The Conclusion to a Year - The Final Post

I write this final post looking out the window at the Perthshire countryside with a full belly of home-cooked food and a full day at home which I’ve spent doing nothing very much at all.

Actually, that’s as far as I got, so I have returned to it now back in Edinburgh, a very cold and empty Edinburgh. Trying to write a conclusive post is a big ask, but I want to finish it all off with something that brings it all together.

Does it feel all of 10 months? Truthfully, yes.

It hasn’t been 10 months of smelling the roses, around half of those months were not enjoyable at all. I spent the months up to Christmas very unhappy. I fell out of love with rugby. Whatever the appeal was before: being the captain, representing the school, playing with your mates, being one of the best...all crumbled away. I got down on myself – how sad, a classic case of withdrawal symptoms from Scottish private school rugby, what a loser... The desire to improve at rugby, to go to training happy, to finish a session better than I started, disappeared. The most depressing thing was realising what rugby had become to me, effectively nothing. When people casually passed a ball around I didn’t want it, told them not to pass it to me. I came to hate the shape of the ball, everything about it, the running around, the tackling and the endless drills. A sport which had meant so much to me, had defined me (in certain people’s eyes), had left me. The idea of Fraser Gillies, rugby player, made me recoil.

It got to the stage where I didn’t even care that I’d lost my ‘mojo’, it didn’t matter to me. But though I came close to quitting, I never wanted to be a quitter. I never wanted to have ‘couldn’t hack it’ it tag hanging over me for the rest of my life.

And now, I couldn’t be happier I stuck out the hard times and waited for the good times to roll in, and they did. I became integrated in a wonderful group of guys and the most patient coach I could have asked for. I eventually rationalised being a ‘professional’ trainer. I accepted that I didn’t have to improve every session, I didn’t have to be on top-form every day and therefore found a sort of peace. Yes, the injuries always plagued me and I never really dealt with them very well.

Until young Scottish players have had to play rugby with people you feel no affinity for, cannot understand, in places you can’t pronounce, feeling very lost, they will always shine in cosy environments. The road to international rugby is full of step-ups which will be, at first, out of most people’s comfort zone. Those who can deal with that, not let it faze them, and continue will be the ones who make it. That might not necessarily be the best players. I now have the experience of being completely and utterly lost on a rugby pitch, something I had never experienced before and probably never will again. But I’m a far stronger player for that experience.

Training five days a week has been a new experience which has given me an insight into the ups, downs, knocks of the professional game where not every day can be perfect and rugby, paradoxically, has to be put to the back of the mind when possible. Training has always been of a high standard, especially arsing around with some of the most gifted 3/4s I have ever seen, coaching has been top-notch, I think, when I understood it.

I’m now in better physical shape, stronger, faster and, crucially, I know my body better than before. I am a far better goal-kicker having had a dedicated coach all year who was a psychologist as well as swing mechanic. I can control a game of rugby in two languages, playing 2 different styles.

I have put rugby in its proper place in life, one which opens up many opportunities to see the world. Men’s rugby in Gala or Heriots or Boroughmuir might have been a higher standard, bigger hits – without a doubt. But it wouldn’t have been that far out of my comfort zone. But give me a team of boys my own age, many of them French junior internationalists, good guys and take me to Clermont or Bourgoin or the hated Stade Francais any day.

Whether I want rugby to become my life is unclear to me. Maybe that says a lot in itself and gives an indication. I’m glad I’m going to university where I’ll get the chance to continue my rugby to a high level if I wish. I have learnt a lot from my Fijian friends this year, one is Isaiah 40:31 but the other is “you just got to do what’s best for you, bro”.

Writing the blog has been hugely enjoyable, very cathartic and has maybe led me down a road that I might want to pursue. It’s nice that people read it and let me know that they enjoy it. Hopefully I can get it printed up or something along those lines. Get in touch if you want a copy.

Thanks to all those at Racing Metro 92 for giving me this opportunity in the first place, Racing Club de France, all those who I played and trained with, those who coached me and put up with me, those who put me back together, my flatmates who history will record as being complete pricks, all those who sent me a text or an email – you have no idea how much it probably lifted my mood, and my family who put up with endless skypes along with putting up with so much else.

Hemingway did write: “If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” I left Charles de Gaulles Airport two days ago with a stiff ankle, a sense of satisfaction and a sense of immense relief, but already I think he may be right.

Top 14 Semi Final, Racing v Montpellier, Marseille

We were up by 7, out the house by 8 and chilling in the Gare de Lyon around 9, ready to go. We were literally quite chilly in just our shorts and t-shirts as every other Racing fan was in jeans and jumpers – by Marseille it was us who was appropriately dressed though.

The TGV was very fast indeed. To travel all that way in 3 hours is impressive and we arrived at the Gare Saint Charles  on good form. We started walking in the direction of the Old Port. Given we were the first Racing fans out of the station, and therefore the first that Marseille had seen, we bore the brunt of the abuse. “Careful with the sun!” several mocked, clearly a classic gag. We also came into contact with the first Montpellier fan bus, which had them all banging on the windows at us and inviting us to join them. To be fair, we were inviting this sort of banter with our 4 flags (between 2) and hats...

Marseille is not a very pleasant town. It has a hotch-potch feel, the underlying aggressiveness of a bandit frontier town, which of course it always was. We found our way to the old port and had our lunch in a restaurant filled with fresh rugby fans looking forward to today’s match as well as Toulouse/Clermont fans who had clearly just woken up and were taking their first tentative steps into the midday sun, nursing their heads.

Cars were flying into the town with their blue Montpellier flags hanging out the windows, horns tooting creating quite the atmosphere. We then took the metro to the Stade Vélodrome. On the way we dodged a typically French demonstration/strike/mob protesting about something and the ensuing smoke bombs. In the metro the Montpellier fans found their voice, “Ici, ici, c’est Montpellier”. And it could easily have been Montpellier. Then one Racing Metro fan piped up to great amusement, “Ici, ici, c’est le metro”. He was of course far more factually correct.

On our way into the stade we came across a man with a microphone followed by a cameraman. He poked the microphone in Callum’s face. He panicked, told him he didn’t speak French and pointed them to me. He asked the sort of open question these sorts of reporters ask, “You’re just arriving into the stadium, how does it feel?” I told him that the atmosphere in the metro was superb, we had come all this way and we were ready to win. Allez le Racing... The reporter thanked me for my time, clearly hoping that the weird foreigner didn’t get broadcast and wondering what two foreigners were doing there, one carrying so many flags he looked like he was selling them.

The stade was impressive and built in such a way that could only work in the south of France, with 3 stands open to the air. We were burnt before the kick-off. I won’t give a match-report but Racing lost 25-26 in the end. Having allowed Montpellier to get to 23-6 early in the second half, they got back to 25-23. It was like the Heineken Cup Final all over again. Suddenly we took to our feet and the Montpellier fans (actual Montpellier fans and Marseille neutrals, south loving, Paris hating ignorants) weren’t making noise. The couple of thousand Racing fans silenced the 54,000 others for a few minutes. Could Racing see out the final few minutes? No, Montpellier kicked a penalty and then the Racing stand-off missed a last-minute drop-goal. It was nearly as heart-breaking as the defeat to Brive. I vowed to return next year to see a victory.

The train home was livened up by trips into the bar where the Racing players were drowning their sorrows with sycophantic fans. We bought our food, I said a few hellos, commiserated then went back to our seats. We both agreed that it had been a fantastic day, with one of the finest rugby occasions we had been to, never mind the extraordinary match that left us with no voice, sun-burn and that gutting feeling.

Chez Blanc

Friday evening was without a doubt the best ‘social’ event I’ve been to. The opportunities to just hang around with friends haven’t been many in number. As a team, it’s difficult to organise social events given everyone is so scattered around Paris. This is not a short walk across Edinburgh to watch the rugby.

So it was up to the 17^th arrondissement. We ate our evening meal at McDonald’s – before you recoil in middle class horror out of fear for my health, McDos are much nicer in France. We ate outside as if it was a café on one of the Grands Boulevards. Then we walked to chez Julien. The lift was full so we walked all 6 floors to the top of this classic Parisian building, big wooden door, big entrance hall. The apartment was mighty impressive, I tried not to be too much of a tourist. There were around 9 of us and we plonked ourselves in front of the huge TV, ready for Toulouse/Clermont, the first of the Top 14 semi-finals. The smokers, who seem to grow in number every time I see these guys, positioned themselves by the window. Our full-back was happy to smoke his hashish right behind me, and I can’t say I was particularly fussed. The chat flowed, I gave some stick, got some back and loved it when they mocked my pronunciation of certain words – it was one final sign that I was integrated.

The rugby was poor so I had no qualms about taking photos of the Eiffel tower from the window. Such a tourist, even after all these months, but to see it lit up like that  from the window was an amazing sight.

Some were heading off into town, most were heading home so I said my goodbyes. Bisous all round, promises to come back and visit, to come to Edinburgh, everyone certain this wouldn’t be the end. 

The Final Week

On Sunday I was still recovering from Friday night’s excesses and the mental strain of the French exam. But given that I didn’t want to let the day slip away in my room, I headed into Paris. I didn’t have a destination, just took a couple of metros and got off at a stop which I liked the name: La Motte Picquet Grenelle. This was a good, if random choice. The Eiffel Tower rose above me and Napoleon’s alma mater the Ecole Militaire was behind me. I spotted a Paris velib (the bike scheme) station and was tempted. I gave in and was haring off through the 8^th arrondissement before you could say ‘sacré bleu’. Sure I got myself into several compromising positions at traffic lights, put a few Parisian noses out of joint, but on the whole it was brilliant fun. The video I posted a couple of days ago is by way of proof.

Monday I begun the immense operation of tidying my room. It would have to be tidied before packing could begin, so I worked away with my woefully inadequately small black bags. The late afternoon saw me getting cabin fever so I packed a rucksack with some water, digestive biscuits and my French textbook (oral exam the next day) and headed to the Parc de Sceaux. The afternoon sun was still fighting for its existence and so I found a spot, kicked off my flip-flops and took off my t-shirt, causing many small children to be called back to their parents out of fear of this unhealthily pale creature who had just set up camp on the grass. After about 5 minutes of lying around I got bored so got up for a stroll. I then bumped into my flatmate (the one I still speak to) and his girlfriend which took awkward to new levels. I think the Parc de Sceaux is more beautiful than the gardens of Versaille. I traversed the whole park and went home via a short walk through Sceaux, possibly the wealthiest Parisian suburb and therefore home to the club president and Seb Chabal.

My oral exam took up 5 very pleasant minutes at 8.15 on Tuesday morning. I speak much better French than my classmates. This is because they spend their afternoons sitting in pavement cafés chatting about Oprah and internships at the Huffington Post (in either English, Spanish or Chinese) while I swear and banter my way through training. I read the Midi Olympique in a café and chatted to the owner about rugby in the south. He gave Beziers as an example of a great club, fantastic little town whose two passions are the bullfights and the rugby, but who are being left behind as French rugby changes.

Wednesday was spent at Roland Garros on the main court Philippe Chatrier. I turned up very early like a hyper-active, excitable 12 year old and nothing happened throughout the day to change that. I saw 4 matches on the main court. First, the umpire struggled to differentiate between Mademoiselle Wozniak and Mademoiselle Wozniacki but we got there in the end. The came the two Frenchmen Monfils and Rufin – the crowd just got behind whoever was winning, an easily contented, fickle bunch. Then Djokovic won his 41^st on the trot against a hapless opponent who eventually retired hurt. The talk around me was about what the Serb was wearing; and I was forced to agree that he looked like a remnant from Top of the Pops in the 1980s, though no one else understood that. In the evening I trekked across Paris, from south-west to north-east to join my French class ‘gathering’ in a pub in a park. There were only about 6 people there and not the 6 that I would have hoped. We got along fine, sipping on dodgy French beer, making polite, grammatically incorrect conversation about our futures... It was quite amusing but I don’t know why I went.

The packing is nearly there. My room is looking awfully empty. Marseille tomorrow for the semi-final of the Top 14 – Racing v. Montpellier. Apparently it’s to be around 32/35 degrees which will do my sun burn from the tennis no good at all.

I gave Serge his Famous Grouse yesterday, which set him off on a story about when he ate Grouse in a restaurant once. He gave me this letter. Written by a 19^th century aristocratic harlot, mistress to many, including Chopin, it’s quite a tame love letter. Now read every 2^nd line. Even if you speak only the most basic French, it’s quite amusing. At the bottom, Serge wrote “esprit francais!” which harked back to a conversation we had about the French a couple of weeks back. I thanked him for his friendship, his conversation and not least the ability and knowledge he has invested in getting me into a decent physical shape. He retires this year and heads off to the World Cup in a caravan where I’m sure he will find many rugby fans keen to listen to his tales. Whenever I heard, “Hello my dear boy, how are you?” in an attempted posh English accent, it lifted the mood. I hope that isn’t the last I’ll see of Serge.

Cher ami,
Je suis heureuse de vous dire que j'ai
bien compris l'autre jour que vous aviez
toujours une envie folle de me faire
danser. Je garde le souvenir de votre
baiser et je voudrais bien que ce soit
une preuve que je suis aimée et désirée
par vous. Je suis prête à vous montrer mon
affection toute désintéressée et sans cal-
cul, et si vous voulez me voir ainsi
vous dévoiler, sans aucun artifice, mon âme
toute nue, daignez me faire visite,
nous bavardons finalement entre nous ;
je vous prouverai que je suis la femme
sincère, capable de vous offrir l'affection
la plus profonde, comme la plus étroite
amitié, en un mot : la meilleure épouse
dont vous puissiez rêver. Puisque votre
amour me sera doux car la solitude qui m’ha-
bite est longue, bien dure, immense et bien
insupportable, et mon âme en est fortement é-
branlée, venez vite, vous pouvez me la
faire oublier et à vous, je pense me sou-
mettre entièrement.

-          George SAND (pseudonym) (1804-1876)

Goodbye Injuries.

I went into the club this morning to collect my remaining medical exams from the Doctor. I know this man far too well, and he gave me the same look this morning that he has every time I’ve walked into his room, a raised eyebrow and a wry smile. He half feels sorry for me, curses fate and curses the sport. The fact that I’m even writing this is symbolic of the problem I have had this year. I have paid far too much attention to injuries – I have let them get to me, get me down, knock my confidence, hate my body, curse my luck, pine for the days when I could slash through a defence coming off a right and hand-off on the inside to make the half-break. But for much of the season I was playing without the ability to do that due to an ankle problem and a wrist problem. I now see that I should have just accepted that my game wouldn’t be the same, that I would have to adapt, and instead of moaning about what I can’t do and used to be able to do, just change my game.

Maybe it’s just the fallout from a first year with such an added training load and a step-up in standard, maybe it’s the hard ground, maybe it’s bad-luck. Probably a bit of each. And like Kevin Pietersen walking out of the cricket World Cup, each of those reasons was probably made worse, at least up until Christmas, by the idea that injuries always seem worse when you aren’t on top-form or aren’t very settled or comfortable. I hereby lay the medical exams to rest in the bottom of my bag, consigned to history as I take a summer of yoga, stretching, minimal weights and good company to hit season 2011-12 running. Maybe I'll use the multitude of x-rays and MRIs as wallpaper next year...

Release the Pressure

As always, the time just before going home is a very happy time. But given this is the final time I’ll be going home, it’s tinged with sadness. I have officially said I will be leaving the club. After the defeat against Brive I convinced myself that I couldn’t leave on that, my work wasn’t finished and so on. Various people at the club encouraged this view and for a few days I agreed with them. But sense prevailed, I realised my heart wasn’t in it and having lived it for a year, it is time to move on.

The final whistle in that quarter-final left me distraught, totally wrecked. But it also served as the ultimate pressure release valve. It didn’t feel like it at the time – at the time it was the most painful defeat I’ve experienced, signalling the end as it did. But I also felt a huge amount of relief. I enjoy pressure just as much as the next stand-off but I feel I have been more aware of it this year. So I’m relieved in a way that it’s over. That’s not to say I haven’t enjoyed myself, it’s simply been a very long, challenging season – not just any rugby season. So I welcome the end, the arrival of a chilled summer with no weights sessions to go to, no kicking to improve (for a couple of weeks at least), no contact sessions, no buses, no commuting. I desperately would have preferred all this to arrive after the final on Sunday, but it was out of my control, and so be it.

The final will be between Brive and Clermont Auvergne. That’s very hard to take given the level we are in relation to both these teams. The other quarters and semis look like this... Note the margins by which Brive have reached the final by, 1 point in each of the final phase matches – this is a very tough competition to win.

Quarter-finals

Racing 12 – 13 Brive

Toulouse 6 – 9 Clermont

Grenoble 27 – 13 Pau

Bayonne 22 – 10 Montpellier

Semi-Finals

Bayonne 18 – 21 Clermont

Grenoble 15 – 16 Brive

Posts left to write:

The Final week

Scotland v France

Thank-yous

The Conclusion

Stade de France vidéos

Here are a couple of videos of a fine stadium. Apparently it has nothing on the Parc des Princes but I think it does okay. The first is Scotland v France in February when La Marseillaise got going and the other is Racing v Toulouse in March.

I want to ride my bicycle...

Went on a little Sunday afternoon bike ride this afternoon, and here's the video to prove it.

Selected photos from Brive and la Soif

France's two great passions brought together

A great friendship borne out of him having my inside in defence all season long.

Our full-back is equally as expressive and emotional off the pitch as he is on it. Top bloke, whose English (garnered from US rap) was a major help in the first couple of months.

Emotional Soirée to Early Examen

I have got back to the flat and emptied my jeans pocket to find a champagne cork – always a sign that a good night has been had in the company of friends.

Last night was one of the greats. We began at a restaurant in the 15eme. Very French cuisine, boxing memorabilia on the wall, magnum bottles of red wine on the tables, we were set. It didn’t take long for the singing to begin, and it didn’t take long for me to find my voice, particularly in ‘Le Petit Bayonnais’ which is a crowd favourite normally sung in mock adoration of our Basque winger.

Then came the speeches. “Discours! Discours!” they cried. Philippe the coach went first, Alain the manager/recruiter/sage went second, the captain, vice-captain and senior pro followed. Then came my turn. Why it was my turn is not easy to explain given my role in the team is the same as all the others who don’t have leadership jobs. I think they just enjoy hearing me speak publicly, cruel bastards they are. By this point I had realised (it was hard not to) that the tradition once your speech has finished is to strip naked and reveal one’s manhood (the coaches didn't do this after their speeches). So I stood up on my chair to address the whole restaurant, said my piece and tried to make everyone weep – no one did. I explained that I had a French exam in a matter of hours and I hoped they would help me during the night with some last minute revision. After having said my piece, the chanting begun and I then revealed my piece, to the delight of the elderly couple enjoying their own meat and veg in the corner.

Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise, this is a very, very odd country indeed.

So after cracking open a bottle of fine champagne (expertly described by our prop, a native of the Champagne region), we hit the Rue de la Soif. 

It was impressively mobbed, the narrow streets crammed with revellers spilling out from the various establishments. As usual, we were faithful to the Racing bar, where the bouncer was very pleasant. After a while we spilt out into the rue and found Eric Blanc, Julien’s father standing chatting rugby. The thought of a daddy turning up outside City nightclub in Edinburgh on a Friday night is a frightening one but it wasn’t like that at all. This was daddy cool: French rugby personality, Racing legend, and dressed pour bosser. We grew in number and had a very interesting discussion on how young players are going to develop in France and break through. It certainly isn’t at Racing, wonderful though the junior set-up is, Eric compared it to Real Madrid – they’re more likely to go out and just buy someone than push through from the inside, that is unless you are very special. Our outside centre, who I think is very special, the skinny and solid master of the back-of-the-hand offload, is heading to Narbonne after the Racing seemed to under-appreciate him, and it looks like Brive will be welcoming not only our scrum-half but also our Betsen flanker and the chain-smoking 2^nd row.

The rest of the night was whiled away as nights like that are and no further divulgence is necessary. Except, that is, that I sung 'O Flower of Scotland' on three separate occasions, each at the request of our ginger afro-ed hooker and his girlfriend, and, as far as I'm aware, each time in a different key. Why they wanted to listen to it three times in the space of four hours is beyond me.

When it got to around 5am, people started to wither. Knowing that I had 3 hours to pass, without the time to head home and then back in for 8.30 I joined a few in waiting for the first metro. I was then all alone, with the total desire to sleep and the down-right fear of falling asleep which I assumed brought risks of theft and various forms of unwelcome violation. So I sat semi-comatose for about an hour before smelling a boulangerie and heading straight for it.

The looks on the faces of my class mates as I walked up to the exam room at 8.15 will stay with me forever, a perverse melange of disgust, fascination and wry smiles. I could hear them thinking, “This stand-off looks like he’s been pulled out of the Seine”. Anyway, the exam proved to be fairly easy, though maybe that’s just the evian talking... We were over 170 in the huge exam hall and despite a highly irritating inviligator whose attempts at light humour did not amuse me in the slightest, we got on just fine. The thought of sitting there for 3 hours was too much, as I imagine it was for those in my immediate vicinity, put off as they were by the smell of beer stained jeans, so I wrote quickly and left.

Now if my flatmate would only cease the infernal trance music he’s attempting to ‘DJ’, I could get some sleep before waking to take in the Heineken Cup Final. Quite a 24 hours. 

Americans in Paris and Juan-Martin.

I did make it into class on Monday morning, feeling very drained after the emotional weekend and having thought far too much for my own good. It dawned on me that this was my final week in my French class and then it dawned on me how pleased I am to be leaving their company very soon.

From what I can see from my privileged vantage point at the back, they’re a bunch of Madam Bovarys. I’ve not actually read the novel but... Seems to me that they’ve all come to Paris on some romantic notion that they can start a new life in the ‘City of Light’ or ‘City of Love’, whichever they choose to buy into.

Or they’re Americans, living out their clichéd ‘Americans in Paris’ dream doing arty things, sitting in pavement cafés pretending they’re living in the 1920s. And, 90 years later, they’re the same sort of ‘phonies’ that Hemingway came to detest. So he bailed. My morning phonetics class reverberates with chat of internships in D.C. and Long Island as I sit in my corner, a prim, dignified, stiff-upper lipped corner of Britain refusing to get involved. At least, that’s how I see it when no-one talks to me at 8.30am.

My prof asked me this morning about my ankle. I told him it was still sore but we lost so doesn’t really matter now anyway. He said that the loss doesn’t matter so long as my ankle is getting better. I looked him full-on in the eyes and asked, “You’re not really a sporty person are you?” He said, “No, not really”, looked ashamed of what he had said and steered clear of me for the rest of the morning.

People often say, “Hope you’re enjoying the French lifestyle!” or “I’ll let you get on with your Parisian evening” with a hint of jokey jealousy, as they conjure up an image in their head of me calling over the garcon at my café on the left bank and ordering another Perrier as I watch the sun set over Notre-Dame before strolling home to my loft apartment, passing by the boulangerie of course to pick up my bread, stopping to chat to the butcher and the man who owns the art gallery on the Boulevard St. Germain.

And what is the French lifestyle? This seems to be a phenomenon that British people think exists but in my opinion is something conjured out of some daytime programme on Channel 4 and only applies to retired couples moving out to some village in Burgundy where they’ve renovated an old farm-house. I.e., it doesn’t exist in Paris and especially not for someone with a weekly timetable like mine.

In fact, the only part of the imaginary fictional French lifestyle that exists/I have bought into is the bread. Those who know me will know also of my limited palate and therefore love of bread, the plainer then better. I am now a connoisseur. If you just want your standard baguette then Mme. Da Silva near Fontaine Michelon is where to go. The baguette comes with a smile. Steer clear of my local bakery, the woman there treats you with complete contempt. I’ve tasted croissants and pain au chocolats in no fewer than 12 establishments and have now reached the level where after one bite I can find myself saying, “they’ve skimped on the butter” or “distinct lack of chocolate”. It pains me to say it but the best pain au chocolat is to be found in a modern café run by an Algerian immigrant and not in a traditional family run boulangerie. I’m not as right wing as that sounds, I promise, just came out a bit wrong. But it’s true, the face of modern France...

My geography exam today was a good laugh. 10 multiple choice questions, then had to place Paris, Lyon, Lille, Strasbourg, Marseille and Bordeaux on a map, along with the Alps, the Pyrenees, the Loire and the Rhine. I then wrote a lovely essay on Paris as a world city, amazed at how much A Level has stuck with me.

Juan Martin Hernandez inspired me in the gym to put in a monster session. He’s in there every day working to get his knee fit in time for the world cup so it’s the least I could do to push out a few sets on the bench press, shrug (the exercise, not the Gallic version) and do a cardio session. Juan is the only person I’ve ever seen do sit-ups with the air of a rock star. Extraordinary.

Brive 13 - 12 Racing. The adventure comes to an end.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this; this wasn’t part of the plan. So much for the grand finale, the coup de grace, the lifting on the shoulders, the bleached hair, the night out, the reunions in years to come, the trophy, the medals, the headlines, the glory...all dreamt of for over a year.

I don’t mind losing if it’s in the manner of the Roosevelt quote, having gone all out, given your all and come up short, come up against a stronger opponent; far better than those cold souls who know neither victory nor defeat. But that’s part of the problem. I never lived it today, I never took to the field. I lived the 80 minutes with my mates as much as I could from the stand but at the end of the day, I wasn’t a winner and not really a loser either, purgatory.

I failed the fitness test at the Saturday night run-through. The physio, in consultation with the coach, decided that I was at 60% (I said 70%), that I was operating on one leg, subconsciously protecting the ankle. The coach thought that not only was it stupid with regards to me and future games, it was potentially dangerous for the team if I was to be a liability. And deep down, I knew they were right. So I trudged off, with a sick feeling growing in the pit of my stomach and did my best to keep my chin up for the good of the team, as I’m becoming horribly famous for.

We got to 9-0 up inside half an hour. Then they scored for 9-7 at half-time. We were just about hanging in there. They were bigger than us, with the most solid midfield I’ve seen at this level. The French use the word ‘costeau’ which generally means strong and muscular in appearance, potentially explosive. Our scrum-half, heading to Brive in August, was having an absolute blinder, the petit general around the park,  and also kicking the goals. He was all I expect in a French scrum-half, socks round the ankles, taking hit after hit. At 12-13 with 5 minutes to go we got a penalty from 40m out. But he was on the floor getting treatment for what looked like horrendous cramp. He pushed the kick, and Brive did enough in the final few minutes to pressurise us into coughing up the ball.

I haven’t cried like that in a bloody long time. I hugged my good ‘pote’, our captain and the guy wearing my 10 shirt for what seemed like 5 minutes. Some just lay on the ground. Our full-back had taken a knock to his chest and was having trouble breathing already, the shock and emotion of losing had the medics out as he went into some sort of spasm. But Eric Blanc got us all in together and said some lovely things, just the right tone. Didn’t help in the slightest at the time but on reflection it hit the right note.

I shared another huge hug and a kiss with the physio, we’ve spent a very intensive few weeks together and I knew it hurt him to pull me out of the match. I’ll be back on his table tomorrow in what seems like a futile effort to get the ankle fit. I've kissed so many guys today, hugged till my arms hurt, sung O Flower of Scotland on the bus speaker system, shouted too much at the ref, not eaten enough, given an emotional speech and it’s all catching up with me.

So that’s it, done, finished, fini – no more rugby for a while. Is there some perverted relief in there? Maybe... But in order of preference, I would rather have played and won, then just won, then played and lost. I’m left having not played and lost, surely the worst, to have not even given all in support of a worthy cause. But that’s sport and at the moment, sport sucks. I have two weeks roughly in Paris. Next Saturday I have my French written exam at 8.30 am which last 3 hours. Friday night is our final team night out which will be huge. I intend to just go straight from the ‘Rue de la Soif’ to the exam. Priorities, people.

Sod this for a laugh, I’m off to bed, whether I’ll sleep is debatable. I suppose the sooner I realise that life doesn’t have a script, the better.

Thursday 12th May

It’s not been a typical quiet Thursday and there are some things to report.

My usual sleepy Thursday lunchtime lecture on ‘Théatre du 20eme siecle’, which is always interesting, became eye-opening. The prof, with his three-piece suit, pocket-watch, goatee beard and apple mac was getting suitably excited about ‘Un tramway nommé Desir’ by Tennessee Williams when he suddenly burst into a rant on the times we live in. “L’humanité est un catastrophe. All the young people all around the world are dressed the same. Capitalism has led to all difference being squeezed out of us, obviously it’s ‘economies of scale’ to produce more jeans so everyone just walks around in jeans. There’s no political difference, we aren’t allowed to differentiate between anyone on any grounds.” I sat up straight, hid my half-opened babybel and awaited his grand finale, “it’s neo-fascime.” Strewth, we all collectively said in our mother tongues as he shrugged his shoulders, smiled and went on with Williams.

When I got into the club, I walked straight into a debate about the merits of the LNR, the organisation who run the Top 14. Seb Chabal had just been handed his 30 day ban for criticising referees, which also includes having to do a refereeing course and referee at least 3 under-17 matches. Some surprising points emerged: Serge Blanco is President of the LNR and President of Biarritz; Biarritz always play Toulouse during the 6 Nations (when they’re weakened); Biarritz begin each season with several games at home; when Biarritz and Bayonne both wanted to be the first to take a Basque derby to Stade Anoeta in Spain, the fixture list got changed from Bayonne v Biarritz to Biarritz v Bayonne. The fixture list is not computer-generated.

Toulouse, in the past 5 seasons, have been refereed by only 5 referees in domestic competition. That’s quite an extraordinary statistic. Allegations of corruption are growing in French rugby, as are worries about the standard of refereeing. For my part, I think the referees in the Top 14 are worse than those in the Magners and English premiership, except for the way they referee the scrummage.

This evening I went to an Eden Park ‘private sale’. My good friend the physio got me an invite and so I took 3 trains and explored a pleasant suburb to find this sale. Any dreams of a champagne reception where I could mix it with the Paris aristocracy discussing the latest lines with the opportunity to kit myself out at discount prices were dashed. It started well, with an impressive array of bouncers on the doors. But effectively it was a large space filled with rails and piles of clothes through which people were rifling. The price-cuts were amazing and though I found myself very lost very often, always picking up shirts that others had already taken and getting in people’s way, and leaving my bag on the floor, I got stuck in.

ANKLE UPDATE: Hmm...The state of this complex joint changes daily, wednesday was very positive, thursday was less so. The doctor denied my request for an injection on the grounds that it would give me a dangerously false sense of security. I’m weaning myself into a state of mind which says, “You will start the match, adjust your game according to your capabilities, do what you can, plough on, and if it fails on you then it fails on you.” I am feeling the pressure from various people, teammates keen to find out if I can play, coaches phoning me, people at the club asking about it. I want to play, I want to contribute to a victory but I’m not entirely sure what I can contribute; they are expecting miracles when really I’m playing after 2 weeks on a 6/8 week injury.

Two Crocked Parisian Scots + La Classement

I had to get an MRI this morning. The French love MRI scans, or IRMs as they call them. I always take the opportunity to close my eyes and drift off, though the noise of the thing makes it tricky. There is something about lying down on this machine as you get moved in and out that reminds me of the Goldfinger scene with the laser and the impending destruction of James Bond's genitals. I asked the woman, "Do you expect me to talk?" She replied, "No, Mr Gillies, I expect you to lie absolutely still for 10-15 minutes and press this button if you have a problem".

I was sitting bleary eyed in the waiting room when who else but Hugo Southwell comes out of the MRI room with a strapped up knee, having just had a scan. I made sure he could see my Racing backpack, though given that he injured himself at the weekend playing against Racing, I doubt he was too happy to see it. There was little time for me to go over for a chat, though I could at least have given it the old ‘Huuuugoooooo’ as he walked out...

Here are the scores and quarter-final matches in the Crabos championship.

Racing Métro 23 – 12 Toulon

Toulouse 24 – 10 Bordeaux

Bayonne 39 – 14 Agen

Grenoble 18 – 12 Stade Francais

Brive 9 – 8 Tarbes

Perpignan 17 – 22 Clermont

Bourgoin 16 – 26 Montpellier

Colomiers 12 – 27 Pau

Racing Métro v Brive

Toulouse v Clermont

Grenoble v Pau

Bayonne v Montpellier

Racing 23 - 12 Toulon

First, my apologies, this post is a little Toulon, but I didn't have time to shorten it.


And so we survive, my season continues, our season continues. Sunday afternoon was a joy to watch from the stand as we took Toulon apart. The scoreline doesn’t reflect our dominance and the pressure we had them under. After the first 10 minutes I turned to the person sitting next to me and we agreed there was no way we would lose.

(I was ruled out by the club doctor on Friday morning, I wouldn’t have been much use on the pitch anyway, injection or otherwise. I'm highly relieved that decision has been proved right.)

It was a victory that was probably helped by spending the previous 24 hours in each other’s company. We set off in the bus at lunchtime on Saturday and arrived at the ground at around 6.30 pm, it was an epically dull journey. I have said it often, the Paris-Lyon journey is not the prettiest. We did the team run and then had a barbecue. I played many roles throughout the weekend but Saturday was mainly assistant to Dominique, father of one of our props, tee man, water man, kit man and to top off the list, commander-in-chief of the barbecue. So I pottered around, aiding him in his manly activities, fetching water, making it look like I was doing something.

Then came the petanque. “Do you have petanque in Scotland?” they asked. “Yes, but it’s not the national sport like it is here”. As I begun to get the hang of it, they became more worried, their questions became more piercing. Those who know petanque will know that you are either a placer or a ‘tirer’. A placer places the boule with skill and precision and the ‘tirer’ comes in with equal precision but firing the boule so fast that it knocks others out of the way.

I am a placer, that is my calling. I explained that I put this down to years of experience in the sport of carpet bowls and that the last time I lost I ruined Christmas, so they knew I wasn't messing about. Despite the threat of broken toes, a good evening was had by all and we headed the further 6km to the Hotel Ambiance.

‘Ambiance’ is a very non-committal way of describing it; there are good ambiances and slightly sinister ones. When the neon strip that ran round the hotel turned from green to blue and settled on red, the whole place looked like a brothel. It served our purpose well though.

I watched a light shake off the legs in the morning, yet more petanque and then a pre-match meal followed. Everyone was very anxious, full of energy, bouncing off the suspect walls of the ‘Ambiance’. So we played UNO. I hadn’t played since I was a wee lad, so I told them, so they re-explained. My consistent rule-breaking and forgetting to say UNO at the right time lead me to pack it in and go and do witty interviews on the camera instead.

For I was the cameraman and I took my role very seriously. I had visions of ‘Living with the Lions’ type fame to come. I didn’t film in the pre-match meeting though, it was too tense. Shirts were handed out individually as cheeks were kissed. The coach then asked me to say a few words. Yikes. You might remember he did this at training once and I failed. But yesterday, I cleared my throat and got out some coherent phrases that did enough to warrant a round of applause from my team-mates. I had to stop myself becoming very emotional.

My main contribution to the day seems to have been the moment when I filmed a girl face-planting as she walked up the steps in the stand. During a break in play I was filming around the stand, taking in some of the atmosphere and then, right in front of me, she trips over a bin and crashes to the floor.

We scored 2 tries off turnover ball in a purple patch mid way through the first half from which the rouge et noir never recovered. We lost the second half 3-0 but were always in control. And so, at the end, Toulon did what every self-respecting southern rugby team does having just lost, they started the brawl to end all brawls. It was like a perverted version of the ’74 Lions’ ‘99’ call. Our boys were getting hit from behind and all sorts. Of course it descended into total mayhem, the stand emptied to the side of the pitch, some Toulon fans jumped the fence and joined in. Total carnage. It wasn’t like the Stade Francais fight which seemed legitimate, a fierce rivalry in action. These Toulonnais were simply pissed off they’d been dominated all afternoon so fancied a scrap. We took the moral high ground, called them disgraceful animals and celebrated with an almighty chasse a l’ours. Some of the lads delighted in finding a golf buggy at the side of the pitch and once all showered and changed, decided to go for a spin before they got called back. They thought they might have just made it to Paris... 

In the next round we (and that includes me) will play Brive in Chateauroux. I’m training very little this week, still trying to get this ankle back to something like normal. It should be 4 weeks off, I’ll be playing inside 2 so it’s not going to be perfect but there’s no way I’m missing out from here to the end.

Ankle Update - Toulon Preview

Things are looking up. Yesterday the physio have me a 90% chance that I won’t play on Sunday but today that came down to 70%. It’s been an intensive week. I took Monday and Tuesday mornings off my class in order that I could stay at home and ice my ankle while watching Alan Partridge which was, as I’m sure you can imagine, a challenging way to begin the week. Both afternoons were spent on the physio table passing as many electrical pulses/ultrasounds through me as is safe in one day.

Back in class yesterday to find that middle-aged Korean Opera singer had missed me rather more than I had expected and seemed overly concerned for my well-being. A highly uncomfortable start to my day as I took my customary unsociable position at the back until my peace was disturbed by creepy Chicagoan with too much red lipstick. I don’t mind the gaggle of Swedes asking after my health. I had missed very little on the academic front. In the afternoon, I managed 20 mins on the elliptic trainer machine which gave some indication of range of movement and then the classic Frankenstein treatment.

Today I had been given the ultimatum that I had to succeed in running 10 minutes on the running machine or it would be an immediate NO for Sunday. The ankle was under more strapping tape than Tutankhamen (?) and I got through it with only minimal pain and a deranged running style. Clearly things weren’t perfect but it was good enough. After some more exercises outside where I tried to prove to the eternally optimistic physio that I could put all my weight on the ball of my right foot (I couldn’t...), he got on the phone to the Doc and asked if he would give me an injection tomorrow morning.

So tomorrow morning I will get one of these injections. It makes me feel quite like a pro, you always hear about pros getting pain-killing anti-inflammatory injections. While it is obviously skirting round a problem and not something to have done every week, it’s a last resort. Hopefully I’ll make it onto the bench for Sunday, and then hopefully not be needed. Coach says I’ll travel with the squad (which indicates I maybe wouldn't have if I wasn’t to play) and a decision will be made on Saturday evening. We travel on Saturday afternoon, have a barbeque in the evening, a petanque tournament (which I fully intend to win for Britain and the Queen) to loosen us off and then hit the Lyonnais hay. 

Having well and truly stopped feeling sorry for myself, the victim of a cruel twist of fate, and nearly overcome the dark forces of luck through the advances in modern scientific medicine, I am looking forward to at least travelling to the once green, now slightly brown and dusty fields of Villefranche sur-Saone, just north of Lyon. We will conquer the pilou pilou singing (see below post), sun-tanned, boat dwelling, disciples of King Jonny. It’s the battle of two great clubs, recently reborn, the ciel et blanc against the rouge et noir. It’s a clash of cultures – the aristocratic city slickers, heady with the pressures and indeed trappings of France’s hub versus the beautiful backwater, chilled to the max and content to pass through life reflecting off the bay, on the jetty and the port, with a different rugby culture based on defending the honour of the town and the way of life it stands for rather than the loftier ambitions of defending the finest traditions and history of the game itself in France. As north and south meet roughly in the middle, let’s be having you, RC Toulon.

Pilou Pilou

The Pilou-Pilou is a song/chant created in the 1940s and now sung by the supporters of RC Toulon. It is sung/chanted before every match at the imposing Stade Mayol. It goes like this, with the italics shouted by the crowd and the rest done by the announcer. If you type pilou pilou into youtube you'll get to see it.

Ah ! Nous les terribles guerriers du Pilou-Pilou,
Qui descendons de la montagne vers la mer,
Pilou Pilou !!!!
Avec nos femmes échevelées allaitant nos enfants
À l'ombre des grands cocotiers blancs
Pilou Pilou !!!!
Nous les terribles guerriers du pilou pilou poussons notre terrible cri de guerre! ARRRRRRGGGGHHH'' J'ai dis terrible cri de guerre!! arrrrrgggghhhh Parce que Toulon! ROUGE Parce que Toulon! NOIR Parce que Toulon! Rouge et noir!

If Jonny Wilkinson is to be believed, it’s quite impressive. Maybe Edinburgh with their similar colour scheme could steal it.

Les Valeurs du Club

Last 16 Draw

Here is the draw for the last 16 of the FFR Crabos Championship 2010-2011:

Racing v Toulon

Toulouse v Bordeaux-Begles

Bayonne v Agen

Grenoble v Stade Francais

Brive v Tarbes

Perpignan v Clermont Auvergne

Bourgoin v Montpellier

Colomiers v Pau

A lovely phonecall

I've just had a lovely phone call with our coach, asking how I was feeling now over 24 hours after the injury, that he was pleased that I chose to stay with the group on Saturday when I could have easily gone home given that I was no longer training, and that I kept my spirits high for the good of our esprit d'équipe. This gives me untold joy. It's natural that most of the time I feel quite left out; I've well and truly accepted that fact and so enjoy even more the conversations which I take full part in, when I make people laugh and when I am properly integrated.


So when I've been sitting at the side with ice and a heavily strapped ankle, I've felt even more the outsider. The players have been brilliant, they are a very very tolerant and positive bunch. I sometimes imagine a foreigner like me in Scotland and how they'd be treated. I, for one, would probably get very frustrated with the bumbling foreigner. But then again, the english language doesn't give words genders so the opportunities for slipping up are infinitely fewer.


Getting a sympathetic phone call asking for an update, reassuring me that there are several matches left in our season and that I will be a part of them is the sort of thing that makes my evening, distracting my attention from staring down the bed at a soggy bag of frozen carrots leaking onto my fresh sheets and occasionally healing my ankle with their questionably orange, reassuringly cooling properties...

The Best Laid Plans...

I’m normally a big fan of irony. But when I re-read what I posted on Friday, full of optimism and excitement about what might be in store in these final few weeks and compare it with how the last two days have gone... After all I wrote about all the work I have been doing on my ankles, particularly my troublesome left ankle who won’t play ball, the last thing I expected was to injure the right one. On Saturday morning, 5 minutes into our big hit up contact session, the last one of its kind before Toulon, I took the ball into contact, was on my way down to present the ball when my ankle stayed in place and my body turned. It was a sharp pain and I knew immediately I’d twisted my ankle.

The left was feeling great, the right wanted attention

My coach said, “we can’t even get you through 15 minutes of combat”. His joke had a serious edge to it to which I could only produce a cracking Gallic shrug. As the pain was coming and going, the ankle well strapped up and iced, I watched the rest of the session and took in the rather impressive surroundings.

La Boulie is indeed the Golf/Country Club of Racing Club de France. If the old French elite back in the day used to hang around Versailles then it seems that this place, appropriately just down the road from the Chateau, is where the new elite like to pass their leisure hours. You could sense the privilege and the smell of euros (or old school francs) hung thick in the air. And then I saw the car park...'nuff said. I’ve never been to Augusta National, but I imagine and hope that it will be on the same lines as La Boulie. The putting green was magnifique, our lunch was lovely and the wide-screen tv on which we watched Leinster v Toulouse just completed the place.

We headed up to Houilles, a long way from La Boulie in so many ways, after the rugby and got the BBQ going. As with most barbeques, a game of football broke out. I obviously had to sit at the side, just like I had been all day, not really part of it. We all ate very well and some drunk well. A short team meeting followed where one of the medical staff pointed out that 70% of us have some sort of minor injury and stressed the need to look after ourselves so we’re all still available for selection come the end of the month. My injury was a freak one. I’ve never had problems with my right ankle.

Then we put our sleeping bags down and got some much needed kip. Though anyone who has experienced a sleepover, whether at 12 years old or as part of an under 19 rugby team will know, you've got to have some tom foolery before bed. So one changing room attacked another; ours would have been flooded had we not put towels at the base of the door. Then, and only then, was everyone ready to sleep.

Another session of what the French call ‘circulation offensif and circulation defensif’ took place in the morning. I, as I will be for most of this week, was icing my ankle. It’s simply a race against time for the Toulon game. As it stands, chances are I won’t make it, as the ankle hasn’t progresses as it should have overnight. But I’m willing to put the work in to make it back as quickly as possible. I might have played my final game, what a horrible thought. Sadly, or not, depending on whether you’re me or my coach, our fate against Toulon will probably be out of my hands. I may be relying on the others to make sure this isn’t the end of the road for our season, never mind me personally. Our mercurial full-back will move up to fly-half to bring his running and stepping game into my shirt to replace my anglo-saxon conservatism. For now, I’m off to find some more ice.