Prologue

Having spent several months writing these recollections, I was promptly asked what the point was. On reflection, there isn’t much point at all. I had played for Clwb with around 150 different players, of whom probably a third were non-welsh speakers, a number of others had long since lost contact with the club, leaving perhaps a third of the initial number who might have some minor interest in that which I had written.
But that isn’t the point. I remember discussing with my father the purpose of writing about a topic which may be of interest to only a minority of people. His response was that as long as the book was of interest to him, then that was sufficient. And that is how these recollections have been for me. Sadly, I’m one of these people who has a precise memory for relatively minor events, and for this reason, many of my days with Clwb had stuck in the memory. I therefore decided it was time to put these thoughts to paper, before they began to disappear. Clwb Rygbi always did, and still does, mean a great deal to me, and I managed to make many longstanding friends during my 15 years involvement with it. So, although there may not be a specific purpose to that which follows, I do hope it will help remind some of my colleagues through the years of some of the events, matches, characters and so forth from years gone by. We very rarely get together these days, and so I hope this will assist in bringing back some of those historic memories.
I’ve tried to be as specific as possible without trying to embarrass anyone during this essay. Some things would have been nice to mention, but on the basis that what goes on tour, stays on tour, I’ve decided to omit them. Other tales are quite difficult to describe or explain fully, such as Stumpy falling asleep in Brussels, or Dai Lewis’s winding up Garmon at South Glam Institute. Those of you who were there may recall the events – others may need a fertile imagination.

1. In The beginning
The Autumn of 1983 came as a bit of a shock to the system. Having decided to re-sit my A levels, and having moved into a house on Colum Rd with two school friends, the next task was to decide how to enjoy my spare time and keep fit. My two flatmates were already fully fledged members of the Cymric football team, and it was therefore quite a temptation to join with them in that activity. That would have been the simple, conservative choice for a shy 18 year old just out of school, who had no idea what reception he’d receive from a group of men he’d never met. There was no CRICC in those days, and I therefore had no affiliation with any club – my only rugby had been played in school. Although I knew that the Clwb existed, it nevertheless seemed a better idea to join the football boys.
On reflection, however, I changed my mind. I had always played rugby, and it had always brought so much enjoyment and satisfaction. We’d had such a successful final year in Llanhari, and I knew that many of my rugby-playing colleagues would be lifelong friends. I knew full-well that I would regret deciding to play football for no better reason that my mates were footballers, and I was too scared to mix with people I didn’t know.
So, one evening in October 1983, I stepped off the bus at Glantaf school, and as my two flatmates wandered into the footballers changing room, I marched into the men’s room.
To my surprise, there were some familiar faces there. Huw Atlantic had left Llanhari some years before me, but I recognised him, and he knew me. Also there was Huw Bristol, one of my ex-teachers in school. The sight of the 2 of them made me feel more at home, and I was conscious and grateful that they kept a fatherly eye over me during that early period.
My primary concern had been that nobody would involve me during any of the training sessions. I should have known better. One of the familiar faces belonged to Dafydd Hywel, the coach at time, who took me under his wing me as if he were welcoming a member of his family. I don’t believe anyone had such a positive impact on the club until Neil Cole arrived about a decade later. Alongside DH, I also received a warm welcome from Butchie, another of those whom I would respect increasingly as the years went by. The only other person who I was introduced to that first night was Charlie, who was introduced as Charles, which I believed was his first name for the next few months.
So there it was. My first training session with Clwb Rygbi was complete, and I had already been given the nickname of “young pup”. Sadly, with the nature of the club, I would be the young pup for many seasons to come. Little did I know that night that I had begun a relationship which would take me into the next century.

2. We can be heroes…
During the course of the next 15 seasons or so, there were a number of individuals who stood out for one reason or another. Some players were available every Saturday, others were available every Monday and Saturday, and there were those who were quite happy to contribute to the off-field activities. All of these people played their part in the survival of the club. You could say that the same applied to those who only filled a gap once or twice, but it was those who contributed from one season to the next who stood out.
Nowadays, the club has a Captain’s board. All of those whose names appear on the list are doubtless very proud of this acknowledgement. Captaining this club is more than a commitment on the field of play, and involves much preparation work during the week. The most recent captains are achieving a two-season length of service, which is only fair given the associated responsibilities of the role. I was fortunate that my stint as captain co-incided with Butchie’s two year coaching spell, and, as one who had also captained the side, he was more than a helping hand in running the club. As a result, a third term of captaincy was less onerous for me. Taking these factors into consideration, one’s gaze is inevitably drawn towards the name of Wyn Lewis on the captain’s board, who captained for four seasons during the late 70s.
When I joined the club, Wyn’s career was drawing to a close, it appeared. He did, somehow, manage to cling on for another 5 seasons though. Team selection in those days was a pretty straight-forward affair, as Frankie, Brian and Wyn were always available, and were therefore the first names on the sheet. To those of us playing at the time, the names Frankie, Brian and Wyn were as common as Morecambe and Wise, or Marks and Spencer. The three were close friends, very good individuals, and a terrific unit. We would very rarely find ourselves under pressure up front, which was astounding given the lack of weight which was coming from behind the front row. It was testament to each of their respective skills.
Each of the three were different in their styles of play. Frankie had a permanent smile on his face, masking his determination. His presence each week was a lesson to us all, as he travelled down from Crickhowell every Saturday, and often on a Monday.
Brian was a different kettle of fish. You didn’t expect to see a smile on his face on a regular basis. He was a born winner, and woe-betide anyone who stood in the way of his achieving this. I’ll never forget the day down in Baglan, when, having been sent off, he continued his tirade of abuse towards the referee as he trudged back to the changing room. He expected standards from everyone, be they players or referees.
When I was first selected for the first team, still only 18 years of age, I knew that there were some who believed I was too young to be representing the firsts. I suspected Brian was among those who felt this. I remember rising from a scrum where we’d been under extreme pressure, and Brian looked me in the eye and asked if I knew which way I was supposed to be pushing! That’s just how he was on the field, a competitor who wanted to win at all costs.
But Wyn was different again. He was technically an outstanding scrummager, there was no doubt about that, and I learned a lot from him during those early years. We had our traditional strength in depth in the back row, so my early opportunities came in the second row. You can imagine the disappointment Wyn must have felt, knowing that while Frankie was enjoying the aggression, strength and experience of Dafydd Idris behind him, he had a puny teenager leaning on his buttocks. But Wyn had patience, and would regularly spend time with me discussing matches and how we could improve matters.
As a player, Wyn belonged to a different generation. Rugby had progressed to the stage where front row players had to handle and run with the ball. While this was natural progress for Brian and Frankie, for Wyn, it posed a problem. Each Monday night, we’d be sent on a run through the dark streets of Gabalfa, while Wyn would wait patiently for us in Glantaf. His reasoning was that if he ever received the ball in open play, all he intended doing was hit the deck and set up a ruck. The irony was that although this was said in jest, we all knew that if he ever did receive the ball, this was exactly what he would do. The game to him was won and lost in the front row.
After the game came his opportunity to relax with a pint of Brown and Bitter mix. I never met anybody else who drank this.
Wyn supported the running of the club for several seasons, whether that be as captain, or in another committee role. While he was chairman of the club, we reached the third round of the Brewers Cup, which saw us pitted against Tregaron. Conveniently, some of the club’s former players had close links with the BBC, and it was agreed that the match should be filmed and shown on Rugby Special, or the equivalent. In the lead up to the report on the game, various interviews were conducted, including one with Wyn in his capacity as club chairman. Given Wyn’s fairly natural Welsh, we might have been advised to elect a different speaker, in particular when he came out with the memorable line, which doesn’t translate, explaining that the match was going to be “twff”.
Wyn’s contribution to the club extended from just rugby, to being one of the founder players of the club’s cricket team. There were a number of extremely talented cricketers around at the time, including more than one wicketkeeper. Someone like Gareth Charles was a natural keeper, who obviously played at a higher level than the Cardiff and District midweek league. Of course there would be occasions when Charlie was unavailable, and on these days, Wyn would be handed the gloves. To be fair, Wyn wasn’t bad, but there was a world of difference between him and Charlie. Charlie would catch the ball tidily, and occasionally whip off the bails in a flash. Wyn, on the other hand, had a good eye for the ball, but would often hold the ball on the second grasp, or as the ball bounced off his chest or pads. Then, when the opportunity arose, instead of whipping off the bails, he’d take out all three stumps while trying to stump someone, and we’d spend another 10 minutes rebuilding the wicket again.
For those of us with recollections of those days, perhaps the fondest memory is that of his appearance. Most of the players were playing regularly at weekends, and were happy to invest in expensive kit. In contrast, Wyn would be there in a pair of flared white jeans, which always had a habit of coming loose from his pads and would flap about as he ran around.
Throughout my first few seasons with the clwb, Wyn was amongst the most prominent characters, and one of the most influential. I learned a lot from him, both from a rugby perspective, but also in relation to the commitment necessary to be a member of a club like this.
By the time I finished playing in 1996, I was one of the longest-standing active members of the club. There were a few players, such as Eryl Jones and Paul Thomas, who had playing careers which had mirrored mine, but both had had periods away from clwb for one reason or another. But there was one individual who was a fixture within the club, who was still there watching the day I finished. That person was Steve Lloyd. It’s a cliché to some extent, but every club needed, and needs someone like Steve.
I was unaware and unappreciative of his contribution during those early seasons. The first time I met him was on the night of a Clwb sports quiz, which I think he had arranged, in the coal exchange. My only recollection of the evening was that Steve knew anything and everything relating to sport. This was displayed again some time later when Steve represented the club successfully on a sports quiz programme on S4C.
But as the years passed, it was Steve’s organisational skills which came to the fore. He accepted a post on the committee, and was a common factor during the changing years of the late eighties and early nineties, when a number of his peers left the committee and the club. When there were issues during this period, Steve was still an available, experienced head to turn to for advice. I recall in 1995, when the Clwb travelled to Pwllheli for a cup match the weekend before Christmas, and Steve drove himself up in order to retain his contact with the club, and I seem to remember he didn’t take much persuading to stay the night in Aberystwyth to celebrate our victory.
But I suppose the majority of us will remember his willingness and attention to detail in organising each year’s tour. Most of us were more than willing to tour, but had little or no interest in its organisation. I wouldn’t have wished the responsibility of 20 tourists on one of my enemies. I shudder to imagine the number of times he must have apologised for the language on the ferry, or how many times he made excuses to hotel owners.
Further to that, there was his role in shepherding the troops out of the bars or into the buses. And what was the general response? Some would obey his wishes and return to the bus immediately. Others had no intention of going anywhere until their drinks were finished, after which they would usually stop in a shop before slowly making their way to the bus. By the time they returned to the bus, the ones who’d gone previously would be playing football in the car park, and would also need cajoling back onto the bus. I guess that after a season or two’s practice, Steve had probably realised it needed an hour or more notice in order to get the boys back onto the bus.
Steve’s greatest virtue during this time was his patience. I can only think that he psyched himself up for the tour weeks prior to travelling, to prepare himself for the friendly abuse he’d receive for those three or four days. It was once and only once that I suspect I saw Steve beginning to lose his cool, and that was during our memorable night in the bar in Limoges. Martin Grundy was on top form, and as someone complimented Steve on his tour arranging, so Martin broke into a verse of “Lloydy Lloydy,Lloydy Lloydy, does neb yn waith na Lloydy; Lloydy Lloydy, Lloydy Lloydy does neb yn waith na Lloydy”, which might translate along the lines as, “there’s no-one worse than Lloydy”. This rendition reduced the majority of us to weak-kneed hysterics, which only fuelled Martin’s enthusiasm to repeat the verse, and then again, and then again…
We were still laughing when he went at it for the fifth time, and perhaps even the tenth time, but by this stage, I think I could see that Steve had had enough. “ That’s enough Martin,” was about all he said, but it was enough for us to know that he no longer found it amusing. Unfortunately, Martin still found it hilarious, and was still singing as he was carried out of the bar, and left unconscious on top of a car. But as a true tourist, he had no intention of wasting good drinking time, and he soon re-appeared at the door, still singing “Lloydy Lloydy, Lloydy Lloydy...”
During the course of my 15 season’s involvement with the club, I was lucky enough to play with a number of outstanding players. Some of these stayed for long periods, others for a short term as they used the club as a stepping stone to move onto a bigger club.
There were of course other, less talented players, who committed themselves fully to the club from one season to the next. These players were the foundation of the club, who kept us in existence during good times and bad. There were very few players who could feature in both the categories above – the real star performers who could be depended upon week in week out, rain or shine. Of this small group, there was one individual who stood out.
During the nineties, Alun Coch accepted the responsibility for organising the club’s “fantasy rugby” competition. Each player had a value, and all club members had a sum of money with which to buy a team. A few of the players were given nicknames(Fingers etc), including John Hayes who was named as the “King”. That was the feeling and respect we had for him.
I was captain of the club when John joined, and as such I didn’t really get to appreciate his skills as he played for the second team, and I saw no further than the firsts. My first recollection is a conversation with Butchie, a day or two after John’s first major injury against Bryncethin. Butchie’d seen John play and it was immediately apparent that he viewed John’s impending absence as a major loss.
John returned of course the following season, and I soon saw what a skilful player he was. At the time, as a flanker, he displayed the speed, vision, bravery and confidence to stand out on a weekly basis. He subsequently moved to the middle of the back row, from where he was able to demonstrate his handling skills and timing. I have no doubt that John would have succeeded playing at a higher level, but fortunately for us, he was quite content. His presence each Saturday was always a positive factor on the rest of the team, in the same way that infrequent absence affected us negatively.
I remember one occasion when I was captain, John called me aside one Monday evening as we were pre-season training in Llandaff. I had already been preaching that the forthcoming season would see us drop players who failed to train on a regular basis. As John approached, he told me that he had some bad news. All manor of thoughts passed through my mind. He was leaving Cardiff? Worse still, he was joining another club? He was retiring? No, what he wanted to explain was that he was going to attend an evening class which would prevent him training on a Monday. Despite this, he wanted to continue playing, and understood therefore that he’d only be selected for the seconds. You can imagine my relief, and instant review of policy, deciding that “no train, no game” was unrealistic, and besides, rules are made to be broken. John played for the firsts throughout the following season.
As the years passed, John became more active off the field too, completing his duty of a season or two on the committee. But it’s his rugby which will stay in the mind. I can only imagine the psychological effect breaking a leg can have on someone, but to do this twice and return to action must take some doing. I was there the first time, down at Morganstown, when John took a typical tap penalty and charged towards the defence. He didn’t get up afterwards, and after some attention, he was helped on his way to CRI.
A season or two later, and the scenario was repeated, with him charging towards Blaenavon’s pack. Again, there was a crack, and John was left grounded. I wasn’t there of course on that occasion, having already made my way to the infirmary in Sion Clwyd’s car. It was a bizarre situation, with the doctor carrying out my x-ray telling me that one of my colleagues was next in. I doubted his word, knowing how many rugby players turn up there each weekend. But no, there was John, lying dejectedly on the trolley anticipating another stint in plaster. I’m sure that any normal individual under these circumstances, and playing at this level, would have called it a day, but not John. He was there again the following season, and it’s tribute to him that he had the courage and skill to be able to return to his previous levels again.

Similarly to Steve Lloyd, Darran Phillips has been a constant feature within the club for the past 15 seasons or more, without ever being a regular fixture in the first team. Nobody in their right mind would travel back regularly from afar just to play for the Clwb on a Saturday, and he still does this in spite of the fact that the games are frequently called off. More than this, a story I once heard was that Darran was travelling back from the middle east on a flight which had been oversubscribed. He was offered a package for the inconvenience of relinquishing his seat, but he refused as he had an urgent appointment at home. The urgent appointment was…the club tour.
Whether this tale is true or not, it still sums up Darran’s commitment to the club and to playing rugby in general. He’s always been keen to play on a Saturday, perhaps working on the theory that you’re a long time retired. My first recollection of Darran was one Saturday morning back in the eighties when we were due to meet Cardiff HSOB prior to an international. It had snowed heavily on the Friday night, and when I reached the pitch, it was white. As one who hated Saturday morning friendlies, I’d decided that we wouldn’t be able to play. End of story. We were all standing in the carpark, discussing our plans for the afternoon, when Darran came over and announced that the pitch was playable. The referee overheard and stated that he was happy to play if the captains were too. By this stage, Darran was like a puppy wanting to go for a walk, almost dragging me onto the pitch, so I went with him to keep the peace. Amazingly, once we were on the pitch, we realised it was perfect. Instead of freezing, the snow was melting slowly, creating a carpet-like effect. We played and enjoyed an open entertaining game which wouldn’t have been the case without Darran.
Darran has always been the butt of friendly banter, but it is always taken in good humour. He was unfortunate that, as a back, we generally had strength in depth in his position, so his first team opportunities were limited. He did represent the firsts on occasions, such as a league game against St Josephs at Blackweir. Perhaps symbolic of his luck, he injured himself that day, and received few if any other opportunities to cement a first team place. Having said that, I don’t believe that he was one to concern himself too much about who he was playing for. Just being out there on a Saturday was his priority.
My clearest recollection of him though, was off the pitch, when he was doing some sports reporting for the BBC. We’d been playing Morganstown, and were all enjoying a pint in their club, when the BBC presenter announced…
“It’s been a bad day for Swansea City today. A six-one home defeat at the hands of Wigan. At the ground for us today is Darran Phillips”
All the Clwb boys listened intently asking for silence in the club while we listened to our colleague. Remembering the fact that Swansea had lost the game by six goals to one, Darran came out with the classic line..
“This was a game that Swansea didn’t deserve to lose!”
Fortunately for him, Darran focussed more on financial matters after this. Perhaps Clwb Rygbi were the main beneficiaries of this, as it allowed him to concentrate on playing on Saturdays instead of watching.

3 …just for one day

As with every club, there are some players who are loyal from one season to the next, either with the firsts or the seconds. By the same token, a number of players had short careers with Clwb, mainly due the fact that they were only here during their college days, or because they moved to other parts of the country to work.
Alongside these were the players who enjoyed “careers” of only a game or two for us, appearing as guests or just helping out to make up the numbers. A number of these had a memorable day or two wearing the red or green shirt.
Back in the eighties, the CIACS were not only one of the strongest teams in Cardiff, they were one of the best Junior clubs in Wales, winning the Brewers cup on more than one occasion. Because of this, we rarely used to come up against them on the park. One International morning, however, they were the only other club in the pool looking for a game, so we entertained them at Llandaff. As was usually the case when we came up against good opposition, a number of players began to pull out, and it was nip and tuck as to whether we’d raise a team. As the weekend approached, and we considered cancelling, Terry bach said that he had a couple friends who’d come along as a favour.
Now, in hindsight, I don’t suppose anyone asked Terry who he was bringing, but given that he’d been in college in Cyncoed, we might have guessed that the guests may have some pedigree. So there he was that Saturday morning with one forward, whose ears betrayed a few seasons in the boilerhouse, and a swift, tall winger. The boys were introduced as John and Marc.
It’s amazing the difference two players can make to a team. John played in the second row, allowing me to play in the back row, and it was immediately apparent that he was used to playing a much higher standard of rugby. He won his share of the lines, added bulk to the scrum, and then, he would be first to the breakdown for us to maintain possession. If we were under pressure, we’d spread it wide to Marc, who’d gain ground, before finding John on his shoulder, who was, of course, strong enough to hold his ground for the rest of us to catch up. Two players made a huge difference to our performance that day.
By the time the match finished, we’d won by a staggering 43-15, there or thereabouts. The CIACS simply couldn’t believe it, and to be honest, nor could some of us, for that matter. It came as no surprise therefore, when Terry announced that our guests had been John Morgan, Bridgend flanker, and subsequently captain, and Marc Batten, a winger with Newport, who, I believe represented Wales B. A month or so later, the situation re-occurred, with ourselves and CIACS in the pool. The score on this occasion was not dissimilar to the first match, but it was no surprise that, without our guests, it was the CIACS who were victorious by about that same score.

There were of course others who were less successful than these two. Soon after I joined Clwb, a new winger joined too, a doctor I think. He wasn’t a Cardiffian, nor was he even Welsh, but rumour had it that he was an international player. He hailed from Kenya, and so, with the usual imagination, Dai Kenya represented us. He was a winger, and we all felt that if we could provide him with some possession, he could prove a useful asset. He had joined us during the summer of 1985, and the hope was that we would see the best of him before the weather worsened.
Unfortunately, Dai’s big chance came in a Mallet cup game in September of that year, against Rumney 2nds on the field next to Eastern Leisure Centre. Much to our dismay, the weather had been atrocious prior to the game, and it was clear that it was going to be a forward battle, not a game for the backs. In hindsight, this may not have been a bad thing. Nobody had asked Dai if he owned a pair of rugby boots, and now, as we ran onto the waterlogged field, he ran onto the field in a pair of trainers! I only recall him receiving the ball once that evening, and it was no surprise that he failed to keep his feet. Sadly, it was to prove to be another disappointing night, as we lost by 8-6, and another opportunity in the Mallet disappeared.
Turning our focus back onto positive events, nobody who played that day will forget the match we played against Barry Plastics in a winner takes all game on one of the fields on Sloper road. The winner of the match would be promoted to Cardiff and District’s first division, so there was a lot at stake. We’d had a good season, and were a strong outfit under Meurig Phillips’ captaincy, but we still needed one more victory for promotion.
Although we were unable to play at Llandaff because the posts had been removed, other factors seemed to be in our favour, in particular the weather, which had been warm and dry, and was likely to suit our style of play. However, when we arrived at the pitch, it soon became apparent that there was no parkie to open the changing rooms. By 3.00pm, we knew we had a problem, and Meurig spent an urgent 20 minutes or so trying to track someone down. By this stage, the referee’s patience was running low, and we very nearly agreed to travel to Sully to the Plastics pitch, where even on a hot, sunny day like this, it would have been windy and cold! In the nick of time, the parkie arrived and we kicked off about half an hour late.
In the run up to the match, we’d also had one other significant problem, that being the lack of a prop. Dai Owen was available on one side, and Tony Vobe was there to hook, but we had no tight head. On some days, we wouldn’t have been too concerned, and would simply have asked Geraint “Skip” Roberts to fill the void. But against the Plastics, this wasn’t a realistic option, given the importance of the game, as their forwards were simply too strong and unforgiving. They would not have been too perturbed if one of our players received a serious injury, so we needed a strong replacement simply to protect ourselves.
Not for the first time, or the last, Stumpy came to the rescue. He said he knew of someone who would help out for a match, which is how Ioan joined CRCC for 80 minutes. He played for Oakdale, and was a superb prop. I could only imagine what must have been going through his mind as he saw the shambles unfold before the game, but once the game had started, there was only one objective in his mind, and that was dominance up front. In the light of his performance, Dai Owen matured almost visibly in front of us and raised his game to another level. For once, we held all the aces up front, and dominated the forward exchanges. It had never happened before against the Plastics, and I don’t think it ever did again in my career. Despite all the opposition’s efforts, we won the game and our promotion. In spite of more than one invitation, we only once enjoyed Ioan’s company again in the red shirt, and that again in a match of significance against the Welsh Academicals the following season.
Another guest whose company we enjoyed on only one occasion was Iolo ap Dafydd. Iolo was related, I think, to Sion Clwyd, and was at the time playing regularly for Bridgend. I always had my doubts about involving players who were used to playing a better standard of rugby. At Clwb, the hour or so before kick off could be a complete shambles as we waited for players, rang and cajoled any last minute replacements, sent someone for the kit, pumped up the balls, looked for the flags and so on. This was all in keeping with the nature of the club, and was inevitable while the players were also running the off-field activities.
My expectation was that anyone who had played at a higher level would expect more organisation from a club. They wouldn’t expect to turn up in the changing rooms to find the kit still wet, or worse still, unwashed, or that the firsts had the seconds’ kit, or to turn up at Llandaff to find we hadn’t booked a pitch, or a ref, or if we had a ref, that he’d forgotten his whistle. This was grass-roots rugby as it should be, and I was often amazed by some so called second-class teams who had nothing better to do than moan about the fact that they were short of cash and so on. They ought to see things from our perspective.
Anyway, keen as I was to see Iolo in our colours, I was a bit nervous, and perhaps embarrassed about what he might think. Unfortunately for him, his one appearance came in a game against St.Albans up in Splott. In fairness Iolo was there to do nothing other than win, and his frustration at the lack of possession was immediately apparent. The rest of the backs knew full-well that they stood no chance of getting any ball that afternoon. During the course of the second half, Iolo’s frustration got the better of him, and he became embroiled in a scuffle with one of the opposition. The next thing I remember was him trying to find one of his front teeth in the grass!
In fairness, he did have the last laugh, crossing for a try, but only when we were about 30 points down. It was no surprise that we never saw him in one of our shirts again. To be fair to him, I spoke with him subsequently, and concluded that my feelings towards players of a higher standard didn’t apply to him. He was a competitor, and his only desire that day had been to win the game, which was the cause of his frustration. I felt sorry that we’d not been able to play him on a dry Saturday in Llandaff, against weaker opposition where he would have see the club play in its usual style.
As I look back at those people who’ve represented the club over he years, all of them have been memorable in some respect or other, but for some reason, one player stands out in this category, despite the fact that he only played one game for us, and I’d never seen him before, nor did I ever see him again.
As was usually the case, we were struggling for props. For some reason, a morning game had been arranged against Morganstown, and as usual, I was not looking forward to the pointless exersise of a friendly against more motivated opponents. Alongside the fact that we had no front row, the weather had also been awful. But I was captaining the side at the time, so I had to make some effort to raise a team and motivate myself, and eventually, Steve Lloyd rang to say that he knew someone who would prop for us.
As I arrived at the ground, it was still chucking it down. In fairness, my new prop was there waiting for me, and to be fair, he looked the part. We went into the changing room, and all looked well as I realised we had a full team. The referee came in and did his checks, and asked me to have the team out in five minutes. I remembered at this point that I hadn’t discussed lineout calls with Jon (I think) so I wandered over to him to run through them. As I spoke with him, I noticed him pulling a yellow marigold washing up glove onto one of his hands. In response to my horrified look, he explained that he had stitches in one of his fingers, and that the glove was a logical way of keeping them dry and clean. I understood this, but thought to myself that this surely didn’t warrant a full glove which almost reached his elbow. I left him hoping against hope that he planned to cover the glove in tape to disguise it.
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the case. Jon seemed oblivious to the fact that the Morganstown supporters had nicknamed him Marigold man, and each time the ball went out of play, he’d be seen at the front of the line with his yellow hand in the air, telling us all where the mark was.
We lost the match, and never saw Jon again. This may have had something to do with one of Morganstown’s flankers burying his fingers into Jon’s eye half way through the second half, but nobody could really take him seriously because of the business with his glove.
That day in Morganstown was memorable for one other event. On the left wing that day was Dafydd Levi, a speedy and elusive winger, whose main claim to fame was that he won the club’s only(to date) most valuable player award, elected by the players as part of the fantasy rugby competition. Although elusive with ball in hands, his main problem was getting the ball to stay in his hands in the first place. Alun Coch’s nickname for him was the equivalent of “teflon”.
So on a miserable, wet Saturday morning in Morganstown, I hadn’t seen Dafydd as a potentially dangerous weapon. When Morganstown’s outside half raised a huge garryowen, I recall looking back to see where our fullback was, before hearing Dafydd’s soft voice calling for it. My confidence evaporated immediately at the thought of Daf under a high ball, on a miserable day, with Morganstown’s forwards targeting him for a big hit.
But, as they say, cometh the hour, cometh the man. Dafydd stretched his arms out, and the ball stuck in the tips of his fingers. Having managed this, he set off like Forrest Gump, eluding defenders and gaining ground. He was brought to ground eventually, but only after having made it to Morganstown’s twenty two. It was very much a day to remember.

4 The popular team
For some reason, Clwb Rygbi were never a popular team. That’s the only reason which might explain why, at most venues, we were welcomed with flying fists and boots. In some respects, it may be that we were the most popular team in the district, because I’m sure that a number of teams will have looked forward for weeks for the match against the Welsh punchbags, and an opportunity to relieve some of life’s frustrations. There were days when I felt the hatred and anger had been worthwhile, as it emphasised that we had gained superiority over our opponents. On other days, however, it was clearly premeditated violence, with a view to frightening us, and let’s be honest, there were times when this tactic worked. We all had jobs to go to on a Monday, after all.
I had plenty of respect for those clubs who had a tendency for over aggression, but who were also able to play good rugby, and focussed on this instead. Fairwater, St Albans and Caerau, eventually, came into this category. There were other clubs whose standards were lower, but who were happy simply to play and enjoy, teams such as CIACS, Sully, and most of the WRU second teams.
And then, there were the others, the clubs whose names you’d look for on the fixture list, in order to make some advanced plans to be away from Cardiff. There are many games which come to mind where I would have preferred to have been anywhere else on the planet.
Every trip down to Sully to play Barry Plastics was an adventure. Everything worked against us down there. They had big, powerful forwards, who played a tight game, there was always a strong wind, it was usually raining, we generally had weak referees, and, worst of all, they seemed to hate us with a passion. I remember one of their players talking with John Hayes one afternoon, after he’d been sent off, and John had gone off injured. He explained that, while they had nothing against us as individuals, there had been some things which had taken place in the past. This was very reassuring to hear. It made me wonder what on earth could have taken place previously which could lead to this level of hatred.
We arrived there one Saturday with Meurig as our captain. It had been wet all week, and there was some doubt as to whether the match would take place or not, and the referee decreed that the decision would be made by the captains. As Meurig disappeared to inspect the pitch, the rest of us huddled together hoping for a stay of execution in the form of a cancellation. But as Meurig returned to the changing rooms, it was plain to see that he’d lost, and that the game was still on.
We entered the tiny changing rooms, and tried to focus on the match ahead. This was virtually impossible because of the deafening chanting coming from the room next door, something along the lines of “kill the Welshies” or something similar. The game was lost before we’d even left the changing room.
On the park, the hatred was apparent both on and off the field. As you followed the ball, you had to keep an eye in the back of your head to cover yourself – self preservation was the order of the day. On one occasion that day, I’d gathered the ball from a lineout, and was wrestling for it with their scrum half. Suddenly, I became aware of fierce biting on my upper arm, and realised that he was chewing happily on me. After the match, I had clear teeth-marks where he’d bitten, and I thanked the stars that my shirt had been sufficiently thick to protect me, and better still, that he hadn’t found my ear.
Later during that same game, I found myself sitting on my backside, with the ball long since having disappeared. Alongside me was one of the Plastics’ forwards. As I lay there, he put his knee alongside mine, and began to pull my ankle towards him, in an effort to snap my leg at the knee. Of course I managed to free myself, but I was astonished that a human being could consider carrying out such a barbaric act.
That’s how things went down there. At the end of each game, we’d be thankful that we’d survived, and that we wouldn’t need to visit there for another season. Sadly, their tactics were predictable, but effective, and we lost many games there which we should have won. I was very proud, a season or two after finishing playing, to watch the club playing down there with a number of new players, who were unaware of the past history. Without the baggage which we carried on our shoulders, they played an open game, and won in the type of style for which the club is noted.
A season or two prior to this, the club had played a league game against Rumney 2nds in Llandaff. John Hayes and I had been injured a fortnight before, and Martin Grundy had suffered a severe headwound at Llandaff North the week before. In spite of the fact that three of the forwards were out, there was still plenty of confidence in the team that we could win if we were able to win some ball. When I arrived, I realised that I was the only one who was going to watch the game. We had no subs, no other supporters, nobody. I thus took responsibility for putting the flags out, putting on the post pads, running the line, carrying the water, medical man etc etc.
We started well, with the backs creating space and gaining ground. After about 15 minutes, we scored a try, so I made my way behind the sticks in my flag-carrying role. As I stood there, I overheard Rumney’s hooker’s inspirational rallying call to his troops, along the lines of “I doesn’t care wot we ‘as to do, I doesn’t care if we ‘as to kick ‘em, punch ‘em, stamp on ‘em, gouge ‘em or bite’em. We just got to do somein’, OK”.
That, of course, was enough to start a war, and the Rumney forwards came out with fire in their bellies. It began to affect our inexperienced pack, but in their midst that day, was one player who never took a step back, and was quite willing to dish out as much as he took. Llyr Williams. Unfortunately, during one fracas, I saw one of the opposition forwards draw back his arm and land a huge blow in Llyr’s face, and he slowly started walking towards me with blood coming from a wound beneath his left eye. Under normal circumstances, Llyr would have been replaced, but as we had no subs, Stumpy decided to insert the stitches on the touchline.
In theory, this should have been simple. The team played on with 13 players, and I extended my services for the afternoon to helping Stumpy with his duties. Even this was easier said than done. The medical kit must have been replenished by Frankie some 10 years previously, and the needle which Stumpy used to break through Llyr’s skin was completely blunt, and he ended up forcing it through. He then asked me to cut the stitch, which was again almost impossible, seeing as the scissors were as blunt as the needle. They were the type I used to use in school, some 30 years ago, with safe, rounded ends. Llyr’s face must have been pulled in all directions, and I dare say the scar on his face is zig-zag, to say the least.
Of course, as this was taking place, the Rumney players were wholly supportive and understanding. At one point, the ball crossed into touch, and as I was busy being Florence Nightingale at the time, I couldn’t identify the mark for the line. All we heard from the opposition was “C’mon ref, they’ve gorra have a linesman...tell ‘im”. It just about summed up the game, which we lost.
On the whole, Cardiff teams were much worse than valley teams. I think that the valley sides used to appreciate that we were happy to make the effort to get out of the Capital, and they knew we’d play a good, open type of game. I do, of course, remember the day we travelled to Abercwmboi, with Richard Williams trying his luck in the front row. The game on the whole was fine, but somehow Rich had become embroiled with some minor squabbles with his opposite number, who had promptly sorted him out. None of us could understand how he could be so battered and blue after the match, given that it seemed to have been such a fair game.
The odd match against Old Tylerians went pear-shaped too. We’d always had a good relationship with them, until one match on Caedelyn, where they had one of their forwards sent off for some innocuous stamping. We travelled up there later in the season with a weakened pack, and were beaten fairly and squarely as they avenged their defeat in Cardiff. We may have lost some focus that day upon hearing that one of the seconds had broken his back on the pitch next to us. All I remember is seeing him lying on the bank next to the pitch, assuming he can’t have been too badly injured. He was left to lie on the changing room floor, and I have no idea how he managed to get home. He had, of course, not broken his back.
But the warmest valley welcome we ever had was up in Troedyrhiw, near Merthyr. We met in Penarth road, and it was soon very apparent that Gavin was going to struggle to raise a second team. As he lost players who were ringing in unavailable, so I was drafting players into the firsts too, so the decision was made to ring their seconds to prevent them making the journey down to Cardiff. The firsts travelled to Troedyrhiw, on what was fortunately a warm, dry afternoon. Less fortunate was the fact that their seconds, upon hearing that their game was off, had hit the bar in style, and by kick-off time, were baying for blood on the touchline. The firsts were apparently set on keeping their colleagues happy.
It was one of those days when we all regretted falling on the loose ball. If ever there was a day when we received a good shoeing, this was it. I remember seeing Andy Long’s back in the shower, and considering that we could play noughts and crosses on it. It was only while showering that we realised how much rucking we’d been subjected to.
For once under the circumstances, we won the game. Somehow, the forwards must have won sufficient ball, and it was dry enough for the backs to run in the scores. One of our tries was particularly memorable, a typical long-distance affair. Ianto broke clear, and crossed halfway with nobody other than Troedyrhiw’s fullback ahead of him. He decided to kick ahead, and did this to perfection, with the ball coming to rest in their goal area. One of our wingers won the footrace comfortably, and another memorable try had been scored. And what of Iants? About a second after he’d kicked the ball, the opposition fullback hit him with full force – there was no way he was going to be allowed to pass to chase the ball. I don’t think Iants knew what to think as we all congratulated him on his measured through ball.
But it was the Cardiff teams who were the most pleasant, and two other matches still live in the memory. Everything associated with an away fixture in Gabalfa was worth avoiding. It was another of those fixtures for which we would study the fixture list pre-season, with a view to planning a weekend away. Our changing rooms in Llandaf were hardly palacial, but that hole in Gabalfa took the biscuit. I always had visions of the opposition sprinkling tacks on the shower floors for some reason – that was the sort of impression it created in the imagination. After the match, a visit to the Master Gunner, where, although there was never any trouble, we always kept an eye out. The only place which matched the Gunner was the pub used by Caerau, in the middle of Ely. After a competitive, but fair match, we arrived at the pub, and I thanked my luck that I hadn’t brought the car. Firstly, one of the boys’ car alarms went off(Kevin’s I think), so he bid a hasty farewell. Then, as we were eating, one of the opposition told Stumpy that someone was trying to break into his car. Understandably, in spite of the warm welcome, we all decided it was time to leave.
Anyway, back to Gabalfa. It was a league, and therefore an important, match, but we were all very aware how the game could turn out. And boy, did it turn out as expected. In front of a large hostile crowd in the middle of Gabalfa, it became one of the most violent hours and a half that I was ever involved in, and there were a fair few matches which could have been considered for that honour. From the start, all areas of contact, scrums, mauls and rucks, turned into brawls between both sides. As was usually the case in these types of matches, there was a weak referee in charge, and it wasn’t long before he’d completely lost control. It was dangerous to be on the field, but also to be off it. At one point, I broke from the back of a scrum, with a view to charging down a kick on the blind side. I missed the ball, and my momentum took me into the supporters, whereupon I received an elbow in my face for my troubles. As I hurried back onto the pitch, I failed to appreciate the irony of it being safer to be on the field than off it!
It was very strange that I grew to believe that this sort of episode was the norm for rugby players. I subsequently spoke with a friend who’d played rugby in London, who couldn’t believe what he saw on the field in Cardiff. In London, the game was played hard, but fair. I was always glad that I could go back to work the following Monday, where my colleagues could chuckle at my battered features, and by the following weekend, the events of the previous Saturday had usually faded from memory.
I did find it very frustrating how these types of games affected some of my colleagues. Phil Thomas was a hard working “flyer” of a flanker, well suited to our open style of play. He was also a doctor, for whom the need to be fit and well on a Monday was essential. As one of the fights was being dispersed at Gabalfa, I remember Phil walking past me shaking his head. I suspect he’d never seen the like of it before. Tragically for a club like us, which was short of players at the best of times, and had even fewer quality players like him, Phil never played for the club again after that fateful afternoon. How could I, or anybody else, blame him.
It was this type of game which persuaded us as a committee to relinquish our position in the Cardiff and District leagues. For all the matches against legitimate opponents, there were a number against this type of side. The situation hit its peak following a cup game against Llanedeyrn. At the time, we were in the first division, and they in the second. They were quite a strong outfit, and we knew that it was likely that they would join us the following season. By this stage, we were quite a mature squad, and we all knew what to expect that afternoon. At least the game would be played at Llandaff. Yes, we all knew that the fists would fly that day, and we all knew that the best policy was to ignore the provocation. We had to let things go over our heads. We all understood. Well, all of us bar one.
Aled Arch was a particularly underrated forward, and unfortunate to be a back-rower. With many clubs, he would have had numerous opportunities in the firsts, but given our traditional strength there, his opportunities were limited. He was one of those consistent players, who never had a poor match, nor was he ever likely to run in a try from half way. Along with this, we knew he had a short fuse, and that afternoon against Llanedeyrn, we saw the result.
The situation arose so many times, I lost count. The two packs would scrummage, the ball would be won, and seven Clwb forwards would chase eagerly. Having regained possession from the breakdown some 50 metres away, we’d notice that there was no opposition. As we looked back, all we could see was Llanedeyrn’s pack giving someone a right pasting, and Aled’s fair hair appearing occasionally in the middle. After the referee had broken things up, Aled would come back to us, with his shirt out, face red, and hair in the air. “I’ll ‘ave em next time”, was his comment, and although we all suggested there was no point, what would happen next but, ball won, chasing pack, look back, Aled mixing it again. You simply had to admire his perseverance – I really wanted to know what they said to him to wind him up so easily. At one point, one of their supporters began criticising the rest of us for not giving him any support. I wondered what they really wanted to see.
For once, we won the game. On days like this, when we had no desire to exchange pleasantries with the opposition, if we were playing away from home, it was very easy to make our excuses and quietly leave to celebrate at home. On this occasion though, we were already at home, and somewhat dependant on Llanedeyrn leaving the Cameo for us to enjoy ourselves alone. After a while, it dawned on us that some of their players were out for the night and had no intention of leaving early, especially during the Cam’s happy hour. The upshot was that most of our boys decided to clear off instead, leaving me and one other Clwb player with about seven of their boys. I think they would have stayed the night there, had it not been for Babs interrupting their evening and asking them to leave. It was only CRCC who could have been saved in this way by the female owner of our club.

5 On tour
Each and every tour is memorable in its way, and each tour is memorable to different people for different reasons. I was fortunate enough to tour on 5 occasions, each time heading to the continent. I regretted not being able to tour Ireland at all, as those tours always sounded very special, in particular the one to Tullamore, which was recalled on a regular basis by those who’d been there. But as I say, each tour was memorable, and each bettered the previous one as the years wore on.
My first tour was a strange one - Luxembourg 1984. I’d agreed to go, despite the fact that I wasn’t yet 19, and would be by far the youngest tourist, and had no idea what to expect. The night before we were due to travel, I’d still received no confirmation that the tour was still on, until Butchie rang that night to confirm I was still going. It was just as well I did, as there were only 16 of us on the bus, one of whom had gout, and of the others, Gareth Mainwaring clearly had no intention of playing.
For me, this was a long tour. I wasn’t used to this quantity of alcoholic consumption, and having stopped for ale a few times between Cardiff and Dover, I was ready to go home by the time we’d reached the ferry. But over I went, and on arrival, was given the honour of rooming with Wyn Lewis and Mainwaring. It could have been worse – Iants had given me a love bite on my thigh as we’d travelled over, and who knows where he’d have bitten me if I’d had to room with him!
As it turned out, Luxembourg was not the best place for Brits during 1984. English football supporters had trashed the city the previous year, and as far as the locals were concerned, we were Brits, not Welsh. Their anger would be seen on the second night.
The day started well, with 15 of us making the pitch, including Dai Gutsy, and his gout. It was an uncommon situation, with too many forwards available, and therefore Keith Thomas flanking, and me playing on the wing. But the star was Huw Charles, scoring the only try, and being nominated man-of-the-match, as we ran out winners by 24-0. We spent an hour or two in their club, and I remember being entertained by Frankie and Butchie on the piano.
As the evening progressed, some of the boys elected to wander into the centre of the town and it was only some hours later that we found out that a few of them had been set upon by local youths. The wounds to Dafydd Idris and Keith Thomas were particularly nasty, but thankfully, we had an abundance of doctors in our midst. Well, thankfully…ish. Frankie was one of those doctors, but by now it was well after midnight and it had been a long evening. Dafydd’s cut was inside his lip, and while it was reassuring to see Frankie go straight to work to put it right, it was the following morning that we discovered that he’d actually missed the wound altogether, and stitched up good tissue. Keith, on the other hand, had a huge gash on his head, and in fairness, on this occasion, all the stitches went in the appropriate place. What was disconcerting in this instance was that Frankie inserted the stitches while standing above Keith with a huge cigar in his mouth, with tobacco seeming to fall into Keith’s scalp. How the wound didn’t go septic, I’ll never know.
After that, the trip was fairly uneventful. We’d received a warm welcome from Luxembourg RFC, but we were all pleased to be able to make our way home, in particular this youngster who’d never consumed so much alcohol in his life.
Several seasons would pass before I was persuaded to tour again. By this stage, a nucleus of staunch tourists had developed, with Gavin Rees being one of the primary members. These four or five seasons were a “golden age” of touring for the club, which always started with the ritual of collecting Gavin in Chepstow - he boarding the bus like father Christmas with his bag of goodies. Gareth Wilkins was provider of the wheel of fortune, Pembers responsible for fines, while Steve Lloyd led the singing with contributions from the likes of Mogs. Gareth Hall always said that crossing the water on the ferry was an essential part of the bonding process on tour, and though we generally behaved properly, we were all conscious how exposed we were to families, and how near the knuckle the behaviour could be. Generally, once we realised we’d crossed the mark, we’d break into another chorus of Haleliwia, and smiles would break out around the ferry once more.
My next tour was to San Renan, in Brittany. By the time we’d reached Plymouth, we were a team of firemen Sam, with all of us having been provided with a yellow fireman’s hat to wear with pride. The weather en route was baking, and we were foolish enough to sit in the sun for part of the trip, until we collected in the bar and relaxed for the rest of the journey. Before long, the hymns would break into Mogs singing “…I told the landlady my money was spent…” and so forth for another 6-7 verses, and soon afterwards, Iants would be persuaded to give a few verses of “trên bach yr Wyddfa”. I then remember on the trip, a group of good-natured English boys deciding to try to challenge us, and came up with a few songs of their own. I’m eternally grateful that this was before the sweet chariot had been adopted by the English, otherwise we would have heard nothing else for the rest of the afternoon.
Once we arrived in France, back onto the bus and on to the hotel. Our driver that year, Clive(the drive) would travel with us the following year(with Russ(the bus), who’d actually play the match), and I always felt it was a positive reflection on the club that he was willing to drive us on consecutive tours. When we arrived in San Renan, the manageress was waiting for us at the door and I daren’t think what she must have thought as we quite literally fell off the bus and into the hotel.
I’d be surprised if the hotel made any money during those two or three days. I was rooming with Pembers, and on the first night, having gone to bed with empty stomachs, we elected to pay a midnight visit to the kitchen to see if there was any left over food. There was no food, but of course there were racks and racks of wine, and with Dave being a bit of a connoisseur in this respect, he made some careful choices of expensive wine. And we weren’t the only ones. Most of the squad, it seemed, had made the same idea, and were helping themselves to bottle after bottle. I’m sure we will have paid for it somehow.
Most of the other memories of the tour seem to have faded from memory. This may have had something to do with the fact that I was forced to sing Sloop John B, standing on a chair, with a beer bottle up my rear, having been deposited there by Gareth Hall. My memory may have become somewhat selective subsequently. That would also be the first occasion on which I would see that pleasant game of burning toilet paper between buttocks. It was enough to turn anybody away from rugby forever.
On the field, the victory was fairly comprehensive. My only recollection was an early facial injury to Robin Ogwen, resulting in Gavin taking his place. Gavin was an unlucky forward, with his career coinciding with Brian’s, who was an ever present, first choice at hooker. Gavin also fancied himself as a flanker, but again, his opportunities were limited given our strength in that position. I spoke with his brother, Gareth, some time afterwards, who was just leaving school when Gavin was captaining the seconds. On those regular occasions when the seconds were short, Gavin would send out the SOS to his brother, insisting he make himself available the following weekend. Gareth would dutifully do so on the understanding that he would play on the flank, with Gavin hooking. Gavin would, of course, always agree to this, and Gareth would turn up happily on the Saturday. Of course, as the teamsheet was eventually handed out, Gavin’s name would appear at 7, and Gareth’s at 2.
That afternoon in San Renan, we reached half time ahead, but without having sparkled. Some of the backs, with Meurig and Llyr doubtless voicing their opinions, insisted that we needed to play a more expansive game, and run the home team off the park. This was probably the correct way forward for us, but of course it was like a red rag to Gavin. You could almost see in his eyes that he was going to do it his way. From the kick-off, having won possession, Gavin appeared in the scrum half position. I might have guessed, that instead of spreading it wide, as had been the half time instruction, Gavin took it on himself, won a few metres, and then looked for support from his fellow forwards. Having done this, he repositioned himself at scrum half, and, knowingly, did exactly the same again. We all knew that this would wind up the backs, and this was of course the purpose. That’s just how he was – always a smile on his face, and an invaluable character to have on tour.
We won the match, and as usual, we had a memorable night in the town, with the highlight being two of the boys being arrested. My recollection is that none of us seemed too concerned about this at the time, and I guess we all assumed that Steve Lloyd would sort things out for us. That’s what would normally happen.
Most of the club tourists were regular players, who looked forward eagerly to the April trip. There were also, of course, those who would only appear from the woodwork at tour time. The likes of Neil, Martin Kitchener and Dai Morris came into this category. Dai had left the club to play for St.Peters, but he was always welcomed on tour, and was a valuable asset, as he was a French speaker. Having re-kindled my taste for touring in San Renan, I was fully prepared and eager for the following year’s tour to Limoges. It was a desperately long trip out there, and inevitably, the trip home was even more arduous. We had half a dozen videos, which kept us mildly amused en route, though as we sat through them endlessly, they rather lost their appeal.
One of the tour’s most memorable contributions began before we’d left the Cameo. As a prepared and committed tourist, Dave Pemberton had been busy cutting up his copies of Viz, and created a badge for each of the tourists. Listening to Dave presenting each of the badges was a joy, as he explained the reason why each of us had received that specific badge. Meurig was already known as Roger Mellie, so that one was easily explained, while Darran, working in the media at the time, was christened Daley Starr. The bus driver was memorably given the Nobby’s piles badge, Phil James was Specky twat, and Huw Morgan inevitably, Captain Morgan and his Hammond Organ. I became Morris Day, Sexual pervert, which took some explaining. Again, the memory of Dave standing there with the mike will be with me forever.
This tour differed from any of the others, in that we were to stay with families. In hindsight, it’s hard to believe that there were sufficient families willing to accommodate a group like us, especially when they saw our condition as we arrived in Limoges. I’d been given the honour of rooming with Huw Morgan, and our trip from the