I signed up for rugby knowing I’d break some bones, but not that getting knocked out could lead to dementia

OUR meeting place is the grand Al Naseem Hotel, a few hundred metres from the

Palace of Sheikh Mohammed bin Rashid.

The restaurant is bristling with glamorous guests, dressed head to toe in Gucci and Louis Vuitton, light enough to combat the 37 degree morning heat.

Smart-casual ahead of an afternoon of client meetings, former England hooker Dylan Hartley almost blends in. He is slimmer now, with an expensive new hairline. Only his noticeable limp, as he drags his right leg, sets him apart from the stylish clientele as they glide between the exotic fruits and Arabian buffet.

‘My hip’s f ***** ,’ he says, taking a seat and ordering a black Americano. ‘I’ve got arthritis so I’m getting a replacement. It’s pretty debilitating. I can’t walk properly, I don’t sleep well, can’t tie my shoelaces, struggle to play with my kids, struggle to sit on the toilet. Not that you need to hear about that at breakfast...’

He politely declines the food menu. These days, Hartley only eats between the hours of midday and 6pm. Having spent most of his life in the body-grinding world of professional rugby, he has opted for a healthier lifestyle. Pub lunches in rural Northamptonshire are a thing of the past.

We are here to talk about dementia.

Hartley recorded several concussions during his career, almost becoming a part of the sport’s huge class action case around head injuries, but first he offers an introduction to his new surroundings. ‘It’s a crazy place,’ he says. ‘You can probably go to the Burj next door and get cornflakes sprinkled with gold!

‘It’s seven weeks since we moved out here now. Me, my wife, our two kids. We wanted change. We wanted to get out of our comfort zone in Northampton.

‘Business wise, I jumped before I was pushed. How I was working in the UK was almost like a dirty drug. Bit of corporate, bit of media... it was always there. There was enough to keep you going and it was easy, but for me it wasn’t a sustainable career choice. I needed to take on the real world and that led me here, working in a business development role for Access Hire.

‘They sponsor the Dubai Sharks, so I’m in sales meetings through the week and then I go along to the rugby club to coach on Tuesday and Thursday nights. I love it. It’s stimulating, it’s refreshing.’ Hartley is in good spirits, curious about the state of the nation back home, asking questions about the mood around Liz Truss before the conversation turns to Steve Thompson’s recent documentary about living with early-onset dementia, caused by rugby collisions. Does it resonate with Hartley’s own experiences?

‘Bits of it do, yeah,’ he

says, shuffling into a more purposeful posture. ‘My outlook is that if you look for something then you’ll see it. My symptoms aren’t bad enough for me to think: “S***, I’ve got a problem”. I’m 90-per-cent fine and there’s a few one per-centers that keep me in check: a little bit of dizziness, the odd stutter, dropping things.

‘I was asked to join the same action group as Steve when I retired. I spoke at length with (campaigner and former player) Alix Popham. We had meetings and Zoom calls with doctors and head specialists. I thought about joining but the tone of the conversations, spending my whole time thinking I had dementia at 33 years old... it didn’t make me feel good about myself.

‘It just wasn’t right for me, and my family, to join this group action because it wasn’t putting us in a good place. If you spend your whole day talking and thinking about deteriorating, forgetting your kid’s name etc, how is that going to make you feel?’

For Hartley, the out-of-sight, out-of-mind approach has worked until this point. However, the subject has been impossible to ignore. Together with Dubai-based Aviv Clinics, who are pioneering treatment for traumatic brain injuries, he booked himself in for an assessment which included multiple scans and tests.

‘These guys pursuing the group action have made me have a look at myself and realise that I need to be proactive about my brain and my health,’ he says. ‘The reason I refused to have my brain scanned until this month is because, deep down, I didn’t want to know. If I’m told my brain’s damaged — and I know I’ve had brain injuries, so there probably is some damage — then all I can do is be proactive and focus on all those good things that I’ve talked about.

‘We can’t change the game too much. The game is f ***** beautiful in its raw gladiatorial form. We watch it because we want collisions. We play it because we enjoy collisions. That’s its unique nature. Take that element away and you don’t have rugby. The game needs to remain but with a greater understanding of technique, coaching methods, cultural education around alcohol, philosophies.

‘I was once told to use my head to clear out at the ruck. Not a good idea, is it?’

Pulling at his cauliflower ears that resemble chewed-up dog toys, he adds: ‘In 2011, I smashed into Cian Healy’s knee in the Heineken Cup final and I had a massive lump on my head. We went in at half-time with one hand on the trophy. Then I went into the toilets and this weird thing came over me. I just started crying, breaking down. That, along with the massive lump on my forehead was a clear sign of a head knock. I went out and played the second half and I can’t remember it.

‘That wouldn’t happen now. It would be identified and you’d be off. Then I go out that night and commiserate the loss with a good few pints and do a few silly things that ended up with some hat-in-hand apologies. Education around alcohol and head knocks just weren’t there.

‘Things have changed for the better. You’ve just got to keep moving. Education, education, education. Everyone’s aware of the risks now.

‘I signed up knowing that I’d break some bones, but I didn’t know getting knocked out could lead to dementia. We were almost like guinea pigs.’