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.