Townsend - Talk of the Toony: The Autobiography of Gregor Townsend

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I began the process of writing this book when I recorded a diary during the 2003 World Cup. Writing it on my own has been a much more cathartic experience than I imagined it would be and hopefully the book is a true reflection of my career and how I approached the game. One of the great benefits is that it has given me reason to reflect on those individuals who had a profound impact on my life and those who have helped me achieve so much. Many of them players, coaches, journalists and friends I didnt realize or appreciate at the time. Sincere thanks to all for the support you have shown me over the years. Id also like to thank all the doctors and physios that have treated me: their good judgment kept me playing well into my thirties.

I would like to thank all those who have assisted with the book. To Tom Whiting and his fantastic team at HarperSport thanks for your guidance and enthusiasm. Others who have been of great help are Allan Massie and Mike Green for their expertise and constructive criticism. Thank you also to Clive Woodward for permission to reproduce his letter; to Henry Douglas for allowing me to abridge his wonderful Kingdom of the Game, and to Chris Cusiter for coming up with the title. A special word to Jamie Crawford from Crawford and Pearlstine whose advice, support and encouragement have been invaluable.

Finally, I must express gratitude to my wife Claire and our young boys, Christian and Luke for all your love and support. The book has taken me a year longer to write than I had planned and their patience and understanding during those frequent vigils at my computer have provided comfort and strength.

GREGOR TOWNSEND

Full name: Gregor Peter John Townsend

Date of birth: 26 April 1973

Place of birth: Edinburgh, Scotland

Height and weight: 1.83m, 93kg

Position: Fly-half, Centre, Full-back

School: Galashiels Academy

Further Education: University of Edinburgh, Aston University

Club Career

International Career

Inspiration starts with aspiration.

Mary Lyon

Craig, my brother, was inconsolable. He was trying hard to hold back the tears. I asked him what had happened.

Someones called off Im going to have to tell the others we cant play.

For the previous month hed been organizing a team to enter the Ward Sevens the highlight of the rugby calendar for any Gala youth. He had managed to recruit six of his mates from the ward we lived in a ward being a designated area of the town but he had just found out on the morning of his big day that one of the team was down with the flu. He couldnt enter a side with six players and so his hopes of winning the 1980 Under-10 trophy seemed lost.

I saw an opportunity and I wasnt going to let it pass me by.

Dad, if I play then there would still be a team.

No chance youve never played a game of rugby before.

But Ive run about with Craigs friends lots of times.

No.

Since the age of five I had been going to mini-rugby sessions on a Sunday morning and had joined in with the older boys who played touch rugby in the dead-ball area of Netherdale after Gala matches had ended. I knew I would be fine in my brothers team. For the next ten minutes I pleaded with my parents to allow me to take part. I had just turned seven years old and they were obviously very reluctant to let me play. However, faced with two screaming kids, it wasnt long before we persuaded them to change their minds. Craig was given instructions that I was to be picked as a winger and only involved in play as a last resort.

As I ran out on the Netherdale pitch on a sun-drenched afternoon, the days events flashed by. My mum said it was comical it looked like everyone else was a foot taller than me. I only received two passes throughout the day, but she said I got a huge cheer both times I touched the ball. We went on to win the tournament and I remember spending the evening taking the trophy round the houses in our ward. And so, in the same weekend that Mount St Helens erupted in North America, my love affair with the game began.

I was brought up in the town of Galashiels (or Gala as it is better known locally), which is situated right at the very heart of the Scottish Borders. It is a busy town on the A7 road from Edinburgh to Carlisle and lies in the bottom of the steep-sided valley of the Gala Water, a mile upstream from its confluence with the River Tweed. Other Borderers from rival towns sometimes disparagingly call Gala people pail mercs. This refers to us being allegedly the last town in the Borders to get indoor plumbing, thus leaving pail mercs (local dialect for bucket marks) on the backsides of those using the outside toilets. I have myself been abused as a pail merc (amongst other things) at Mansfield Park in Hawick.

Gala folk much prefer to be known as Braw Lads or Lasses. The Braw Lads Gathering in late June is one of several summer festivals in the Borders and is the focal point of the local calendar, with hundreds of horse riders marking boundaries around the town. The day also commemorates the towns history, notably an incident in 1337 when a party of English soldiers, resting nearby after picking and eating wild plums that had made them ill, were surprised and defeated by a band of locals. Im amazed Mel Gibson hasnt made the story into a film yet!