Terrible Tuesdays, Repos Wednesdays and Mercenaries

Ever since I arrived in this new environment, I have had a quite irrational fear of Tuesdays. Tuesday is the day I train with the older folk and perhaps unsurprisingly it hasn’t always been the day I have looked forward to. Not a case of “Oh great I just can’t wait to train with the older players ‘cos that’s when I learn most”. No, a comfort zone is called that for a reason. Yes, I probably do learn more in these sessions but only occasionally are they more fun. Today was good fun. It was just the backs and we trained for 50 minutes approx. with 4 drills of 10 minutes each. It was well set-out, well coached and I didn’t let minor errors spiral into slamming the ball into the hard turf – progress. It even started to rain at the end, a pleasant cooling shower to take the edge of the afternoon heat.

Tomorrow has been designated ‘repos’ for me which means no rugby. I’m grateful for this. Perhaps they realised that my best game this season came on the back of a reduced training load in the week... Anyway, only the most crazy and antisocial players enjoy the midweek contact session. So I’ll pitch up for some goal-kicking and speed work then hit the hay. This will be a huge difference from the norm when by the end of the evening session, despite having consumed nearly every product in the Bonne Maman range, I am spent.

April is proving difficult to plan. I was told we had a week’s holiday, I booked my ticket. Now the holidays have changed but I’ve been called into an international squad when the others are on holiday. So to ensure I have my holidays, I have been knocked off sync with the others. I’m sure it will all work out. I also notice that our Crabos team are spending a weekend away somewhere in preparation for the final stages of the Championship which is quite exciting. I am desperate to become the best team in France, that would be massive. I think our team is only just coming round to the idea that it is a genuinely possibility. 

I missed my Geography lecture today due to a morning of immense discomfort that required me to return home at midday. Pleasingly, the new jeans that I bought in the Christmas sales are now too small for me at the waist. Recently I have taken to walking around with the top button undone, Homer Simpson style, but with it carefully hidden under a jumper. When even this became uncomfortable, and with recovery leggings on underneath, it became simply too much. A further 2 hours in a lecture theatre hearing about French ox-bow lakes (classic stereotype) would have been unbearable.

When I become a coach, I will be, unashamedly, a stand-off sympathiser. I really dislike it when someone, no matter who they are, lectures me on the nuances of playing ouverture. You can analyse all the rugby you want and watch stand-offs to your heart’s content but until you have been there at the level you are talking about then it is neither helpful nor constructive. 

Good on Scott Macleod leaving Edinburgh. If it’s for the money, fair play. The weigh-up is the possible international caps versus securing some sort of financial future. I watch plenty of rugby mercenaries and have quite a lot of respect for them, especially those who freely admit it. Anyone who can just move around clubs tarting themselves around to the highest bidder and can still perform at a decent level is strangely impressive I reckon. Given I find it hard to put my body on the line if I couldn’t give a toss about those around me, some of these guys make a career out of it. And who can blame them for getting away from their own country (like the cosy bubble that is Scottish Rugby, or the politics that exists in South Africa) and living in France or Japan, probably in the sun, travelling to places like Agen or Perpignan instead of Connacht or...Swansea.

A recent interview with Francois Steyn showed how he was loving being away from South Africa, loving the French style of play, loving the fact that he plays for a club with passionate fans against other clubs who are representing their town and not just some fake, invented franchise. The fact that he is on 750,000 euros a year will be a nice icing on his gateau. 

Racing 24 - 6 Clermont

What a weekend!

There’s nothing like watching an exciting rugby match at a national stadium the day before playing yourself for a bit of inspiration. When it’s your own club playing at the Stade de France for the first time, and people you know and chat too occasionally are playing then it becomes quite special. Winning helps too. The Midi Olympique headline read: ‘L’Air de Finale’ before Toulouse came north and so it may be come June. To think that only 3 years ago this club was playing in the Pro D2 (France’s 2^nd Division).

Jonathan Wisniewski gave a masterclass in fly-half play – no scything break, no huge hit, no cut-out pass; just accurate kicking from hand, taking all the points on offer and passing to the right people at the right time. He also slotted an impressive drop-goal but more of that later.

But he did have a fairly easy ride on the back of a huge performance from the pack. And so did I, just as would be the case the following day against Clermont.

We won 24-6 which in some ways flattered us and in some ways doesn’t show how much we dominated Clermont. It was a different pack that turned up this week and I was as nervous for the first scrum as I have ever been. It set the tone and we never went backwards.

We went 8-0 up after a quick tapped penalty touched lots of hands before scoring wide out. I kicked a wide penalty to make up for the missed conversion. We went in at half time 11-3 up, very conscious that we were in a similar position when we played at Clermont and got blitzed in the first 10 minutes of the second half. We never allowed them a sniff. Another penalty took us to 14-3. Then, 5 metres out from their line, I went blind, outside their scrum-half who was covering the blind and just did enough to get beyond him to touch down in the corner. As is so often the case, and highlights the role of the mind in goal-kicking, I nailed the conversion. It would not be an understatement to say that the 'crowd' went wild.

So at 21-6 we were pretty set. Though we never wrote Clermont off scoring the points in 20 minutes, we were pretty confident. Though after a bad injury to a Clermont player we were forced into the unusual situation of having to wait 20 minutes at least to play the final 15 minutes of the game as we waited for an ambulance. It’s an incredibly tricky thing to do to run around for 20 minutes trying to stay warm when your mind is already switching into post-game mode when you have 15 minutes left.

But we saw the last 15 minutes out with no worries. And just to be sure of everything, from 35m out I took a snap drop-goal that sailed over. I’m not known for my drop-goals, especially in this the land of the ‘drop’ but I received much credit for it.

For the first time this season I came off the pitch genuinely pleased with how I played, not just superficially happy for the guys with a win, that I actually played a major role in the win. It’s a brilliant feeling and one I haven’t felt for a while.

We now sit top of the Pool and in the driving seat to finish there. We must back this up with a win in Dijon on Sunday before finishing against Stade Francais on the 10^th.

Bring on the Michelin Men!

What a turn-around of events! After having a scan done this afternoon, I got given the all clear for the match on Sunday against Clermont. The doctor could find no lesion during the echograph so the chances of me tearing the hamstring are just the same as they were last week, or any week. So I’ll just give it a few days to get over the tightness or knock or whatever was causing the pain, and then should be good to go.

My class is segregating more and more down racial/ethnic lines. From my proudly antisocial seat at the back I can see the fat Americans who are joined by the hip up the front. Behind them sit the Swedes, 4 of them and only 50% blond. Scandal. To my right are the Spanish speakers; I no longer can tell who is Spanish, Mexican, Columbian, you name it. To the far north east are the middle easterns. You’ve got Iranians bantering with Saudi Arabians and a cheeky Israeli defying convention in the middle, having a blast. And then of course, right under the prof’s nose you will find a gaggle of Chinese, head down, pen working furiously and dressed in some outrageous outfits. I can only imagine that they, and many other similarly dressed females in the class feel that as they are in Paris there is some sort of pressure to be an avant-garde fashionista. From my privileged vantage point, dressed in the finest sweatpants and hoody I own, I think they look daft.

I sit at one of two desks designed for one person only, right at the back. The reasons for this are: 1) I’m very antisocial, 2) I detest ‘group work’ and, 3) I tend to leave very quickly.

No Clermont for me

What a frustrating day. I am not playing against Clermont. Yesterday I didn’t train after I felt some tightness in my hamstring during my speed session. I went along to the Physio and Doctor today and they said it is a lesion and I am not to run for 8 days. I felt sick, got very hot all of a sudden and quite angry. No more needs to be said, I do not intend to go over what I felt then and what I feel now. It’s obvious how big this game is and how much I wanted to play.

Things got better in the evening, and put into perspective. The Espoirs’ backs coach invited me and another player into the bar at the training ground for a beer. My chum is 22 and part of the academy. He broke into the pros at the age of 18, played a bit when Racing weren’t yet in the top flight, then moved back down to the espoirs when the recruitment begun. Last year he suffered one of those horrible knee injuries, had an operation and has not played this season. I may or may not have written about when the physio told me that if he didn’t play before Christmas then he might not again. Clearly he didn’t play before Christmas or since, though he has just returned to training in spite of continual pain in his ‘50 year old’ knee.

Over this jovial beer, I continued my investigation into French rugby. The French think we in the UK put a higher emphasis on skills and I have to agree. They think we train better. I can’t see any noticeable difference. On the topic of fly-halves and the ‘controlling of the game’, for the French, they only worry about that side of the game when the player is a bit older, certainly older than me, and definitely only once they have mastered getting a backline moving and attacking the line – the basics.

The espoirs coach played for Racing at Crabos, Reichel and Senior level, an impressive record. His playing days were just before the big time, before the influx of money and the boost of ‘Metro’. He recalled his Reichel days (u21) when they prepared for the final stages of the Championnat by heading off to Casablanca for a week. He did explain that it was cheaper than going to the provinces...I wasn’t convinced.

The only issue was when the S+C coach asked me who I lived with, then remembered that I have a reputation for messiness. This untruth was spread by ‘the piece’, my flatmate whom I have not spoken to since September 11^th 2010 when we fell out. I’ve a good mind to sue him for defamation of character, when I get round to doing my dishes that is (joke, I’ve done mine, his lie in a pile of Dijon mustard infested filth) Evil can take many forms, you see... It was him who didn’t speak to me first, anyway... And if he wants a grudge or a stalemate then I can play that game and I don’t often lose. Stirring stuff indeed. To be honest, I get by just fine without speaking to him. When he cooks and is around, I make sure I am not. Ironically, we show some good teamwork.

But I don’t want to conclude like that. Today’s positives include a lovely evening amongst friends and yet another day where my tan has progressed. Today’s negatives include the news that I will not be taking part in the biggest game of the season so far and arguably my life.

"The time given to athletic contests and the injuries incurred on the playing field are part of the price which the English-speaking race has paid for being world conquerors."

- Henry Cabot Lodge 

22nd March 2011: Miscellaneous

Captain Xavi Fantastic

We were playing on Sunday without our usual scrum-half and captain. This multi-talented boy is the rising star of the club. Along with being the Crabos captain he has managed to fit in several games for the Espoirs (at centre, no less) and also studies Economics at the Sorbonne. He hardly ever misses a training session and is frighteningly consistent. He is also one of the few people that I can converse with almost fluently. Whether it’s his accent or whether he simply talks like a child (I doubt this), we get on very well. Sadly, last week during our Wednesday night session he twisted his ankle quite badly. So he missed out on Sunday. What’s worse is that he had just been selected for a France under 19 squad preparing for a match against England. He was meant to be in camp today but simply went along to the French National Rugby Centre at Marcoussis and signed in as injured, a real shame.

He told me that out of a squad of 40, 30 are part of the ‘Pole Equipe de France’. This is a group of the 30 best players in France who live and train full time at Marcoussis with the French Federation. Seemingly they return at weekends to play for their clubs, though they don’t play week in week out. They are not paid by the Federation either which I found surprising given how much they put in.

At a time when Scottish rugby fans are looking at how age-grade rugby is run in Scotland, it’s interesting to see how the French do it.

‘One of the President’s (least important) Men’

I shook hands with the President of the club the other day. I was going to write that I met him but I didn’t really, I still await my invitation to dinner. I now operate on a ‘if in doubt, shake a hand’ rule, so I grabbed his and said bonjour. The hype is building for Saturday’s inaugural match contesting the Trophée du Coubertin against Toulouse at the Stade de France. The trophy is named after the founder of the modern Olympic Games, Baron Pierre de Coubertin who was also the man to referee the first rugby match in France in 1892 between Racing and Stade Francais. You might think that this new innovation of a match should be played between these two clubs and the Stade owner has claimed that Racing tried this and Stade declined. This Pierre de Coubertin is an interesting chap. Aristocrat, intellectual, follower of Arnold (of Rugby fame) and his thinking on education, sport and ‘muscular Christianity’ and then of course the whole Olympic thing. He was also a staunch amateur and being French he probably appreciated the distinction between the words amateur and professional, with amateur having more of a direct link with its origin in the latin - ‘aimer’, to love. Professionals don’t love it so much, of that I am sure.

The Baron said things like this:

“The important thing in life is not victory but combat; it is not to have vanquished but to have fought well.”

“For me sport was a religion... with religious sentiment.”

But anyway, the President has promised the following, with a not-so sly dig at the Stade Francais show that accompanies their visits to the Stade de France, “J'insiste, pour ce match, pas de poitrines, pas de fesses, pas de zizis. Ce sera rugby, rugby, rugby”. Even if you don’t speak French, you get the point.

The Final Countdown

It dawned on me that I might only have 4 games left here. Of course it could be 7 if we get to the final but the number 4 sharpens the focus and the motivation. I didn’t train today except a short speed session. I started to feel tightness in my hamstring so I stopped. No risks, that was the line from everyone, especially with such a big match on Sunday. I’ve got to this stage in the season, I’ve trained until I’ve been blue in the face and I’m not going to put these big games on the line for something as trivial as a training session. By this stage, one must have confidence that the hours are in the bank, or in the legs, or even in the head...

Speaking of the head, me and Serge decided today that Brits look for a stand-off who can control a game more than the French. I can honestly say that I have never heard anyone use an expression anything close to ‘controlling the game’. For a 10, it’s all about getting the back line going, attacking the defence. When I arrived, we had a meeting and we discussed my strengths and weaknesses. I said I can control a game. They said, so what. But they were darker days. The differences in rugby between Scotland and France deserve one of the final gargantuan blog posts to themselves, but I thought best to record this chat when it happened.

All should be warned, I just remembered the pledge I made with my chain-smoking second row: we will both bleach our hair blond if we win the championship. Loved ones, those who are seen with me in public, you have been warned.

Massy 10 – 14 Racing

All I have to do is cross the road and I'm the Parisian suburb of Massy. So as Sunday lived up to its name, I strolled across the road to find the rugby club. I had memorised the way from Google Maps but obviously forgot. I asked a very helpful man, dodged several bandits doing wheelies on their motorbikes and arrived at Massy's impressive ground.

Some games are enjoyable from the beginning to the end, some in small patches. This was not enjoyable until the final whistle went. For large sections of this game it was nightmare stuff. The only time I have seen a set-piece fall apart more was at Clermont, and at least the opposition on that occasion were more formidable than today. We couldn’t buy a lineout, were getting mauled here, there and everywhere and getting the ball to the 8’s feet in the scrummage was a success.

I think what got us through were better levels of fitness and skills. When the second half began to break up, that played right into our hands. Though we still let two glaring opportunities pass us by – the first was a Ben Kay 2003 World Cup final style drop with the line beckoning and the second a refusal to give a simple 2v1 in the corner. Lots of heads went down at this point and lots were already down from a first half battering when we went from lineout to scrum to penalty.

It was only 5-3 at half-time, however. It went to 10-6 then 10-9 as I chipped over penalties from in front of the posts. We were really stretching them in the final 20 minutes, and it took a cross field kick from our chippy scrum-half to land in the hands of our winger for our score. There was some controversy surrounding the touch judge’s flag and when it had gone up. But the ref had given the try anyway. I missed the conversion from the touchline.

But the game hadn’t really started yet. It would all come down to the final 10 in one corner of our 22. They would maul, win a penalty or scrum, maul again. We were relentless in our reorganisation and willingness to pick ourselves up and tackle again. I say ‘we’ but it was the pack – I wasn’t really involved except as an organiser, shouting people into place. And so the forwards, having got us into this tight situation in the first place, were the ones to ensure the victory.

Big celebrations at the end, more relief than anything else as this means we are definitely through to the last 16 in France. The games that are left in the pool determine our final standing and who from the other pools we play.

Big week coming up as the Clermontois make the journey from their smoke filled, mountainous blue and yellow rubber factory to the big city. We will probably train loads seeing as it’s a huge game at the weekend. Though apart from sorting out the set-piece, I don’t see why we need a huge amount of training just because it’s a huge game. If it’s a huge game, I want to be in one piece by the end of the week, feeling fresh! Surely we should train loads when the weekend’s opposition are rubbish, then it won’t matter if we’re a bit tired. I’m probably wrong, definitely no coach and certainly of the ‘less is more’ school of rugby player, which is undoubtedly the majority of rugby players.

It will be interesting to see who wins between Clermont and Bourgoin in their match today. The top of the pool is very close indeed. Though we still have the same aim – win all our games and finish top of the pool.

Right, I’m off to try and use the washing machine which has been hogged by my oh so lovely flatmates for days. I will do whatever necessary to do my washing; I stop at nothing. 

Things can only get better, right?

I mumbled my way through the ‘language lab’, me and a bunch of Americans chanting “Tous...tu...du...doux” in unison in what must look like a religious cult. I couldn’t get home soon enough. By the time I went into the club I was feeling quite positive – things couldn’t get worse, that sort of thing. Though given I was going to do a kicking session, there was soething at the back of mind which said, yes, things can get worse. But I nailed everything, reinforcing the power that kicking a ball off a tee through a set of posts can have on my mood. We headed up to Colombes for our usual Friday night training session.

It was light and focussed. The forwards had been worked into their usual Friday night psychotic state. These guys get psyched up for set-piece practice, and seeing as all they seem to do is set-piece practice, they’re a special bunch. The rain made our team run slightly different, though I enjoyed it and felt it was one of the most successful team runs of the season. I told this to several forwards but they hadn’t rejoined the real world yet and only grunted back and slapped me on the back or tousled me hair as if I was one of their play things.

When I got back to the changing room it was all kicking off. The place looked like a bordel (brothel/pig sty). Everyone was checking pockets. Sure enough, all the euros in my wallet and my watch had been taken. This was theft on a grand scale, 2 changing rooms rifled through. Thankfully they had left my wallet and cards etc and hadn’t found the pocket where I keep my phone and keys. But it was still a sickening feeling. We were assured that the changing rooms were locked but that didn’t really wash with those who now had no phone, no boots, no money and in one case, no belt... Who knows how this story will finish.

Anyway, huge local derby on Sunday against Massy. Their ground is so close to the flat that I will walk to the game tomorrow morning. They are the third Parisian club after us and Stade and understandably hate our guts. They are a club renowned for producing excellent young players and much like West Ham or Hibs, inevitably see them leave, often to RM92 or Stade (unlike West Ham or Hibs). If we win we qualify for the knock-out rounds, guaranteeing us rugby until May 8^th. Our ambitions are far greater than that, however, so this is really just another stepping stone on the road to the Championnat. I’m thoroughly looking forward to it, whatever the weather. Friday may not have gone to plan but a good win on Sunday would leave it all in the past. 

'I Fought The Law And...', well, the RATP won.

Well, I’ve had better days. That seems the best way to start off an account of a day which started badly, got steadily worse and was only saved by a bit of rugby, though even that was in some horrible rain so I’m not going overboard about the rugby.

Started off alright, would rather have not slept through my alarm – or in fact, got up, turned it off and fallen asleep again – but I can deal with that. Just had to shower and get out the house. A half-eaten packet of digestive biscuits doesn’t constitute my normal breakfast but hey-ho. It was Friday, I was knackered after a tough week.

I was also receiving my long overdue transport card that afternoon from the club. My last one had expired and I had been getting by with bought tickets and chancing my arm. Given I was already late I couldn’t be bothered standing at the machine and buying a ticket. I hadn’t for most of the week, and due to the odd open door/gate and some commuters teamwork I had managed to get through the whole transport system and pop out at the Boulevard Raspail with no ticket. How very Parisian.

And so typically, when I arrive at Denfert Rocherau to change from my suburban railway onto the metro (requiring the validation of a ticket), it’s crawling with RATP employees, with one big chap strategically placed by the door that many commuters just pile through ‘unvalidated’. There was tension in the air. I had to think, and fast. I knew I didn’t have a valid ticket, and watching some old chap getting hauled back after his ticket failed and a subsequent attempt at legging the barrier didn’t fill me with confidence. I pulled an old ticket from my grubby pocket, put it in and received a loud negative sounding beep and a red light.

A woman came over and took my ticket, asked me something, I explained it didn’t work. She knew this already. We were discussing my issue in French, asking me questions about how I had got this far with this ticket which she knew had been used on Monday...I was caught out. So I did what any Brit abroad would do and played the dumb foreigner. She was having none of it. 40 Euro fine – bang. I was having none of this. I started to check the exits, maybe I could leg it back onto the train and get off somewhere on the sly. I had momentary visions of a Paris wide manhunt, me versus the RATP, hiding in baggage compartments as staff were mobilised at every station.

But I didn’t have the cojones so got my wallet out instead. Though I still had one last throw of the dice. Normally I would be ashamed to say something like this but was I heck paying 40 euros to this woman. I played the Racing Metro card, went all out, emphasising the word ‘metro’. It worked. For today, she reduced it to 25 euros. What a lovely woman you are, nice to see some solidarity between the transport workers and the club...yeah yeah whatever.

So this, combined with problems on the metro that I eventually got on made me half an hour late. When I eventually arrived, getting 15/20 in my phonetics test was not enough to lift me from my gloom.

#100 - Tracksuits, Egos and Aix-en-Provence V. Dundee....

Having realised that this is post #100, I've come back to edit it. My philosophy towards writing it is the same as Sir Ian McGeechan's is to coaching - I'll keep doing it so long as I have something to say. I would probably...probably still do it if no-one read it but it's nice that people do. There probably won't be another hundred, maybe I'll make it to another 30 by the end of the season. But I do get a tremendous amount of enjoyment from it so will plough on for now!


There is one bus driver of the 197 who has an overactive ankle joint. Not all passengers are aware of this moustachioed chap and so find themselves propelled forward every time the bus brakes. I am an old hand though, you see. This is the same guy who gives me an extra big smile and a kinder welcome onto his bus when I’m in full Racing tracksuit/bag. As a transport worker, employee of the RATP, I suppose he has a vested interest in Racing Metro 92 given that the Metro part represents the Paris transport workers.

Speaking of living in full tracksuit, I attracted some attention on Sunday when travelling into the pub from Colombes, not all of it pleasant. Though when a little boy, aged 5 max, comes up to you and in the politest way possible asks if you play for Racing, wide eyed and wide mouthed, it warms the heart! And the ego too, obviously...

Today I did a light weights session on my legs. Tuesday and Wednesday are hard training days and while it’s better to do something on a Thursday, there’s no need to overdo it. Afterwards I was chatting to the physical conditioning staff while watching the pros train. Francois Steyn had just finished his kicking practice where he nailed practically everything from a very tight angle – 5 metres out from the tryline and 5 in from touch, as tight as it gets. Watching the pros can be inspiring but also is a reality check. The levels of physicality that these guys operate at is another world.

One of the 50 odd people who turned up to watch this training session, one came for a chat. He started bemoaning the state of French rugby in that it is so difficult for youngsters to push into first teams in the Top 14. Of course, there is the odd exception, but the arrival of mercenaries is stifling French talent. He has a point. Many of the young players at the club who are getting to 21-22 years of age are still nowhere near the first team and have played a few years in the espoirs (u23s). Many of them are planning to move to Pro D2 clubs (2^nd tier) to get game time there and make their way up from there. Still, having a few years in an academy system like Racing’s is still an excellent formation and certainly looks good on the CV.

There’s a young Italian trialist at the club at the moment. He doesn’t speak any French and his English is really weak. I can absolutely sympathise with him. I’ve had to act as a translator couple of times, which gives me a nice indicator of how far I’ve come but also makes me realise that if he comes next year then he’ll have a tough time of it. At least I kind of had English...

The aforementioned physical trainers and I were discussing nice French rugby towns. Most of the ones I suggested were shot down. Perpignan? No, unpleasant. Aix-en-Provence? Too hot. This went on, I started just suggesting towns whether I’d been there or not. These French don’t know how good they have it. I was about to suggest that they should go and play rugby in Dundee, then they’d appreciate what lovely places they have to go and play rugby. Of course, some of our Border towns are ‘pretty’ but the abuse and inevitable kicking you get there outweigh a nice view. Perhaps that was the case with some of my non-suggestions. Anyway, our chat was cut short as a flying ball came our way signalling it was time for me to go home.

ps, to those to whom I boasted about the sun, some sun and some more sun, well, today it was dull, overcast and freezing. Your schadenfraude worked. 

Training - Wednesday 16th March

Training went really well last night. We began with some analysis in the impressive video suite at the club, outlining the themes for the evening: continuity of play, never allowing the ball to slow down. We moved from drill to drill, each logically a step up from the previous. What we do understand in Scotland is the need to win the contact – win the duel. But that is where most coaching normally stops or loses clarification. The French, as I have already said, are obsessed with having this diamond formation at all times, with the ball carrier having an option deep either side and a man dans l’axe immediately behind him. If this happens the ball need never slow down, each person who takes the ball on adds pace to it, blasting through the contact, off-loading before or after the tackle.

 I felt sharp, fast, physically excellent, though I was still making mistakes that I wouldn’t expect to make, giving it when I should have held it and vice versa. At one point I got so frustrated after several failures that I slammed the ball down into the ground, like a petulant tennis player with his racket. I had done well, thrown the right pass, supported, taken the ball again and just had to finish off with a final 2 v 1. I held onto it. The coach telling me that was a knock-on didn’t help.

We finished off with more of the conditioned game we like to play. 12 v 12 roughly, a ruck = failure. It’s absolutely knackering but when it comes off it is wonderful to play in, whether you’re a part of the cellule who offload their way up a touchline or whether you’re in position waiting for it to be spread out. It makes me want to be a coach.

One of the things we focus more on in Scotland is first-phase moves. Where we want to often thrown 1 or 2 passes with lots of movement to put a man in hole then under the posts, the French don’t seem to be in such a rush to score. They simply want to create this diamond of support, and score using every single support runner if need be. Our arsenal of first-phase moves is frustratingly small, and I’m always trying to bolster it. One conversation was telling:

“But if he gets tackled then he has no support”

“Well the point is that all his support are away creating the hole for him to run through. If he gets tackled then he gets tackled but why not have a go putting him through for a one v one with the full-back?”

“Hmm”

I suppose a perfectly planned, perfectly practiced backs move doesn’t quite fit in with the French mentality. Off-the-cuff is better.

Fun in the Sun

Today started badly and ended with me in fine form. I had only gone 5 minutes of my 10 minute walk to the station when I realised I hadn’t packed a top for training. So I headed home, got one, realised I was now too late to go in for my 8.30am phonetics class so lay in my bed for an hour before heading in for 10.

My RER B took an age to get into the Latin Quarter so I was late for my class, for the first time. However, the prof finally lost his patience later in the class at those who consistently come in late, apparently after some clipers had complained to him (I have my suspicions who, and I'm leaning towards South America). He pointed out the contract we signed saying we would come on time...etc etc I fell asleep.

So I went on to my geography lecture, which was excellent once again, and heartening how much I understood.

By the time I arrived at the training ground the mercury was really rising. I put my ankle socks on, boots on, removed all but the most necessary items of clothing (you’d be surprised) and went out to train. We were supposed to have weights, but the pros were in the gym and I for one was not going to ask them to move so we went out and trained. It was excellent. Given the espoirs (u23s - who our training schedule is geared around) had played a huge game in Sunday, the load was light: 10 a side variations on hawick ball sort of thing with a rugby ball, American football and so on. Then the forwards hit the gym and the backs did a handling session.

I found myself realising that this was exactly what I had imagined before I arrived in France. We did a huge Auckland Grid with the sun on the back of our necks, throwing huge passes ‘cos, quite frankly, we could with the ball being so dry. This is the environment to improve handling! It was really pleasant to be out there, and the training paddock hasn’t always been the place I have wanted to be, so I appreciated today. The coaching was incisive and the standard of others players impressive too. I was understandably motivated and this continued into the weights, for which I am reaping the benefits.

After an ice bath, absolutely necessary for me to get through the week in one piece, I chatted to my pal the scrum-half who has recently played for the u23s. He’s been offered a one year contract with the centre de formation proper, which is unsurprising yet good news for him. He made the point that the initiative falls on the player to go in and ask for a contract and the club may agree, they may not, but they won’t always come to you. Strange country.

Even the small chinese girl at the bus stop who told me her instrument case contained a saxophone and not a trumpet was not enough to dent my mood. Neither was the young mother across the street who stopped pushing her little girl’s tricycle to turn around, shout at someone up the road and give them a hefty one-fingered salute, before continuing her early evening stroll. Next week’s lecture is “The Paris Suburbs: Are they Ghettos?” to which I scoffed and said mine certainly wasn’t, though this woman made me think again, and then realise that she is not the typical genteel Antony resident.

Tomorrow we are training at the Croix de Berny in the south of Paris and not up at Colombes which is excellent news for me, saving the usual trek. Should be a long day though as I have kicking at 3, speed at 4 and rugby at 7.30. Hopefully I can get home before the rugby for some food and relaxation. But now I’m off to cook the chicken that I gleefully bought the other day. Our supermarket doesn’t often sell chicken breasts and I was becoming as bored as a mad cow of chewy, BSE ridden French steaks.

'Échappé' by Bourg-en-Bresse.

We turned up at Stade Yves du Manoir, Colombes, yesterday afternoon expecting a fairly easy outing. And so it turned out to be, a bonus point win, definitely the easiest win we've had all season. This was down to the no-show of Bourg-en-Bresse, due to some issue with a front rower (I was in the toilet when this was being explained) and so we have been awarded a bonus point win.


So we trained instead. I then hot-footed it onto a bus, then a train, then 2 metro journeys and was in the packed Auld Alliance pub just in time to watch Toby Flood bring England level at 3-3. This particular Scottish Pub was mainly Scottish dominated, with pockets of aggressive English enclaves amongst bemused French couples trying to enjoy a Sunday lunch. 


So we begin preparation for next weekend's match at Massy. I've been browsing some French rugby websites and one in particular which covers the Crabos competition in excellent detail. Surprisingly, we have the best defence in the country! To see where our attack comes in, and where we are in relation to Toulouse, Bayonne and Brive etc, here it is http://www.itsrugby.fr/statistiques-crabos-2010.html

Rue de la Soif!

It’s been quite a 24 hours so I thought I would get it all down before my head hits the pillow. Last night was the Crabos team dinner. After a shortened training session where everyone struggled to concentrate due to our impending soirée and non-challenge of Bourg-en-Bresse on Sunday, we headed off for the first part of the evening.

The restaurant was very small, designed for not more than 2 large parties, the sort of place with old posters advertising 1930s boxing fights, full of character and so on... I managed to sly my way through the first course, a buffet of various patés, magret de canard and similar French type ‘things’. I tried them, told myself ‘I told you so’ and reassured myself that I still had the eating age of a 4 year old. Though I did enjoy the boeuf bourguignon. We were continually asked by the waiter to make less noise as our singing raised the roof. Many of the songs were the same as sung on the legendary train journey back from Lyon so I knew all the tunes and the words are steadily accumulating...

From dinner we headed into St Germain des Pres, to what is known as La Rue de la Soif (the street of thirst). This is the bar district where everyone, simply everyone apparently, heads for a night out. It was absolutely buzzing when we arrived at after 2. I was dragged and pushed into one bar right through the queue (again, I was simply too British) and it soon became apparent how we all just walked straight in when we continued to bypass all queues at the bar and I saw the Racing flag on the wall. The owner is a former player and we were well treated all night. For us in Edinburgh, a night out will go on as late as 3 normally, often far earlier. Seemingly the bars don’t close until 5 in Paris. And by 4, things were still very lively indeed, except the majority of our team who were flagging. The coaches and our back room team were still going strong and we had to drag them away. We all crammed in a minibus and got driven round to the south of the city.

My outside-centre and full-back, the two most outrageously creative players we have and who come as a pair, having been friends since they were petit, came and crashed chez moi. I woke up the next morning to find mariokart in full swing. So I got some fried eggs going.

This afternoon I headed into Paris to watch the rugby. The Auld Alliance was packed with Frenchman so I delighted in cheering wildly for the Italians. Everything I had heard this week was arrogance from the French, doesn’t matter who they pick they’ll still win by 50 points. We Scots may think the English are often an arrogant bunch but the French are often just as partial to the same attitudes. I then moved on to the Pure Malt for the second game, passing through the heart of the Marais on my way. Aside from those frequenting Scottish pubs, people in the Marais seem to be either Goths, Jews or homosexuals (or American tourists, many of whom look like they violently disapprove of all of the above!)

Bourg-en-Bresse tomorrow at 3 O’ clock, a very inconvenient time for a Scottish rugby fan. We put 69 points past them and therefore the preparation has been typically French. The coaches are refreshingly blunt about it all, no awful clichés which every player under the sun yawns his head off at. They just tell the truth about the differences between the teams. We should thrash them, we should score at least four tries, and it’s just our attitude that affects whether it’s an enjoyable game to play in or not. Really, we just want to put more points past them than Clermont did. For now, a long deep sleep is in order.

Glasgow Kiss...French Kiss...French Rugby Kiss?!

This is me lagging behind in the warm-up. Our pre-match warm-up lasts about half an hour and is much more intense than anything I had been accustomed to. The absolute need for everyone to be so close in our jog that toes get stood on and calves get cut is frustrating. The 2 minutes before the start will be spent in an extremely small square in which the backs occupy the middle, in a close group with the forwards circling. When the coach shouts something, each forward picks a back and has to full-on wrestle him out of the square. Occasionally we will do a similar drill where everyone is moving around the square and a forward then has to smash a back, just hunt one down and nail him.


I had read Gregor Townsend's tales of the forwards having to trample over the backs who were lying defenceless on the changing room floor. But surely, I had thought, that wouldn't happen these days, in an under 19 team, in Paris, far from the Brive/Castres hinterland which Toony writes of. Well, I haven't been trampled on, but when the Coach starts to head-butt the hooker in the pre-match huddle, 1) I fear for my safety and 2) I know which country and rugby culture I am in.

Fight!

This was fairly close to the end of one of the fights. I can tell this because I am right in the middle facing my own team trying to stop any of our guys going for a sly punch on one of theirs. About 20 seconds earlier, there was no such separation between the 30 players!

Racing 20 - 16 Bourgoin

This was ample retribution for the 2^nd half punishing that we received in the mountains in October. 

One of the most ill-tempered matches I have ever been involved in, with at least two 29 man brawls (guess who the 30^th was) leaving a very sour taste throughout. At times I was struggling not to laugh as I watched our Betsen-esque flanker piling in, fists flying everywhere, and then his close friend seeing this from 30m away and piling in to back him up. It even continued while shaking hands at the end, our full-back, who’s dodgy strand of hair hanging down the back of his neck is longer than his fuse, got pushed over. The fact that no-one got sent off is simply because everyone was involved, and we're in France, of course.

But these incidents, large as they may have been, should not overshadow some of the incisive rugby we played. On an extraordinarily warm day (of which we are having more and more), I would have been thankful for the wind had I not had to play rugby. We used it better.

We scored first with a move that I had spent all week convincing people to try and it only got the green light in our morning run through. I was more ecstatic than most when it came off, with not a hint of ‘I told you so’ in the air. They hit back with penalties, and then on the stroke of half-time our captain, playing at inside-centre today, intercepted and ran in the remaining 60 metres. While waiting for the Bourgoin lads to file back under the posts so I could chip over the conversion, their 12 thought he would dish out some verbals, probably out of sheer frustration at the timing and nature of our try. I fairly hushed him up when I told him that I hadn’t the slightest clue what he was saying and that he was a sonofabitch. I really wanted to stick my tongue out at him but kicked the conversion instead.

We scored one further try in the second half, a sweeping movement started by me and the 12 on very much the same wavelength and ending with ‘Betsen’ scoring in the opposite corner, thoroughly satisfying stuff. We were camped on their line in the final 10 minutes, didn’t really look like scoring, but for some reason I went for a drop goal, never in the right position to do so. I got an earful from the touchline – of course, we had scored three times and wanted a fourth. Ugh, what a horrible feeling. So instead of us getting 5 points and them none, we got 4 and them 1. But who’s to say we’d have scored anyway...that’s what I say while enjoying my 'carte d’or' vanilla ice-cream which I have built my evening around.

My legs are scarred from this horribly hard ground, something that normally I only have to deal with come the 7s season when I never go on the ground. I now have two months of burnt knees to look forward to and that ground will not be getting any softer. I suppose if my poor knees are my biggest worry on a Sunday evening after playing Bourgoin, things can’t be that bad.

Bourgoin Preview

(Pre-training conversation with our assistant coach - roughly remembered and even more roughly translated)

“Fraser, I think that in the backs we need to start playing in a less structured manner. At the moment we’re too pragmatique, we need more intensité, vitesse! At the moment we call something, play it and then lack creativity after that. You understand what I’m saying?”

“(nodding) Yes, in fact, most of the words you’re using are the same in English. Créativité?”

“Exactement. We’re getting quick ball and now we need to inject the pace and that starts with you really taking the ball to the line then we can release our runners who need to be deeper”

“I see. We’re too pragmatic, need more intensity” (He’s loving this, excitable chap) “We need to be more free!” (Absolutely loves this, like I’m being converted to his attacking revelations) “Am I a bit anglo-saxon?”

“Oui!!”

And then we trained, and fairly well too. The laughing and joking had disappeared and everyone was focussed. It will be interesting to see the difference between last night’s training before Bourgoin and the training next Friday before the guff from Bourg-en-Bresse, especially as it’s our team dinner and night out afterwards. The commitment by the forwards to the set-piece last night was something I had only witnessed in France. They put in a Telfer-esque scrummaging session and then live lineouts which got very heated. I wonder if the same commitment to the scrummage exists at similar levels back in Scotland. I doubt it.

We lost to Bourgoin earlier in the season, definitely could have won, probably should have. You can read that post here: http://fraser-gillies-10.blogspot.com/2010/11/bourgoin-v-racing-metro-92.html

Hopefully the journey will have taken a bit out of them and they will be as intimidated by our towering housing blocks as some of us maybe were by their mountains. Speaking of the mountains, most of the team have been away skiing in the past two weeks which has left them all with impressive tans while I spent the weekend in Edinburgh, which for all the sun we had, doesn’t quite match up. I am now quite used to post-match changing room questions as to the state of my health.

So anyway, we are confident in our own ability when we play at Colombes to turn them over. We’re missing a few players who are in the France under 18 squad but Bourgoin will be missing several too so that shouldn’t be a worry, and the size and depth of our squad means that while we are weakened, it’s not a massive deal and we still aim to stuff them up front, as is the Racing tradition. I'm out here to play in these sorts of games.

But today, I intend to head into Antony, stroll round the new exhibition at the Maison des Arts, buy my Midi Olympique and enjoy a chocolat chaud at the Café de la Gare before settling in for the afternoon with two phones ready to buzz with updates from Murrayfield. Ah,the simple pleasures...

Busman's Holidays and Lectures in French

Charles de Gaulle Terminal 1 is very swish and futuristic. Why they reserve it for those flying to places like the East Midlands is beyond me. But that is where I tap away from. Having only flown back to Paris yesterday evening more tired yet also more mentally refreshed than when I left, I’m now off again to visit Loughborough. (“Ah oui, la plus grand université sportive du monde. Je la connais bien”, my coach said when I told him I wouldn’t be training today, his initial frown turning into an impressed smile – phew) The weekend did feel like a bit of a busman’s holiday as I ended up watching 4 rugby matches in person (2 at Goldenacre, strangely) and more on TV. Still, the aim of setting myself up for March had been accomplished.

This morning (Tuesday) I was supposed to be at the Boulevard Raspail at 8.30 for my first Phonetics class but by the time I got out the shower it was 8.02. How odd...It took me 5 minutes to realise that my alarm had been set on my phone which was still on UK time. I was running an hour late, with no chance of getting to Raspail in half an hour. So I didn’t try, took a leisurely breakfast and just went in for my French class as normal. After destroying last week’s test and ending up the ‘champion’ of the class – a win for the male race if ever there was one – I was fairly relaxed about today’s test. The chances of male dominance continuing are slim, to say the least.

I then went on to my first Geographié lecture which was very well done. A young lecturer excited about Longshore Drift, Gabions and the beach/human environment took me back a year, as did his keenly put together diagrams which I copied down with a colourful relish I had missed since the summer glory days of A Level revision. It wasn’t as good a lecture, however, as my 20^th Century Théatre one last Thursday. The professor, bald, half-moon spectacles, very smart 3 piece suit, Professor de Littérature, l’université Paris-Ouest, Nanterre, on that occasion gave a very good start to the course which left me looking forward to nicely balanced Thursday afternoons of obscure French plays and then weights and speed sessions. I have now set myself the challenge of getting to grips with En attendant Godot by the time we cover it sometime in the next few weeks.

With my course taking up more time, both before rugby and after in the form of grammar exercises (where it’s finally hit me that the French language uses 3 words when English uses 1), I feel like I will become more comfortable with the rugby. The game should return to what I feel it should be and always has been – a release from the days pressures, an opportunity for a run around and some fresh air, not the source of the day’s pressures and mental activity. I’m probably just more comfortable with rugby in a place that I have always known it, at the end of a school day so it is unsurprising to find myself happy with the current arrangement, having experienced weeks and weeks where it was simply rugby with little other outlet. My rugby should improve with the increased balance.