France v England - tour report

What kind of idiot thinks that a 9 pm start for a rugby match is a good idea? The French invented the guillotine for those who forgot the needs of ordinary people. It’s probably the only pre-match entertainment (with the scheduler hauled out as victim, ideally screaming for mercy) that could have relieved the hiatus in what otherwise had been an excellent two-and-a-half day tour.

Instead we settled for the slow strangulation of the French which did nothing to enliven the apres match atmosphere as the bars were thinning out at midnight.

Peaking too early in Paris before the six nations match at Stade de France, was always going to be an issue. The tour planning was going to take skill, balance and judgement, all of which were in short supply among our six-man party. The secret is to limit your time in the bars. The limits were more than generous. So that was all right.

We like to mix our drinking with the cultural experience of a big city so I had bought a useful little book called Authentic Bistros of Paris. The first one we found, La Petite Porte, was staffed by an authentic New Zealand bar maid (just like London then) called Sabine. Sabine - who it turns out was no ordinary barmaid - was going on to yoga class after her stint and she had found a few potential recruits. We had to drag ourselves out of that place but it was only 5pm.

Blurred vision

Art next, so we hit the metro, had a little singsong on the train, then rolled in to the Orangerie to look at Monet’s lily pond paintings in the oval rooms. The great thing about these paintings for the semi-inebriated is that blurred vision is no handicap.

Had we thought about it we might have shortened our subsequent trek to the Rue Mouffetard with a train ride. We might too have avoided an interlude in another bar. By the time we had found our chosen bistro, Le Verre a Pied, the manager was putting up the shutters. She pointed out another place just further on so the evening ended well.

The Saturday was always going to be tough, so Stuart (whose wife, Delia had cooked us some lovely oggies for the train journey), had suggested one of Peter and Oriel Caine’s Paris Walks. For two hours Oriel guided us around the Marais district, showing us places and telling us stories that we would never have heard or found otherwise.

Port-a-loo

One of these stories referred to the 17th century preacher, Louis Bordaloue, whose sermons at the Saint Paul-Saint Louis Church were so popular that the wealthier ladies in the neighbourhood would send round servants to save them a place.

Once in situ, the ladies were expected to endure a three hour sermon so they would take along their silver potties (called Bourdaloues, naturally)and pop them under their flouncy dresses whenever the need arose. They peed where they prayed. It gives a whole new meaning to the silver collection.

Too much Mucha

After a long lunch in one of the Marais bistros the options were extended televised rugby in a nearby Scottish bar or more culture. I can just about handle Irish bars in big cities, but the idea that anyone should want to import the Scottish drinking experience, complete with 80 Shillings beer at 7 euros a pint, is laughable. I went instead with Stuart to the nearby Carnavalet museum, the former home of Madame de Sevigne where you can find the superb preserved interior and facade of Fouquet's jewel shop, designed by Alphonse Mucha. More about him here.

We probably overdosed on the culture and neglected the drinking too much but I thought we had settled on the wrong type of bar (not authentic French) with the wrong beer at the wrong price and with far too much TV*; otherwise it was fine.

On the way in to the ground I was disappointed to hear a group of English supporters singing the National Anthem just as they do at football matches. They should stick to Jerusalem and learn the words, leaving the anthem for the official singing just before the match.

Oikish chanting

Even worse, inside the ground, after the English had scored their first try I heard some supporters chanting "you're not singing anymore" to the French. This is crass bad manners. Oikish chanting at rugby matches should be discouraged before it is allowed to take hold.

Perhaps it's the fitness ideal and obsession with winning that has killed the drinking and singing traditions in some rugby clubs. I hope not.

There was a long wait the next day for the train home so we took a trip on the Seinne and found another bistro from the little book. This was called La Tartine in Rue du Rivoli. A three hour lunch with cheese before the pudding - the French way - was just what we needed and there was even enough time to visit another bar before heading for the terminal.

A good weekend all round that would have been even better had the game's administrators thought a little bit more about the travelling fans. But maybe I'm just an old fart who hasn't moved with the times.

*Postscript: the BBC has apologised for showing almost 12 hours of continuous sport on BBC1 last Saturday (mostly six nations rugby matches - three games broadcast live). It plans to do so again next week.

Puritanism in sport

Do you remember the England v West Indies test matches during the 1980s? They were colourful, noisy affairs with West Indies fans maintaining a rhythmic cacophony of sound by bashing beer cans together. Indeed it's that same tinny sound that inspires the opening theme of Test Match Special on Radio 4.

But you don't hear it any more. Looking at the back of my ticket for Saturday's play at the first test at Lords I found the answer. There was a clue in the £60 price tag on the front. On the back in small type it says: "Flags, banners, musical instruments, klaxons, rattles, fireworks and fancy dress costumes are not permitted in the ground."

Why stop there? Why not say: no smiling, no telling of jokes, no ribald laughter, no gestures, no whistling, no singing, no dancing in the aisles, no loud conversation, no breaking of wind?

The number of restrictions at Lord's reads like a bad case of old fartism; a little bit hypocritical too since some of the MCC members like nothing better than to put on their egg and bacon striped blazers. How can they of all people complain about fancy dress?

It doesn't seem as if the MCC is in any danger of accommodating the Barmy Army in the near future since there's no place for Billy the Trumpet. The strength of the culture clash can be gauged in the lyrics of the MCC song here, presumably sung to the tune of Alouette.