I'M NO DRUGGIE

When I got up to go training on Tuesday September 23, 2003, I had no inkling of the monumental events which were about to engulf me.

It was the day I missed a drugs test, an incident which landed me with an eight-month ban and gave anyone who fancied it the opportunity to give me a kicking.

But you know what? People said to me at the time that they wondered whether David Beckham — and this was in no way ever meant as a slant on Becks — had done the same thing, there was any chance on earth he would have received a ban.

On the day of the test we jogged out for a fairly light 45-minute session and the club doctor, Mike Stone, told me, Nicky Butt, Ryan Giggs and John O'Shea that we had a drugs test at the end of it.

In the changing room I was having a massage and a bit of banter with the lads, like I would most days.

Then I went in the shower, which was when Dr Stone shouted to me, ‘Rio, the drugs test. Do it before you go.' So I said, ‘Yeah, no probs.'

Twenty minutes later I'd finished getting ready and walked straight out the door to my car.

When I walked out I didn't go past anybody, so there was nothing to remind me again that I had to have a test.

I know I should have remembered. I'd been told twice, the last time only 20 minutes earlier, but I forgot.

Not much of an excuse, but that's what happened. At the time I was moving house and all I was thinking about was that I had to go into town to get some bed linen that my girlfriend Rebecca had asked me to pick up.

I headed off to Manchester city centre.

Despite the rumours to the contrary, I've never taken any illegal substances in my life, not even cannabis. I challenge anyone to prove otherwise.

I know no one can.

Elsewhere:

I'm a Peckham boy and proud of it. That working class jungle of bricks and concrete in South East London is the greatest place in the world to me.

One day, I'd driven round to the Acorn Estate in my pride and joy – a Ford Fiesta Freestyle – to see my cousin Bernard and a few of his mates.

We were sitting outside the video shop when two meat wagons screeched round the corner and out jumped a load of coppers who shouted at us, ‘Don't move!'

They started searching the car and, Bernard was shouting his mouth off, as he always does, saying, ‘Just f***ing leave him alone. He don't do drugs. He doesn't do nothing like that. ‘He's a footballer. He don't do no mad sh**,' which wasn't exactly calming the situation.

Suddenly, one of the lads in our group, someone I'd gone to primary school with, ran off.

The police caught him, which was impressive because he was a quick lad, and found drugs in his pocket. He got a year in prison.