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 2nd 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.
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