Choice Cuts 08

Keith Westray's Rugby Tour Review. Newsletter No. 35, 24th September 1973

And now having arrived at Berre, Keith Westray continues..

We were met at our place du tour by Jean Pierre and Pat Naylor along with one more vieille garçon, Richard Snowden who brought his wife with him to ensure his safety and good looks. Even if our Rugby was up to our usual erratic standard, we would be able to salvage some prestige by conversing with our hosts in their native tongue!! The first game was scheduled for 6.30 local time (the town crier was a bit slow I might add) and après un petit repas dans one of the pavement cafes I mentioned earlier, and hunting for Chris Anstiss' contact lens, followed by our first of many and countless glasses of pastis, we ventured en block to the Sports Stadium to play the first of our three, dare I call them, games. We had been told that there would be floodlights which made us all grow ten feet tall including Pas, and indeed there were floodlights, but team selection made one fatal mistake by putting yours truly at full back, (there Terry I've admitted it) and someone's suggestions about putting a sonar system between ball and me could be the answer. Nevertheless, despite these handicaps we mastered the hard fast conditions to win 16-6 and who was that we had in the wingers shirt? The support from the touch lines was boosted by a trio from Luxembourg in the shape of Dave Thursfield, Roger Simpson and un bon ami, and to the latter part of the game helped in reviving many aching and, in John Payne's case broken limbs (another first of many for the side). We finished the game in grand style by the try we've seen so often and still cannot understand how he does it. Scrum half to Alan Morrison ... 4 points!

In the dressing room after the game we soon discovered that we would be needing every last player throughout the weekend so we each made a vow not to drink, eat, sing and tombée les pantalons (anyone who didn't break that vow doesn't deserve to remain in the Club and anyone who managed the latter vow then I think you might be joining a different sort of Club). On that happy note we made our way back to the little pavement cafe to commence the pastime we have all grown to love and enjoy. We took a small high tea of trout and chips, followed by steak, salad and fish and washed that down with a choice of Burgundy 69 (that was a very good year and another cue for a song) and variations of local red and light rouge plonk guaranteed to make your hair curl. A few more bottles of this and all our aches of the game and memories of the long journey were soon forgotten and enfin nous avons commencé à chanteras only the Old Boys knew how. Our hosts rendered a collection of obviously lewd verses and tous les old boys laughed their way through them as though they understood every word. (Pooley and Snowden did cos they're both clever Dicks)..

A final "Zips Down ...., High Ho! and Music Man" saw us outside the place du piss up and our opposition ran a taxi service keeping guard over the rooms. Seriously, if I might say at this moment the entire accommodation, pre-match and after match entertainment were paid for by our hosts and this was to be for the whole weekend, something which would be a feat for any British Isles Club no matter what level.

Peace and quiet lasted for at least six hours until we were awoken by T.B. telling us that all players whether fit or otherwise would meet at L'auberge de young men (codename Colditz) at a suitable time to enable us to travel to our second match some 30 mins. ride. Well as you no doubt are aware no time was mentioned, as the story goes and the coach somehow got held up waiting for a group who had taken an extra hour's tea break. My, God their tea ain't half potent!!.

Nous sommes arrivés at Port de Bouc in time to hear the roar of the crowd inside the municipal stadium and when we were greeted by a R. Snowden enquiring "Ou the ......" had we been, we knew, cos we're educated, that this was going to be a big one.

Rumour had it that the spectators were paying 10 bob a head to witness les Old Boys versus the local heroes and it certainly was a very good game which we diplomatically threw away by letting the home team win 13-10 with a last minute drop goal. Nevertheless, it was a highly spirited game in more ways than one as Tom, Alan and Tom can tell you. Le jambe est casse! eh Tom?

Feeling rather shattered and with a cold shower to contend with we followed our hosts instructions and first found ourselves on the end of the pier and when we finally got on the correct route, ended up at 'the Port De Bouc' Civic Centre amidst shrieks de horreur from the populace who had been watching the somewhat large rear of M. Timperley being paraded through the town via the back window of the coach (Dave Thursfield running the book on how many blushes!!). At the civic centre there was a speech by the opposing capt and tous les monde drank each others health over and over again and even to Yuri Gagarin's picture that was hanging on the wall (yet another cue for a song).

It was about this time that evil Clyde Pooley began to let the vine- yards get to work on his mind and patriotism took over whilst we were waiting to go in to the banqueting hall for our 9 course meal. Luckily he has now built up a friendship with Graham Parish and henceforth are to be known as 'Boney and Clyde', but it took the strong and mighty hand of Mike Barber to stop Clyde from wrecking Reg's upholstery.

The evening was the highlight of the tour and the first time that the majority of the Club had tasted caviar. fried thrush and danh la... missing words... 

of wine and champagne. We were presented with a magnificent picture of a fair damsel done in enamel and our capitaine de l'équipe replied with an 'O' level rendering of 'Merci mes amis' and 'it gives me great pleasure' coupled with an event to beat all. Yes, aye-kooga-zoombah Burrells performed again and I'm sure its the first time he's had Moet et Chandon sprayed at him during his act. Never mind Terry we all know you love it!??

More food, more wine, more dancing, more singing and unfortunately the more you eat and drink the faster the clock seems to spin round. Once into the coach we counted up injuries and losses in numbers and everyone agreed, apart from Clyde, that it was truly a memorable night. Some managed sleep that night, others had draughts in their neck due to artificial, home made, old boy ventilation. Three to be precise. Les fenêtres sont busted n'est-ce pas? Add one fire extinguisher and a hingeless door and you wouldn't be far wrong in guessing the damage. Quelle expense pour Terry!

Sunday morning after church (not quite a cue for a song) the hommes sans les dames went to Cassis for the day whilst the splinter group led by that Anglo Fuel thief Nick Kohl (cops) hired a horse and cart to do it the French way, and voyaged to other sights of interest. Cassis, which I hope is spelt right, lies on the coast of South of France, and it is reputed to accommodate at least ten millionaires a season. So as you can see we were in the right company and the locals must have thought we were loaded by the way they kept charging the equivalent of forty pence for a bottle of beer. Mind you it still manages to find its way down the throat regardless of extravagance.

A quiet and pleasant day was enjoyed and our final evening in France became a night in our honour by the way of a discotheque and a free meal for some. I'm sure its the first time a rave up has been stopped for St. Nicholas to perform on the stage in place of records, but there we are, such is the hidden talent of this notorious Club.

The ensuing hours were a bit vague in my mind as I happened to consume a little too much, as one sometimes does and forgot most of what surpassed. Any way I had the correct trousers and the wrong wallet in the morning so I couldn't complain.

More headaches more aching limbs and more worries about who would be fit enough, greeted the Monday morning and we decided to incorporate the substitution rule which had been used with great success by the French. However, as best laid plans always do, we called too many people off the pitch and left a team without a front row and Ian Dothie hovering on the touch line wondering. Shall I Shan't I? Such was the game against the Province de Berre. Our character to fight back showed through and that miracle we have been waiting ten years to see finally evolved. Yes, Nick Kohl, or Judas to his friends, kept hold of the ball and would believe it, he ran without the Backshall chip-kick!! Astonishing. One game in his entire career and he's hailed as the greatest event since sliced bread. Mustn't take it away from him, he was good. (Mine's a pint Nick, while you are there). We ran out winners, well Nick ran out the winner, by 38-19 and so we finished our games with 2 wins and a narrow defeat, a fine accomplishment indeed.

A final goodbye, au revoir and ou est le vin and we left Berre making our way towards the port of Calais up the other end of the map geographically speaking!

As the sun set on a clear Tuesday afternoon the pubs shut, and we arrived at Ruislip where five days before no one believed we would ever leave. Funny that and Dave Fairhurst wasn't even there to greet us!!