Joe Marler - Loose Head: Confessions of an (un)professional rugby player

Joe Marler is one of the biggest names and most recognisable faces in English rugby. He signed for Harlequins when he was seventeen and his professional career has been as unconventional as his colourful haircuts, offbeat interviews and eclectic set of bans. Despite retiring and un-retiring twice from international rugby, Joe has won 71 caps, toured with the British and Irish Lions and played for the iconic Barbarians. He first played rugby for Eastbourne Sharks at the age of eleven. Now in his thirties, he is one of the best loosehead props in the world and helped the England team reach the World Cup final in Japan. This is his first book.

For Daisy, Jasper, Maggie & Felix

When the ball is up in the air and its a perfect kick, it doesnt matter how great it looks, cos theres no telling which way its going to bounce when it hits the floor. Thats a bit like life, isnt it? You think its going great one minute and all looks wonderful, but you never know which way its going to take you.

If I were a horse, you could take me to water and ask me, Hey, horsey, do you want to have a drink or do you want to swim?

Im not sure if Id be a slightly Irish horse or whether Id just whinny in my own East Sussex accent, but I know Id reply as quick as a wink, I want to go out on Saturday. I want to clippity-clop all the way to the Stoop and I want to say hello to the fans.

I signed for Harlequins when I was a lardy, wayward 17-year-old, and for 13 years Ive lived every rugby boys dream, winning 71 caps for England, touring with the British and Irish Lions, being called up by the Barbarians and playing in the World Cup final in Japan.

It hasnt all been plain clippity-clopping, though. For a start, I never set out to be a professional rugby player. My body decided rugby was what I should do long before my head caught up with the idea. My attitude was even later to the party much, much later. To tell you the truth, I think it only properly showed up in the last year or so.

I havent taken the most conventional route to the top of my sport and Im not the most professional player in the game. Not by a long chalk. Ive retired and unretired twice from the England squad and my charge sheet is eclectic, to say the least. But it takes all sorts, as they say. And how boring life would be if we all trotted along in an orderly fashion, keeping our noses down and never refusing to drink the water.

This book is not about putting an egg-shaped ball over the whitewash. Its a rugby tour with a difference, an eye-opening journey through the professional rugby bubble, in and out of my topsy-turvy career and inside my (occasionally loose) head.

Well visit my red-mohawk and red-mist moments. Well stop off for beers with some of the worlds top players and find out why they have names like Sloshbucket, Snorlax and Spidey. And well have a peek behind the curtains of the England team hotels and training camps.

Along the way well pass through some gates Fondlegate and Gypsygate, to name a couple of them. Well drop in for a chat with Eddie Jones and say hello to royalty, celebrities and the wonderful cast of fans that cross our path. Well also look back at the hard men and amateur-era players who blazed the trail for todays modern game, soaking up some history and tradition as we go.

If you want to know what goes on when the ref cant see, step this way. Well unveil the dark arts (and smells) of the scrum and uncover the naked truths and psychological secrets of playing your best game.

Therell be excursions into rugbys inner sanctum: the dope tests, the gym, the dressing room and the team meetings. If you dare, have a look beneath the surgical gowns to find out what happens when a players body goes through the equivalent of 30 car crashes in every game.

As for onboard entertainment, Ill tell you whats tickled me, as well as the occasions when Ive been the butt of the joke (quite a few times, it turns out). Theres a catastrophic game of credit card roulette; naked wrestling in the England camp; barber-shop disasters in Japan; the curious incident of the tramp on Wellington harbour; the player who bought a car he couldnt fit his 20-stone arse into (thatll be me).

I dont mind a laugh at my expense. But be prepared. We might hit the occasional pothole in the road, moments when I have a meltdown and press the emergency stop button. Well deal with those when weve got a few miles under our belt.

Up and down like a rugby ball, never knowing which way Ill bounce. Thats how it goes. Ive learned to take the rough with the smooth and I count my blessings every day.

Im very lucky to be a professional rugby player. Its taken me to places I could never have imagined and Ive learned so much. Not just about how to be a rugby player, but also about how the whole big rugby bubble bounces along, and how to look after yourself when youre in it.

Its a privilege to have the chance to share it all. Are you ready to go? Please sit back and enjoy the tour.

Got your kit sorted?

I looked up and saw the bent nose and the huge squashed brow. It was Martin Johnson, Englands best ever captain, booming down at me from his great height.

Intimidating doesnt even begin to cover it. Id watched him lifting the 2003 World Cup on telly when I was a fat 13-year-old. He was one of the most phenomenal players the country had ever seen. Now here he was, not just standing in front of me, but eye-balling me at the start of my first England training camp in February 2010.

Yes, I squeaked. The kit man sorted me out.

So youre good to go? Good to train, are you?

I detected an edge to his voice. Yeah, Im good to go I was shifting my weight from one foot to the other and mumbling my words. It wasnt the impression I wanted to give to one of rugbys hardest men.

Well, he barked, youre gonna have to get rid of that fucking stupid haircut before you do!

I blushed. Did Martin Johnson really just say that? Was he serious? I was confused as well as shocked, because what did my haircut have to do with him, with rugby? He stalked off and I glanced around awkwardly, wondering what to do next.

The call-up to the England squad had come from another rugby legend, Graham Rowntree, aka Wig, then the England scrummaging coach. Id met him at Harlequins, but I thought it was a mate pissing about when he phoned me out of the blue.

Hi, Joe, its Wig here. Next week, what you up to?

After an embarrassing altercation, during which I declared, Im not falling for this this is a fucking wind-up! I realised it was no joke. Wig told me they had a couple of injured players and he wanted me to train with the squad at Pennyhill Park in Surrey.

Id been playing for Harlequins for a couple of years, but I was still only 19 and not in the best of shape. My imposter syndrome kicked in, massively.