At last, seasons to be cheerful

England versus the All Blacks at Newlands in Cape Town was to be the last game of rugby I played for 238 days. My return to the sport was somewhat less glamorous in the earthy surroundings of Brierton Lane, West Hartlepool, in a friendly for Newcastle. They could have played the game on a beach at a Butlin's holiday camp, it would still have felt like another semi-final for me.

Two hundred and thirty eight days is a long time. A long time to watch, ponder and pontificate. At first, the break is welcome, especially after the harrowing experiences at Newlands, but as an athlete the only thing that can assuage your basic, animalistic desire is competition.

The surgery I had on my knee was only minor but the long-term damage I had incurred meant that nothing but rest and intensive strength work would suffice.

I attended a few England squad sessions to maintain my contact and understanding of how and where the team were looking to proceed. Once the squad trimmed down and Test matches approached, I became an outsider. Uncomfortable with the position I found myself in, my thoughts turned to the north.

Away from the game and away from the squad you become insular in your outlook. Fitness and a return to action were my priorities and I became focused on my road to recovery. Not England's. Not anyone else's. During this time I assumed the mantle of just another punter. I watched as first Damian Hopley and then Jon Sleightholme pulled on the No14 shirt for England. You wish them well, yet you wish you were there.

I watched as the team struggled to come to terms with transition. I read and listened to critics, mostly Celtic, who are making the most of this opportunity to get at the English. The pressure they are putting the team and players under is immense. I feel it and I am not even taking the park. That part I have not missed.

Which brings me to one of the reasons for why I came up to Newcastle. Here, for a couple of seasons at least, I can rediscover some of the joy which First Division and Test match rugby cannot provide you. It is no secret that skill and expression is being stifled at that level and I and the squad here are looking forward to unleashing some of that. Do not confuse this with the thought that I am running away from pressure. The buzz of playing at that level is unbeatable. Given the season in the Second Division though, perhaps we can go on to play in the pressure cooker of the First Division in the style to which the English public are coming to expect from their professional sportsmen.

My comeback game against West Hartlepool best exemplified this and provided me with just the return I needed. Pounding the weights, the pads and the team-mates is all very well but doing so against well-motivated local rivals is another thing. Thankfully my knee stood up to it - better in fact than the rest of my body. It was a rude awakening, unaccustomed as it is to the weekly battering. However, my body will swiftly become desensitised again, to the chagrin of my wife.

I will soon have to become desensitised to crowd banter too. "Fancy a pizza" or "Your mum tackles better than you" are the favourites thus far. Perhaps it will go with me to my grave - unless I conjure up a more fitting epitaph in the rest of my playing, as opposed to acting, days.