We both collapsed onto the roundabout somehow managing to avoid the prickles. Laughing our nads off at our truly fubared position. After some time lurching around the road we found the keys, and out of the darkness car lights approached. A proper taxi ! The driver wasn't Algerian ! He had a map !
10 minutes later we wandering to our pad after being dropped at the bottom of the road. As we approached a vomit covered apparition rose from the steps. 'Four hours I've been here, four fucking hours you pair of cunts'. So BIL had his homing instincts switched on. Turns out he'd watched the game and then grabbed a cab, assuming we'd do likewise. When it was clear we hadn't he wandered down to the bar at the bottom of the street, the one we swore blind that no matter how bladdered we were, we wouldn't venture in. Turns out they took pity on him, they all had a few beers and they even gave him a couple of fat biftas, hence the spew. Weed and beer are not happy bedfellows.
By now it was 5.30, which seemed a good time to crash as we had to do it all over again later in the day. we rose at 10 , all looking very special, a quick shower, a few gallons of water and OJ and off to catch the bus. We followed the main docks road into the edge of the centre, and then got the metro to the old port. As I said earlier, dog rough in parts.
The walk from the station to the port is pretty. The station sits on top of a hill and we strolled down tree line boulevards taking in the views. We found an amazing confectioners staffed by the most stunning women, bloody well made me want to buy biscuits. I got the boys some rather jazzy lollipops and we continued our stroll munching on themostfuckingincrdiblefreshlymadethatmorningmeltin yourmouthbutterbiscuits, yum.
We opted for brunch. BIL went for pasta, he was doing the Cardiff half marathon the following weekend and last nights debauchery had totally fecked his training schedule, and as more was planned for this day, pasta was a his token effort. Bokke and I had bloody gorgeous steaks with a heavily reduced red wine and red onion sauce swilled down with a few bottles of rather refreshing rose. Breakfast of champions. more strolling aided digestion before we decided to join French cafe society and watch the Boks play Fiji sat comfortably outside a bar with a big screen. I think this was where I went a bit wrong with my drinks choice. More wine, a few beers, and a few pastis. The game was wonderful. Played at a hell of a pace with the score going one way then the next, before the filthy Saffas pulled away at the end. Bokke was happy, but mighty relieved. He'd taken loads with very good humour all through the game as he was the only Boer in the bar, and everyone was backing Fiji. It was from this point that my memories become hazy. It was only around 7pm, and the next game was 9. We meandered some more and found ourselves in the bar we had finished up in the previous night. Mine host was pleased to see us, and greeted us with a free shot of Tequila. ( We most have blown a few quid in there the previous evening ) it then got messy. More tequila, sambuca, oysters, whatever that orange licker is, more oysters, lobster, and finally, kick off and the sensibilty of a cold pint. Somewhere during the second half is the point at which my weekend ended in disgrace. I pulled a massive hurl, damn near turning myself inside out in the process and rather sensibly informed my companions that I wished to be collected from my sleeping position on the church steps opposite when it was time to go. Iwas told later that Argentina won. I may be daft enough to do it, but I'm now wise enough to know when I've had enough.
The journey back was relaxing. I've always hated air travel after a weekend on the lash, but the train was great. We had time for a spot of lunch in Paris. Bokke had more steak. Boers and meat. My body being totally protein overloaded cried out for, and got a green salad with a few litres of diet coke. The drive from London back to the shire was the only harsh part of the journey as I had to drive. Bokke and BIL both drive stupid trucks, Bokke as he hankers after the veld, and BIL as he lives halfway up a mountain in the arse end of nowhere. We went back to Gumphers as Mrs G was looking after Bokkes kids for a few hours. We were delighted to be told that we all looked and smelt like tramps, a proper badge of honour. She was pleased to see me really. The boys liked their funky shirts and lollipops, and A professed to be chuffed with the Foie Gras.
All in all a fucking splendid weekend. I hadn't had a rugby trip for a few years. As the boys are getting older the weekends get fuller and fuller, but it was the world cup dammit. Good company, fine wine, beer, and food, and thrilling rugby. I cancelled two games of squash that week and eventually came right on the Friday. I am old and I smell of wee.