Murdoch E-Book

Ron Palenski

• Herausgeber: Upstart
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

The story of Keith Murdoch, who passed away earlier this year, is the great unsolved mystery of world rugby. The All Black who was sent home from the tour of the British Isles in 1972 and who exiled himself to the vastness of the Australian outback remains a banner headline in rugby memories. It does so despite the passing of the years. The basics of the story are well known: the strength of the man who scored the All Blacks' only try against Wales, then the celebrations that night that went so horribly wrong. Murdoch only appeared publicly a few times in all those years since the tour, but never said much and nothing at all of the events of that night, or how he felt then and later. But now, the story can be told more fully than before through anecdotes and memories of teammates and colleagues and through the damning words of those who condemned him to his life on the run.

Leseprobe

A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of New Zealand

ISBN

E: 978-1-988516-34-9

M: 978-1-988516-35-6

An Upstart Press Book

Published in 2018 by Upstart Press Ltd

Level 4, 15 Huron St, Takapuna 0622

Auckland, New Zealand

Text © Ron Palenski 2018

The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

Design and format © Upstart Press Ltd 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Designed by CVD Limited (www.cvdgraphics.nz)

Printed by 1010 Printing International Ltd., China

For Keith Murdoch, a victim of circumstance

Contents

Foreword

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Homeward bound

From Scotland to Dunedin

A player of promise

‘K. Murdoch, Otago . . .’

In and out of favour

Ernie Todd and his predecessors

Photo Section

Pressure, perception and reality

‘Hooray boys, I’m off’

Controlling Murdoch’s fate

Speculations, questions and observations

Finding Murdoch

Death in the Outback

Epilogue

Appendix 1:The principals involved in the expulsion

Appendix 2:Keith Murdoch in first-class rugby

Bibliography

Foreword

The ‘Keith Murdoch Affair’ simmered away in New Zealand rugby for decades. It remains the greatest single regret of my rugby career and one of the saddest events of my entire life. Quite simply, I was horrified when Keith was dismissed from the 1972–73 All Blacks tour after an incident with a security guard at the Angel Hotel in Cardiff. Forty-five years on, my views have not changed.

As captain of that side, I have asked myself the same questions many times over: could I have done more to ensure Keith Murdoch wasn’t banished from the tour; should I have done more?

At a management meeting the day after the incident — and, of course, our test win against Wales — I made it absolutely clear that I wanted Keith to stay on the tour. Everyone present agreed and he was named to start in the next match.

So, it came as a real shock when, the following day, manager Ernie Todd announced that Keith was being sent home. I knew Ernie had been under pressure to dismiss Keith from the tour; what I didn’t know until years later was just how much pressure the Four Home Unions had exerted on our manager.

In reality, it took a few days before the enormity of the situation really sunk in. But one thing’s for sure, the more I thought about it as the tour unfolded, the more I believed we should have put our foot down and issued an ultimatum: If Keith goes home, we all go home. It’s a thought that has never left me . . .

As for the man himself, he was brilliant within the team environment, always willing to help out and very popular among his fellow tourists. I never had any issues with him on or off the field. Granted, he was media shy, but that’s hardly a crime. There have been plenty of players in both the amateur and professional eras who have avoided the media spotlight.

Keith was a very good footballer — immensely strong and a world-class prop. So, it is sad that his entire All Blacks career has been defined by that one incident after the test against Wales.

I have known Ron Palenski for many years. Not only has he been a great servant of the game through his many years as a leading sports writer and historian, but he is also a good rugby man who cares deeply about the game. That’s part of the reason I agreed to write this foreword. I knew the book would be well intentioned and I knew that Keith would be treated fairly.

Months before Keith’s death when I was talking to Ron about this book I mentioned that it would be appropriate to see some sort of apology issued to Keith, and for him to be able to accept his All Blacks cap. Nothing would have given me greater pleasure. Even so, I did fear that a gesture such as that might have come too late for Keith; that he had well and truly moved on from those dark days.

The game will never forget him. He was a good man. Rest in peace, Keith.

Ian Kirkpatrick Gisborne, 2018

Acknowledgements

Ron Palenski is grateful to those who assisted with the researching and writing of this book, especially Warren Adler of Upstart Press for suggesting it in the first place, Kevin Chapman, also of Upstart Press, and to Kathy Palenski for her encouragement.

He also thanks the following for their time and their memories: Phil Atkinson, Wyndham Barkman, Phil Campbell, Greg Cornelsen, Barry Donaldson, Malcolm Evans, Tony Gilbert, John Griffiths, Richie Guy, Peter Hills, Steve Johnson, Joe Karam, Ian Kirkpatrick, Lindsay Knight, Roger Lipski, Brian Lough, Jim McKenzie, Bob McKerrow, Jeff Matheson, Robert Messenger, Dean Millar-Coote, Gideon Nieman, Tane Norton, Bob Perry, Dave Potter, Peter Sinclair, Bob Thompson, Piet Visagie, Bryan Williams, Ces Williams.

He also acknowledges the authors whose works appear in the bibliography and the assistance of the New Zealand Defence Force. The author is also grateful to the Department of the Attorney-General and Justice, Northern Territory Government, Darwin, for making available the transcript of the inquest into the death of Christopher Limerick.

Introduction

Winston Churchill once said famously of Russia that it was a mystery, wrapped in a riddle, inside an enigma. So too the story of Keith Murdoch, the rugby player of stupendous strength who, just a day or so after scoring a winning try against Wales in December 1972, was banished from the All Blacks tour and imposed upon himself a cone of enduring silence and public isolation.

A book on a subject about whom and about which there are so many questions and so few answers, at least not answers supported by credible evidence anyway, may seem strange. Some of the answers were not readily apparent on the night events unfolded and in the days afterward, so they are even more elusive as time goes by.

The picture window on an increasingly opaque past closed at Easter 2018 with Keith Murdoch’s death in Western Australia. He never spoke about what happened that December night in Cardiff and now his voice is forever silent. The writing of this book had been completed when Murdoch died and I don’t know if he even knew I was writing it. Or, if he did, cared. But it seemed to me that with his death, with the possibility — however remote — that he might one day tell his side now removed, the book became even more relevant. It is a tale worth telling, even if gaps will now forever remain.

The enigma which houses the riddle and the mystery is Murdoch himself. When he was a practising and a proud All Black, he seldom talked about himself and rarely talked to journalists. He hardly ever allowed himself to be photographed, although he did appear in some posed shots with other players. One exception was when he was being measured for his tour blazer by Wellington tailor Bob Kidd, and that photograph graphically demonstrated just how big Murdoch was.

But he was not a monster by the standards of his day, let alone by comparison with the behemoths of modern rugby. His height was generally given as 1.83 metres, about six feet, which made him about average height for a prop and about the same height as three of the backs in 1972, Bruce Robertson, Mike Parkinson and Mark Sayers.

His weight when he was chosen for the northern hemisphere tour was given as seventeen stone and four pounds (109–110 kilograms) and two other forwards, Graham Whiting and Andy Haden, were slightly heavier at 111 kilos.

Like much in sport, however, statistics don’t tell the whole story. Murdoch was big and strong. He had a massive chest. Bob Kidd said Murdoch’s chest measured 127 cm, four centimetres more than the previous biggest he had measured. (He would not say whose that was.) He was a big, strong man naturally and his condition had been hardened not just by rugby, but also by the multitude of physical tasks he enjoyed. Such as towing a car by the simple method of steering with one hand and hanging on to the tow rope with the other. It is highly unlikely that Murdoch saw the inside of a gymnasium with the exception of one when he was a schoolboy, and he had to run and jump and climb ropes like every other kid. There were no weights involved.

In the rugby years since Murdoch’s brief career, any number of All Blacks have been heavier and taller than him.

Murdoch’s size and strength always singled him out. Friends and teammates from school days recalled him being teased and taunted; he would put up with it for longer than most people would or could. He was a patient, amiable man; gentle giant was a phrase often used about him. Until he snapped.

In that respect at least, he may never have grown up. Murdoch was set upon mercilessly by the British press — ‘animal’ and ‘wild man’ were among the epithets — and the papers created an image that security guards at the Angel Hotel on the night of the Wales test thought they recognised. Some reports said one security guard, Peter Grant, called him an animal. Whatever was said and whatever the circumstances, mitigating or otherwise, Murdoch hit him. From that point on, Murdoch’s hours on tour were counted down and within less than a day and a half, the British rugby authorities had their way and he was gone.

The team manager, Ernie Todd, then and forever after, said he alone was responsible for Murdoch being sent home, the only All Black to be dispatched in such a way. But Todd did not decide; he was told what to do and had he not done it, his position was in jeopardy and the tour may have been called off. In short, British rugby dictated.

There’s very little credit due to any of the decision-makers in the whole sorry episode, but Todd deserves some acknowledgement for his lonely acceptance of sole culpability when he knew it not to be true.

Murdoch was convicted and condemned by the men who ran British and Irish rugby, the so-called Four Home Unions Tours Committee, and by the organisation that Murdoch, Todd and all the players were representing, the New Zealand Rugby Football Union.

He was treated with a callous disregard for the sake of a continued profitable tour.

Players before and since Murdoch from any number of rugby teams have done worse and been punished less, some not punished at all. A reputable writer and former newspaper editor, Karl du Fresne, described the Murdoch story as a ‘piffling episode’, and wondered about the imagination of a country that kept returning to it. But he noted: ‘In terms of infamy, his behaviour pales into insignificance . . . alongside some of the on-field behaviour of more recent All Blacks.’

Over the century and a quarter of organised rugby in New Zealand, the national body has sometimes been accused of shameful acts, usually to do with its obsequious attitude to the South Africans when apartheid existed, sometimes for other reasons. The treatment of Murdoch by the rugby authorities of both New Zealand and the United Kingdom (which for rugby purposes includes Ireland) stands with them as a shameful act.

Since the flight from Heathrow into his twilight world of existence, Murdoch did not talk publicly to anyone about any matter of substance. He spoke the odd sentence to journalists, even consented once to being filmed for television, but revealed little about himself and nothing about the events that came to pass in Cardiff on the night of 3 December 1972, and in the days immediately following. Even when he caught up with teammates or friends in New Zealand or Australia in the following forty or so years, what happened in the Angel mostly remained a closed book. One of his teammates and closest companions, Lin Colling, once said he and Murdoch discussed the incident at some length, but Colling said he wouldn’t elaborate because it was up to Murdoch to give his version publicly if he chose to. That option is now gone.

The story of Murdoch is one of the great untold stories of New Zealand sport. It continues to fascinate because questions remain that can’t be answered. The whole story cannot be told, and it may be that there can be no such thing as a definitive account of what happened because human memories vary so frequently and so wildly. It may be that Murdoch himself had no clear memory of what happened (and let the sneering, judgmental reader be silent on what amounts of alcohol may or may not have been consumed). There have been various retellings of events from different perspectives: there were the accounts of the time, the contemporary accounts, when people spoke or wrote about what they saw or heard, or thought they saw or heard. Then there have been the later accounts; not just people involved recalling what happened, but a second layer of people retelling what they’d heard or read. And then comes another generation, making bold statements and sweeping assertions about a subject of which they have no direct knowledge and no reliable evidence. At every twist and turn of the story, the old army communications joke comes to mind: how the order ‘Send reinforcements, we’re going to advance’ had become mangled into ‘Send three and fourpence, we’re going to a dance’ by the time it reached its destination.

The fallibility of human recall, or deliberate dissembling, is something police and people in the justice system know well. It is sometimes known as the Rashomon effect, named for a 1950 Japanese film, Rashomon, in which a murder was described in four different and contradictory ways by four witnesses; what is explored is not so much the different accounts, but what motivated people to give such different versions.

The effect has been in play with the many retellings of the Murdoch story, both the events of the night and the day following, and of other aspects of Murdoch’s life which came tumbling out in ever larger headlines.

It is necessary to provide as clinical an account as possible of what happened, or at least what might have happened, as a starting point. It is a familiar tale to an older generation, not so much to a younger one.

Murdoch was an extremely strong and effective rugby prop from Otago who played for New Zealand in South Africa in 1970 and domestically on an internal tour and against Australia in 1972. He was regarded with something approaching awe by his teammates because of his strength; and with affection and fondness for his gentle, caring manner and a rough-hewn humour. His dark side came when he’d had too much to drink, as it does for a lot of people, and for him ‘too much’ was a capacity far beyond most. By various accounts, it wasn’t that he became violent because of booze; he became violent because he was goaded and the booze clouded his control.

In September of 1972, he was chosen in the New Zealand team to play in North America, the United Kingdom, Ireland and France, the last of the really long tours to the other side of the world. He played in the first test of that tour, against Wales in Cardiff, and scored the All Blacks’ only try in their 19–16 win. The night followed tradition with a test dinner in the Angel Hotel — where Murdoch sat at the same table as some of the Welsh players — and drinks afterwards. Murdoch drifted, as did many players, into the team room, a large room set aside (as was customary) exclusively for the use of the All Blacks. At some point, Murdoch left the team room, and this is where it gets hazy. Some said he went to get more drinks; some to get some food from the kitchen. He was stopped by security guards and, apparently after some discussion, he hit one of them. Murdoch was hustled away and eventually went to bed. The next morning, the team’s manager, Ernie Todd, remonstrated with Murdoch and after a series of meetings, some of them involving other players, the team left by bus for Birmingham. Once there, Murdoch was named in the team for the next game.

On the Monday morning, players were in the bus waiting to go to training when they learnt that Murdoch was going home. Within half an hour or so, he was escorted onto a London-bound train and was put on a flight to Sydney that was going via Frankfurt and Singapore. He left the flight in Singapore and a day later caught a flight to Darwin and then went on to Perth.

He was seldom seen publicly after that. He spent a lot of time working in Australia, usually in the Outback or far north Queensland, but had unpublicised spells of work in New Zealand. Wherever he was, he made an impression. Chris Eden, for a time chief ranger for the Department of Conservation, came across Murdoch at Oodnadatta, a flyspeck of a town on the edge of the Simpson Desert in northern South Australia. As Eden remarked in an email: ‘The hottest place in Australia. Two fettlers’ houses and a whole lot of desert. A hospitable bloke in a hostile landscape. Unforgettable.’

Murdoch’s last test was the All Blacks’ 154th — they’ve since played more than 400 more. The game, both the manner of its playing and the way in which it is organised and run, has changed vastly, almost to an unrecognisable state. The amateur days to which Murdoch belonged lasted just over twenty years longer than he did, and the game became totally professional in the money sense; the All Blacks have more often than not always been professional in the sense of preparation and attitude. Murdoch and players of his day received a few dollars a day expenses money and even that was sometimes criticised as being thinly veiled professionalism. Players today are paid hundreds of thousands of dollars a year for simply playing the game and being available to play; a few are paid more than a million dollars a year. The pay for rugby players, whether in New Zealand or Europe, is still vastly inferior to the ridiculous sums paid to soccer players or to American footballers and basketballers and some others, but it is still substantial. And whatever it is, even if it were just a dollar, it is more than was paid to players in the amateur era. Of course there was great prestige and standing in being an All Black, in playing for one’s country, but it was still done for nothing and sometimes, many times even, at a cost. Some players had to take leave without pay from their jobs, some had to leave their jobs in order to tour; many had marriages fall apart because of the strains imposed by rugby; many existed, subsisted, only on the generosity of their mates and of their local rugby clubs.

The change between the first All Blacks tour in the northern hemisphere in 1905–06 and the tour of 1972–73 was not as great as the change between 1973 and the rugby of today. There was an umbilical link between 1905 and 1972. To the British press, Ian Kirkpatrick’s team was known as the Seventh All Blacks, an Anglocentric counting of tours which, of course, conveniently ignored All Blacks teams anywhere else. The men of 1972–73 could easily imagine what it must have been like to tour nearly seventy years before; the players of today would find that unimaginable.

At the end of the 1905–06 tour, the captain, Dave Gallaher, and vice-captain, Billy Stead, were contracted to write a book about New Zealand rugby and its methods. They had to do it in the space of a few days. Gallaher sorted out photos and diagrams and wrote captions. Stead wrote the 100,000-word manuscript in, as he put it, ‘three days and four nights’. They were each paid £50 (strictly against the amateurism regulations but none of the ‘money police’ knew about it at the time) and each distributed their £50 among their teammates, some of whom were stony-broke, and all of whom were living in boarding houses and lodgings because they were waiting for a ship to New York; their British tour was effectively over so the English union did not put them up in a hotel (as it had done during the tour).

The 1972 All Blacks could relate to that. After all, they toured with the management structure as laid down in 1905, if structure is not aggrandising it too much. From September 1905 until February 1906, the All Blacks played thirty-five matches (thirty-six if an exhibition match in New York is counted). There were twenty-seven players, one manager and one coach. Kirkpatrick’s 1972–73 team of thirty-two players (including two replacements) played thirty-two matches between the beginning of October 1972 and the final game in early February 1973. They too had one manager and one coach; Todd could call on national union liaison men for some duties and the team also had an England-based baggageman, Graham Short. (And Short was shouted a trip to New Zealand from the players’ ticket sales proceeds.) But the similarities in the lack of resources were striking. Even more ludicrous was that for the nine-match internal tour in 1972, the New Zealand union appointed just one man, Jack Gleeson, to do everything. A damning feature of the old system was that players in need of medical treatment needed to see local doctors or physiotherapists wherever they may have been. Any player who was a doctor or a medical student was the most overworked player on tour. The New Zealand union (as with most other national unions) skimped on itself as well. At the time of the 1972 tour, it had one fulltime paid secretary and a couple of part-timers.

A comparison with New Zealand teams in the current era is practically meaningless. But just as an example, New Zealand went to Europe in 2015 to defend the World Cup. The team was successful, which meant it played seven matches — four pool games (Argentina, Namibia, Georgia and Tonga), a quarter-final against France, a semi-final against South Africa and the final against Australia. For this tournament of about six weeks (19 September to 31 October), New Zealand had thirty-two players plus another (Pauliasi Manu) who was on standby in case of injury, who never took the field but who received a cup winner’s medal anyway. Compared with one manager and one coach of earlier days, the 2015 World Cup squad had a team of twenty officials. That is why the players of 1972 could relate more to the tour of 1905. If there had been incidents of misbehaviour in 2015, they would have been handled within the team, there would have been no involvement by British officials and it’s entirely possible nothing would have been made public. The All Blacks may have reached new heights, or depths depending on individual views, with an inflated squad of forty-three for four matches in Europe in 2017.

Any of the modern All Blacks, as well as the various coaches and ancillary employees, would look aghast at 1972 and wonder how the team could have been as successful as it was — just a few minutes away from being the first to achieve a grand slam — and wonder how Murdoch could have been banished without benefit of a hearing.

It’s to the eternal regret of some of the players, perhaps all of them, that they did little, or could do little, for Murdoch. Some of the senior players could have helped early in the tour by setting a better example and by inculcating in the younger ones — and it was on average a young team, both in years and in experience — a sense of the pride and the knowledge of privilege in being an All Black. But they did not and at least one of the All Blacks vowed to himself to never again allow such circumstances to develop. Captain Ian Kirkpatrick, like some others, cannot even now escape the sorrowful conclusion that he should have told Ernie Todd: ‘If he goes, we all go.’ That’s a fine thought in hindsight but would have been difficult, if not impossible, to implement at the time.

Kirkpatrick says the sending home of Keith Murdoch still brings ‘bad, dark memories’. It is something that will never leave him. It was his first tour as captain — he was still just twenty-six years old. ‘I know that if I had been captain for a couple more years, I would have dealt with it differently.’

Kirkpatrick should spare himself enduring anguish. The fault lay not with him or even with the few players who could have behaved better and more responsibly. Quite apart from his considerable playing ability, Kirkpatrick had the standing and stature of a leader of men: it was a pity that some of them did not want to be led. The blame for Murdoch lay partly with Ernie Todd, but it lay wholly with the chairman of the Four Home Unions, John Tallent, and the chairman of the New Zealand Rugby Football Union, Jack Sullivan. Todd took the blame, but it was the other two men who made the decision. And of those two, Tallent is the most culpable because he delivered an ultimatum to Sullivan: get rid of Murdoch or we’ll get rid of Todd, or call the tour off.

Some players and various others around the tour expressed misgivings about Todd: his penchant for flying off the handle for no apparent reason; for talking too much to journalists; even for drinking too much, though Todd was certainly not the only All Blacks manager who could be accused of that. There was a time when it was part of a manager’s brief to be sociable and drink with the locals. There have also been comments about Todd and the illness that killed him twenty months after the tour. Whether he even knew about the illness during the tour, never mind whether that knowledge affected his judgment, cannot be known. Todd may not have been the perfect manager — has there ever been one? — but whatever faults he had were laid bare by the Murdoch affair. Much of what was written about Todd would have remained unwritten had Murdoch stayed on the tour, just as many stories about Murdoch, the good, the bad and the bizarre, came tumbling out after he’d gone.

Murdoch may, as his early playing life suggests, have always been a bit of a wanderer, keen on the nomadic life: a job here, a job there, and move on, the epitome of the ‘man alone’ that some theorists see as the core of the New Zealand male. Others of course just scoff at such a notion. The events of Cardiff in 1972 led him irrevocably down that path.

This is not Keith Murdoch’s story. It is a story about him.

1

Homeward bound

It is a rare thing for a player to be sent home from a rugby tour. Rare, but not unprecedented. Players both before Keith Murdoch and after him have not been wanted any longer on tours. Ejection from a tour in all but one case has been the ultimate penalty for some behaviour transgression, either on or off the field.

Some returned to the game, even to their national colours, some did not.

The first notable case of a player being sent home from a tour was in 1908 when a goal-kicking forward with the Anglo-Welsh team touring New Zealand, Fred Jackson, was reckoned to have played league in England. He had played in six of the first nine matches on tour, including the first test in which he converted the only Anglo-Welsh try. But on the eve of the second test in Wellington, manager George Harnett received a blunt cable from the (English) Rugby Football Union in London: ‘Jackson suspended. Return him forthwith.’ (There was no umbrella body then representing the British Isles unions and the word of the RFU was, in effect, law. The International Rugby Board existed merely to rule on differences of law between the ‘home’ nations.)

Jackson left on a ship for Sydney the following day and while he was at sea, various accounts emerged about how he had played league under false names, ‘John Jones’ and ‘Ivor Gape’ for Leicester and for Swinton. He wouldn’t say anything to reporters in Sydney, where he remained for a couple of months while he negotiated a return to New Zealand. He saw the New South Wales Rugby Union lawyers and exchanged his ticket to London for a return ticket to Wellington (with no one saying what happened to the fare difference).

Jackson spent some time in Dunedin on his return and told a local rugby reporter, Sid Minn, that he had not played league and wanted to clear his name. ‘I have seen a lot of Northern Union games,’ he told Minn, ‘and the Rugby Union game, if played properly, is far ahead of it. What is required in the Rugby Union game is a modification of the rules and the intelligence to play it.’

The English union in 1909 inquired into alleged professionalism at the Leicester club and it was cleared and Jackson reinstated. But he spent most of 1909 in Greymouth, and the West Coast union asked the national body if he could referee while he was there. The answer was that he could not. He moved to the North Island and switched to league anyway; he captained Auckland and played for New Zealand against a British team in 1910.

Jackson married a Ngati Porou woman, Horowai Henderson, in 1913 and spent most of the rest of his life on the East Coast. Despite his unwanted status as a league player, he at one stage coached the East Coast rugby (union) team; one son, Everard, became an All Black and two others, Sydney (‘Bully’), and Tutu Wirepa, played for New Zealand Maori. All three were officers in the famed C Company of the Maori Battalion in the Second World War and ‘Bully’ captained the Maori Battalion team at times, including when it won the much-prized inter-battalion Freyberg Cup. The politician and broadcaster Willie Jackson was a grandson of Everard and therefore great-grandson of Fred.

That dismissal came at a sensitive time for rugby in both England and the southern hemisphere as it reacted against the expansion of rugby league by the arrival of the game in New Zealand and Australia. The 1908 tour, which Scotland and Ireland refused to join because they imagined the All Blacks made money on their British tour in 1905, was agreed before the formation of the first New Zealand league team was known. The tour took on the role of trying to bolster the amateur game in New Zealand but, as it proved, there was no need for bolstering.

The only New Zealander sent home for a misdemeanour on the field was Ross Cullen, but he was playing for Australia at the time. Cullen, born in Taumarunui, had gone to Australia in search of a job and settled in Queensland, where he made the state team as a hooker in 1965. He made such an impression that he was included in the Australian team to tour Britain and Ireland in the northern season of 1966–67 as the second hooker behind the veteran and sometime captain, Peter Johnson.

Towards the end of the Wallabies’ third tour match, against Oxford University, prop Ollie Waldron left the field, trying to staunch blood coming from a flesh wound on his left ear. Cullen admitted he bit Waldron’s ear because Waldron was boring in on him in scrums and obscuring his sight of the ball. As Cullen later explained, he told Waldron to stop what he was doing and when he continued, he ‘nipped’ him when Waldron’s position had his ear against Cullen’s mouth. When that scrum broke up, Waldron told Cullen: ‘Don’t you bite my damned ear!’ (That might have been a polite paraphrasing of what Waldron actually said in his rich Munster accent.) Waldron at one stage kicked Cullen in retaliation and near the end of the game, in another close-encounter scrum, Cullen bit him again. This time, the wound forced Waldron from the field and, as he went, he was reported to have said to referee Peter Brook of Ilkley in Yorkshire: ‘It was the Aussie hooker, ref, he bit me!’

After the game, Cullen told the Australian manager, Bill McLaughlin, what had happened. McLaughlin, concerned about reports of violent play on previous Australian tours, had told the whole team before the first game that any player who brought discredit on Australian rugby would be sent home. McLaughlin could see he was left without a choice. The next day, he told Cullen he had to go home.

Captain John Thornett supported McLaughlin. ‘I’ll carry the can as much as Bill,’ he told reporter and author Peter Jenkins. ‘Both of us were up all night, walking the streets thinking about it. The thing was we had to be beyond reproach, and we had made the point many times before. Had he not gone home the tour would have been a disaster. I felt particularly strongly.’

In an uncanny prequel, Cullen was escorted off the British premises by the English union’s liaison man with the Wallabies, 53-year-old publican Stanley Couchman. Six years later, Couchman would have precisely the same role with Keith Murdoch.

Terry O’Connor, the Irish-born rugby writer for the Daily Mail, who was to have a loud newspaper voice six years later, wrote that he spoke to McLaughlin in Sydney before the tour. McLaughlin, he reported, would take every measure to ensure his team proved themselves fine sportsmen first and good players second.

Cullen said nothing publicly either then or when he arrived in Sydney, but six weeks later he was happy to talk to a reporter about what had happened during the game. No further action was taken against him and he continued to play rugby, including for Queensland against New Zealand in 1968. But he was not chosen again for Australia.

Waldron gained a doctorate in nuclear physics at Merton College, Oxford, and had a business career in oil and gas exploration. He played three tests for Ireland.

A week after Cullen’s departure, O’Connor switched his focus to British officials. He said none had made any comment about the incident when it was a wonderful opportunity to act against dirty play at all levels of the game. ‘It is almost as if kicking, biting and punching is not condemned, as many outside rugby truly believe,’ he wrote. ‘I take a more charitable view. Rugby union has grown too big for the amateur administrators, the majority of whom do not have the time to devote to a hobby which has become a world-wide sport.’