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There is nothing like being an England player going to Cardiff to face Wales in a potential title-deciding match. And I should know, because I made an unholy mess of my first attempt.
I was peak arrogant Englishman in 2013 — 22 years old, heading west to seal the Grand Slam. All I could think was, ‘It’s going to be incredible when we lift that trophy on Saturday night’. There was not a sniff of doubt in my mind.
The first inkling of a flaw in my thinking came a few days before. The atmosphere around our team hotel in Cardiff Bay was so hostile we couldn’t even go out for coffees. Then we went to the Millennium Stadium to do our team run. We did our usual drills. On one my standing foot slipped and I went a*** over t**. Usually I was fine with this sort of thing. Instead I felt embarrassed, like my ego had been dented. What was going on here?
Then matchday came. Every metre of street as we drove up to the stadium was lined with people in red jerseys, daffodil hats on, dragons painted on their faces. I was used to Twickenham, where the uniform was yellow cords, brown brogues and Barbour jackets. This was a proper culture clash. It was working-class people, like me. Everyone was giving us the finger, even the kids.
I still didn’t get it. I actually said to myself. ‘Ah-ha, you lot won’t be making those gestures when we’re lifting the trophy in your backyard in a few hours’ time…’
It was teed up perfectly. We were going to go back across the Severn Bridge as heroes.
Mail Sport’s Joe Marler is well aware of the atmosphere that awaits England in Cardiff
It was in 2013 when a 22-year-old Marler underestimated the Welsh in a title-deciding game
Wales dominated England to win the Six Nations – largely in thanks to their fans in the ground
But Wales had a completely different plan. From the first scrum until the last one before I was taken off on 44 minutes, I was in an absolute hole. The noise! The venom! This was history, it was politics. It was poisonous if you were wearing a white shirt. It was like an avalanche, our defeat that day. Our hammering.
I’d run out of the tunnel giddy with excitement. As we were waiting for kick-off, I was so lost in my delusional world that I actually shouted something into the night air: ‘Grand Slam!’
Oh Joe. Oh Joe, oh Joe. When I got the hook, having had my backside handed to me on a plate by Adam Jones, I could hear all the Welsh fans laughing at me. It was so loud I couldn’t hear myself breathe. Was I actually breathing after what Bomb had done to me? It was hard to be sure. I knew one thing — I was never going to be picked for England again. I’d embarrassed myself, my team-mates and my family.
Did it make it better that Mako Vunipola went on instead of me and immediately gave away a penalty at his first scrum? A little. Did I snigger when Mike Brown got hit in the face by a ball thrown by a Welsh player, tried to complain to the referee and got laughed at? Maybe.
Because it was all beautiful, when I reflected on it later. It was one of the greatest atmospheres I ever played in. When you’re in a place that hostile, you either sink or swim. On that day, I sunk like a stone.
But it gave me the experience to cope when I went to similar places. It helped knock that childish arrogance out of me. It turned me into a man.
So I say this to the England boys going down to Cardiff today, who may be looking at Wales’ losing streak and thinking it will be easy. Do not underestimate the power of those fans. Do not underestimate the power of that stadium. And do not underestimate the desire for vengeance from those bruised players. Beat England and their season is saved.
Speaking of which, I found myself in a pickle at times against Wales. You may remember the incident with Alun-Wyn Jones in 2020, when I tickled his fancy in a way I perhaps should not have done.
England have the experience to cope – but should not think Saturday’s game will be easy
Steve Borthwick’s side have an outside chance of winning the Championship in the final game
Well, karma comes at you fast. This week, I had a vasectomy. The urologist who performed the operation turned out to be a debenture holder at the Aviva Stadium in Dublin.
For some reason, he went a little light on the anaesthetic, so when he performed the critical part of the surgery, I went through a level of pain we can probably refer to as 10 AWJs. I deserved it. For 2020, if nothing else.
