Worse-for-wear Prince Harry had to be helped out of the after-party, players rode in a police van and the Wharf Bar was the place to be! Mail Sport's rugby correspondent CHRIS FOY recalls England's 2003 World Cup win on the 20th anniversary

There were only two of us stood in the pouring rain outside England’s World Cup celebration party in Sydney in 2003, when Prince Harry was helped out by a minder – some time before the sun came up.

It is funny how vivid the memory is, 20 years on. The young Royal was wearing a Barmy Army T-shirt and he was decidedly worse for wear too – which was hardly surprising in the circumstances, amid so much English euphoria. The man who was providing vital support to the unsteady Prince looked up at the photographer and said: ‘You’re not going to take this picture, are you?’ Remarkably, his forceful request worked; the camera remained lowered and the moment was not captured.

Sir Clive Woodward’s triumphant squad had relocated from Stadium Australia – way out in the western suburbs of the city – to the Wharf bar down by the iconic harbour area at Circular Quay. My orders were to ‘door-step’ the event, to try to grab a word with some heroes of the hour, or at least come away with a sense of how they were enjoying their glorious feat.

But it was so dark, cold and wet that they all stayed inside and there was enough secrecy around the function that supporters did not turn up outside. So this observer – surely the only sober Englishman in Sydney that night, bar Jonny Wilkinson – cut a bedraggled figure, stood in the dark, watching the festivities, briefly, before retreating to sleep. There was another Royal guest, as Zara Phillips sat chatting to Mike Tindall, who would ultimately become her husband.

At that stage, there were high spirits, but it wasn’t total bedlam. That came later. Meanwhile, all around the city, England fans drank the place dry. They had turned up in their thousands. There were tales of people booking flights at a day’s notice, arriving in Australia, going to the game and going straight back to the airport for a flight home. It cost them thousands and they didn’t care. They had flown via Japan, the Middle East, America and various other points on the atlas.

Your correspondent was not supposed to be there at all. My predecessor, Peter Jackson, was in charge of covering the England team in those days and I had been told to work through until after the quarter-finals, then come home. But having arranged to stay Down Under for the remainder of the tournament, using holiday time, I was soon put to work again by an opportunistic boss.

This led to such unique scenarios as talking to Wallaby legend Michael Lynagh on the phone, for his Mail Sport column, while sat on the floor in the corridor of a hostel in Woolloomooloo, as drunken guests stumbled over me on their way to bed. Days later, a productive visit to the nearby Star City casino allowed my brother, Andrew, and a friend, Rick – who were in Sydney, hoping to attend the final – to buy tickets from a pair of Australians who had offered to sell on the basis that ‘if it’s raining, the Poms will win’. 

They were right. England did win, just. It was incredibly tense, with the game drifting into extra-time, before the dramatic surge up-field which led to Wilkinson’s iconic drop goal. From our vantage point above the halfway line, we knew it was on target from the way a huge swathe of England fans clad leapt up as the kick left the fly-half’s foot.

What followed was a blur of ticker-tape and a trophy parade around the stadium, before a good-natured slog through post-match interviews in the giant media centre. What was far more memorable was the next debrief, at the Manly Pacific Hotel, the following afternoon.

It was as if Beatle-mania had come to Sydney’s north shore. The area was swamped by England fans, who had come to acclaim the champions. Thousands of them. How they weren’t still in bed with monstrous hangovers is anyone’s guess. Maybe they hadn’t made it to bed. That was certainly the case for a handful of Red Rose players, who were brought back to their hotel in a Police van, having been rescued from a delirious mob of compatriots in Kings Cross.

The press conference that day was hilarious, as some of the interviewees were barely able to speak properly, such had been the extent of the partying. Players were talking to broadcasters while hiding beers – one in each hand – just out of sight of the cameras. Jason Leonard kept walking towards the windows overlooking the street, to allow the hordes outside another glimpse of the Webb Ellis Cup. Every time he did it, the cheer was deafening.

When each of the champions had finished their media duties, they walked down a staircase, linked up with their wife or girlfriend on the landing area and then descended into the lobby, which was a scene of total pandemonium. Police held back the throng outside as the England squad boarded a coach to attend another function. It was a precursor of what was to follow, back at Heathrow airport and around the streets of London during the epic victory parade.