side and you’ve [Shane] sponsored by Mastercard, so they’re loving it. Ireland are loving it because they’re wearing Ireland shirts; Canterbury are loving it because it’s a Canterbury shirt; the commentators are talking about it; the golf channels are sharing it ... it was crazy.

PK: How are you so good at this? Have you thought about that? JH: No. PK: You must have thought about it? JH: I swear I haven’t. PK: What’s in you that makes you so good at this?

JH: I think I like people, and I think — I actually know this — that you have to have an emotional intelligence in terms of how far you can push the boundaries and feel your way. I’ve always had to feel my way through life, as a youngster ... my background, living on a council estate, and I keep coming back to this point: No one else is going to do it for you.

PK: At what stage of your life did you realise that? JH: Very early. PK: Take me back there. Your father was Jim? JH: Yeah. PK: Is he still alive? JH: Yeah, but I don’t speak to him, and that’s been one of the hardest things to migrate; having a dad who was vacant the whole time; needing and yearning the love of a role model.

PK: Which you never had?

JH: Never, so I was latching on to that always. PK: Susan was your mother. JH: Yeah. PK: Do you have contact with her? JH: No. PK: None at all? JH: No. PK: You’ve a sister? JH: Yeah. PK: Is she younger? JH: Yeah. PK: Have you a good relationship with her? JH: No.

PK: Why not?

JH: Because we both have this kind of trauma, and she deals with it in a different way to me. PK: You were born in Swindon?

JH: Yeah, but I’ve no affiliation to Swindon. It was a military hospital, Tidworth, so [I was] just registered in Swindon.

PK: Registered?

JH: Yeah, I mean we lived in Germany, my sister was born in Northern Ireland. Mum and dad divorced in ’91, the Gulf War, and we moved to Coventry.

PK: You were nine?

JH: Yeah.

PK: An age when boys look to their dads. Was there ever anything there?

JH: There was a desperation. Even now, and I’m better now, I feel it. I’d say the biggest void in my life, without getting emotional about it, would be not having a dad. That’s been the hardest thing, loving down but not up, having no parents to guide. Because I look at my wife and she’s the complete opposite.

PK: A strong family connection?

JH: Yeah, and I find [that] — and this is weird — uncomfortable sometimes. They all go in and they’re hugging and stuff like that and I’m ... I’m not a hugger. If I hug an adult I feel really weird, really uncomfortable, so it’s amazing that she’s got that. But everyone has their own story, don’t they? And I understand a bit more now about my dad. He lost his parents when he was 15 and joined the military. He went through the Falklands War, Iraq ... and I don’t know the relationship between him and my mum, but he probably had a drink problem like all the squaddies did. They’d come back and get rinsed down the pub and start scrapping. PK: So your parents divorce and your mother moves to Coventry?

JH: Yeah, to a small council flat, extremely poor. My mum is half Chinese, and we had some aunties there. She worked in a shoe shop. It was f **king tough.

PK: And she can’t fill that void for you either? JH: No, she’s cold as they come. She’s had a troubled life as well, no relationship with her mum, no relationship with her dad ...

PK: She was never loved and couldn’t give it? JH: Exactly that, and you know, I’ve gone deep into trying to be the bigger man but I haven’t got it in me. There’s a big void there.

PK: How did you end up in foster care?

JH: I’d be fighting all the time. Constantly. I’d be fighting for me, fighting for my sister, fighting with my mum, because it’s her fault your dad is not there. And she’s got other fellas or whatever, so it’s a cry for help isn’t it? Running away from home; getting suspended from school; I mean you’ve heard this story a million times before but that was it. That was me. I was on the streets and got put into a home, so I’ve done the rounds. Sometimes I go back and drive around ...

PK: Back to Coventry?

JH: Yeah, I went with my son and tried to explain a few things to him, but there’s a lot of questions. A lot of gaps in that space in my mind. What happened here? Did it really f **king happen?

PK: You’ve said that rugby saved you?

JH: One hundred per cent.

PK: How did it start?

JH: Well, I wanted to join the army, that was the trajectory of my ambition. All my mates and stuff went into the marines but I went down to Aldershot and failed the medical — morbidly obese on the height/weight ratio. So that was a big turning point in terms of what direction I was going to go. I played a bit of rugby at school and wasn’t any good but I could scrap, which was the heartbeat of what rugby was about for a forward in the late ‘90s. I was playing at a club called Barkers Butts and there’s loads of small anecdotes you wouldn’t believe ...

PK: Stick with how you joined Leicester.

JH: I was playing for Warwickshire under 18s versus Leicester under 18s, and this is not me polishing a story but I was the worst player on the pitch. Then a big fight kicked off and I came into my own. Anyway, I thought no more of it and went back to Barkers Butts and the phone went at the club, a guy called Dusty Hare said they wanted to bring James Hamilton to Leicester for a trial. I had no idea who Dusty Hare was. Then Dean Richards called, and I had no idea who he was either, but I went down with a mate and was put into this academy set-up. They found me a job on a building site in Coventry, and I’d get the bus via Hinkley to the training ground every Tuesday and Thursday. Then it accelerated quite quickly and I was all-in. Deano [Richards] saw something in me that maybe no one else did. I can’t speak highly enough of the man. He saved my life in giving me that foundation and that opportunity.

PK: You said on a recent podcast that the only photograph you’ve put up at home is a team photo from your time at Leicester.

JH: Yeah, Matt [Hampson] has the same one [a pre-season photo at Welford Road in the summer of 2004]. There’s some legends on there. PK: Leo Cullen is not there?

JH: No.

PK: He arrived a year later.

JH: Yeah.

PK: You think a lot of him.

JH: Leo Cullen changed the direction of my career. I was a rogue player on that team, loose, on the piss, fighting, not taken seriously. Then they brought Leo in. At first, I was pissed off because I had come through the Leicester system and thought I was next in line behind Johnno [Martin Johnson] and Ben Kay.

PK: And Leo played in the same position? JH: Yeah, why would they bring him in? But instead of seeing me as a challenge, he took me under his wing and changed the direction of my career.

PK: How?

JH: Because I was a ‘two’ jumper, I wanted to be the next Martin Johnson, but Leo was like, “Have you thought about being a middle jumper?” I said, “No, they’re more athletic.” He said, “No, I’m a middle jumper. I call the lineouts,” and that was a game changer for me. And just sitting with him I thought, ‘I can see a bit of me here.’ He was very similar to me because, with respect, he wasn’t a gifted athlete but a tough f **ker. Just tough. Horrible. Knarly. But in a different way to the way Martin Johnson did it. So he started helping me with the lineouts and it changed the path for me financially as well because I was now this number four who could call a lineout, and calling a lineout was gold back then. So I love Leo. I absolutely love him. I love the way he conducted himself around the club. I love that he came from Leinster and played like a Tiger and went back to do what he did.

PK: That’s interesting.

JH: Yeah, he’s a special bloke, and that’s not just my experience — speak to anyone from our generation and they would say the same. And the same for Shane Jennings. They lived together, Irish, a bit loose ...

PK: What’s loose mean?

JH: They enjoyed a good time. They opened up and weren’t guarded. We saw the real them. PK: Why couldn’t someone like Martin Johnson give you that?

JH: I think it’s an English thing, a cultural thing ... Leicester ... traditional England. And also with Johnno, I mean, one of the greats of rugby but a very quiet man. Very quiet. Rarely laughed. Doesn’t give you much love. I spent a bit of time with him at the World Cup on a boat going down the Seine with Francois Pienaar, Nick Farr Jones and John Eales and he was the same. I was thinking (laughs), ‘Does he not like me?’ but that’s just the Martin Johnson way, which I like. There’s almost a mystique around it.

PK: Let’s talk about Proximo’s rule. There’s a great scene in Gladiator where Maximus chops off about six heads, throws down his sword, and turns to face the crowd covered in blood. “Are you not entertained? Is this not why you are here?”

JH: Yeah.

PK: He is actually repulsed by what he’s just done.

JH: Yeah.

PK: What about rugby and what the game asks of you?

JH: I love that. There is no greater feeling of being alive than that experience of walking out into a stadium. Historically, men are built for war. They are meant to forage and be outside. It’s meant to be hard. And it may be a fault of my upbringing but it’s what I liked. I would come off the pitch having being shoed, a tooth kicked out, an eyelid reconstructed with 18 stitches and no painkillers and I’d be like, ‘Yeah, I’ve earned this. I like this. It’s what I am.’ I love boxing. I love UFC. For me, the feeling of being hit by another man, and hitting another man, is deep-rooted and primal. I needed that. I’m drawn to it now as a fan. And not everyone feels like that, and that’s fine.

PK: What about the price being paid? You spoke on a recent podcast about the toll on your body when you finished in 2017. “My last moment as a Saracens player was being driven out of the training car park in the back of a Ford Mondeo, then I went through two years of absolute hell.”

JH: Yeah.

PK: It seems to me that there’s a split now, or a difference of opinion within the game, with how to address its concussion problem. You interviewed Courtney Lawes recently.

JH: Yeah.

PK: Here’s something he said to The Times: “Rugby has become an easy target for ill-informed critics and someone needs to stand up for the virtues of the sport because those in charge, spooked by legal cases from a different era, are too busy playing a public relations game to realise the damage being done and the opportunities being missed.” JH: Yeah. PK: Have you read Sam Peters’ book? JH: No. I’ve heard mixed things about Sam — some really great things about the research he’s done, and some other things based on social media interactions, so I’m not sure. I’m not sure about Sam. I’m not sure about Progressive Rugby [the player welfare group]. I’m not sure about the tone of voice being used. There’s an aggressive push about what should have been done, or what we think was misguided, when I don’t know for sure. And I don’t think he knows.

PK: He might say you’re commercially conflicted. That you’re now a part of World Rugby and the governing bodies?

JH: Forget the World Rugby thing. That was 12 months ago, and I’ve called them out on plenty of things. I don’t think there’s anyone better placed than players like Courtney Lawes that have played the game. We’re both going to have struggles. It’s undeniable. I’m 40. I’ve had thyroid surgery. I’ve got diverticulitis in my gut which is a byproduct of taking too many painkillers and anti-inflammatories. I should be as negative as hell about it!

PK: Well, I have read Sam’s book, and one of the things that jumped out at me was when Lewis Moody was knocked out at the 2007 World Cup.

JH: I remember it.

PK: And not just once but f**king twice in the same game.

JH: Mental.

PK: And we sat there looking at it thinking this was OK! JH: That he’s a warrior. PK: That was not OK. JH: No, it wasn’t, and there have been loads of instances where it’s not OK. When I was at Gloucester, we went down to London for a meal one night and I felt a bit weird. Someone in the restaurant took a picture and there was a flash before my eyes, and I didn’t know what was wrong. I thought I was going to die. It went on for months, so I flew up to see James Robson [the Scotland team doctor]: “James, there’s something not right with me.” I went to Dundee for scans and they thought it was some kind of virus, or an inner-ear problem. So I’m doing these vestibular exercises for months. I’m captain of Gloucester. I’m in the changing room. I’m dizzy. I didn’t miss a game. I didn’t miss a training session. Our first child was due. I’m in Momas and Papas in the Bullring in Birmingham and I feel like I’m about to faint. That was concussion, but it wasn’t even mentioned. No one knew ... well, no one in my circle knew.

PK: What about later when there was an awareness? When doctors like Willie Stewart were talking about it? When Barry O’Driscoll was going berserk about the way it was being handled?

JH: I can’t control what’s been done.

PK: You could make sure it doesn’t happen again.

JH: Yeah, one hundred per cent, and I’m big on this: I don’t think kids should be doing contact at the age of 13. And there’s too many games being played.

PK: And yet the line from World Rugby has consistently been: “Player welfare is our number one concern.” That’s absolute bollocks. JH: Yeah.

PK: You agree?

JH: I think that’s what they believe, and I genuinely believe their intentions are right, but they don’t know, do they? I mean, how can you watch those two quarter-finals at the World Cup and say, “This is safe!” I was pitch-side thinking, ‘This is f **king insane! They should be paid a million pounds!’ Why? Because they are doing one of the most unsafe jobs in the world. So it’s difficult, and the tone of it all is very passive aggressive.

PK: What do you mean?

JH: Emotion — even now, with you. You’re not as relaxed as you were a moment ago when we were talking about other stuff. And even me — I’m sitting forward in the chair. PK: (laughs) JH: No, you can feel it. I can see it. We’re getting a bit more heated. PK: I have no skin in the game at all. JH: But you have an opinion on it. PK: Yeah, based on what I’ve read, and that I watch most games now through my fingers. JH: So you have an emotive opinion on it? PK: Yes, and it’s rooted in something Peters says:

“The people I hold most responsible for the mess rugby is in now, are the senior medics who spoon-fed the PR and commercial guys precisely what they wanted to hear, defending the indefensible when it came to player welfare after rugby went professional.”

JH: OK.

PK: No?

JH: OK, well again if that’s the case what am I meant to do about it? It’s like saying you shouldn’t have done this, or you shouldn’t have done that, but I did. We’re playing Argentina at the World Cup in 2011 and my best mate, Kelly Brown, gets flatlined and I know it’s not good. I’m about to come on in the [Premiership] final against Bath when Alister Hargreaves gets flatlined and I know that’s not good. But I still come on. I make the decision. I take painkillers for that concussion I had in 2013. I [con] the cog tests that are in play. Whose fault was that? That was my fault.

PK: Is that what you’d say to the players who have joined the legal suit against World Rugby? “You knew the risk. Suck it up.”

JH: No, I wouldn’t say that. I’ve got some very good friends on that list who are struggling, but there’s a lot to get through with this. And I’m the same as a lot of those people on the list. I have brain fog. I don’t feel great. I have ups and downs. I’m annoyed that I played for six months when I was concussed; that I wasn’t really present when my first child was born, but am I going to say, “That’s your fault?” No, I’m not.

PK: The impression from what you’re saying is that they’re doing it for the money? That the players are taking this suit because of where they find themselves in life?

JH: Not all of them.

PK: Some of them?

JH: Everyone has their own story. I know more than you know about the people that are on that list, and more than Sam [Peters] knows, and some of them are one hundred per cent genuine. You look at Michael Lipman, I’ve played against him. I’m gutted for him. Doddie Weir. Ed Slater. Hambo [Matt Hampson]. I lived with him. He broke his neck playing rugby! His life changed forever. So it’s not like I’m on the outside looking in and passing judgment on everything that we’re seeing.

PK: Sure.

JH: There’s no doubt that there’s an underlying issue about what could have been done, and what should have been done. I mean I could sit here and name three coaches that told me to do stuff: ‘What? You were told to have an injection. You were told you had to play.’ But what’s happened has happened. So I’m unapologetic about my views, but I’m also very empathetic. And I have children. I have a wife who saw me crawling through the front door, vomiting and having back spasms. I’ve been there and done it.

PK: How did you meet your wife?

JH: I knew her sister played netball for England and met her by the cigarette machine in Jumping Jacks ... romantic! How else are you going to meet in Coventry? If it’s not Jumping Jacks its Wetherspoons.

PK: And you’ve four kids?

JH: Yeah, JJ, Jack James, is 13, and then a daughter, Phoebe, 10. And then twins, Max and Freya, who are six.

PK: Is JJ going to play rugby?

JH: He’s played. He’s playing basketball for Scotland under 14s, which is great for him, but he’s in that rugby circle now and watching Duhan van der Merwe doing what he did in the Calcutta Cup and wants a piece of that. PK: What does his mother say? JH: I can see she’s not one hundred per cent comfortable. At that level the collisions aren’t that big but they’re still taking contact, so I’m mixed on it. I am. And I’m quite happy to say that. I’m not sure.

PK: That’s a big thing to say. JH: Yeah.

PK: And a big thing for you to say. JH: Yeah, I’ve said to him (laughs): “If you can play basketball and take your family to the NBA, please do it son.”