What a lovely way to start my day - a Skype with my grandchildren! (Oh, of course, good to see Cath and Rich and She Who Must Be Obeyed as well). The Munchkins were great, Thom talking a bit and trying to climb into the computer to see Grandpa, Jeff on good form and touching base and Beth chatting away like there's no tomorrow. (There is, and we're playing Ireland!). We had a few tears from Beth when she worked out that we have ten weeks before we all meet up here in Aotearoa, but these were resolved when we agreed that I should buy a pack of her favourite Tim Tams every week in preparation for her arrival. This I will do, as long as she promises to share them with Jeff and Thom (and me!). I must own up to having a bit of a wibble when she hung up.
A walk to get the paper, lovely morning, and then after breakfast I festered around through the morning before picking up Lyndon, Brian and Martin for a trip into Wellington. They wanted to soak up the pre-match atmosphere and pick up their match tickets so I offered to drive them in as they had already experience the delights of Trans-Metro trains a couple of times. On the way in I showed them where to go for the Interislander as they are leaving for the South Island on Sunday p.m. It was nice to try and give some Kiwi-style hospitality after all the help we have had on our various visits here.
Wellington was at its best, little wind and lots of sunshine and we were able to have a good walk along the harbour looking at the Black Boots Legends Gallery which was attracting a lot of interest on the sea front. On the way we got interviewed by an Irish radio station and ended up singing Sospan Fach for them, a delight no doubt for their listeners and for the startled Wellingtonians and visitors who had the misfortune to be within earshot. Soon feeling tired from our exertions and media appearance, we retired to a bar which, to our delight, was serving British beer. It was still far too cold, but I did enjoy a pint of Fullers' London Pride after distending my stomach this last month with gassy lagers ( I'm not really complaining honest.). While we were enjoying our sit down Craig Joubert and Wayne Barnes (RWC referees) strolled past, Barnesy wearing a pair of dark glasses as he is still persona non grata over here after being personally responsible for ousting the ABs from RWC 2007 (according to some one-eyed Kiwis). The boys were settling in for an evening session before returning to Ppm by train. They wanted to shout me a meal, but I preferred to fight my way back through the Friday night rush-hour (relative remember) and get back home via Big Eric's for the traditional fillet in batter and a half portion of chips. And so to bed, very excited about the day to come.
Saturday 8th October
World Cup Quarter Finals Day 1
Up at 0630, beating both alarms I'd set in case I overslept. A walk to the 4Skin to collect the paper and a sunstantial stomach-lining breakfast and I only had about a hour to spare before leaving home. Checking that I had the tickets for the umpteenth time (but see later), I caught the bus to the station and then the train down into the capital. Arriving at the station, the atmosphere was electric, loads of fans milling around and general bonhomie in bucketfuls. Wary of the liquid excesses to come I saught further stomach lining with a swift pie and then headed to Te Papa to meet John and Finbar (the chap from San Francisco, who had been staying at John's since Thursday). Being that close, we made a pilgrimage visit to The Welsh Bar and thence, in a spirit of fairness, to Molly Malone's for a pint of the black stuff with our Celtic cousins. We were well received with the inevitable craic, which is more than can be said of the two blokes in England shirts who wandered in to resounding boos from all present. To their credit these lads had the balls to walk to the bar rather than retreat, whereupon the whole pub applauded them! Soccer fans - get over it!
Having opened our account on the boozing front we lurked of to The Bristol in Cuba Street for a spot of lunch. The venison sausages and mash (and gravee, Mam!) where excellent, washed down with a pint of Kilkenny. A stroll through the new Fanzone in Courtenay Place (which was expecting to cater for 25,000 that night) and we were off to The Caketin (sorry IRB, wash my mouth out - The Wellington Regional Stadium)
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| Come on the boys! |
The trip to the stadium was manic, loads of yahooing and great fun. Here we are with a bunch of leprechauns;-
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| L to R: Mick 1, Mick 2, Small Mick, Hairy Mick,Finbar of the Flag, Me, Ginger, Flamboyant Mick |
AT THIS POINT MY WHOLE WORLD NEARLY IMPLODED, AND MY CAREFULLY NURTURED RELATIONSHIP WITH MY SON ALMOST CEASED!!!!!
Stupid old fart! What had I done! Instead of two tickets, I had one ticket and the receipt. Oh shite! Now admittedly the two documents were almost identical being printed in the same colour and to the same size, but for the life of me I cannot fathom how I did it. I had checked the tickets dozens of times, a senior moment of cataclysmic proportions. Don't panic Mr Mainwaring! (Actually I think John called me a useless twat which was both accurate and remarkably restrained). The razor sharp brain of Ballingall Junior determined that all we needed do was to present the receipt to the ticket office for a replacement to be issued. Whilst queueing so to do (there appeared to be quite a few other daft bastards about) John spotted a refereeing mate of his, a copper on crowd control duty. Introducing his father to the local constabulary with the phrase "Can you lock this bastard up?" we were to be forever in PC Plod's debt as he laughed at our predicament and then produced a ticket for us to get in with. How he had it, and why he hadn't sold it, we will never know, but relieved doesn't even start to express my feelings then. After that shocking incident, we felt that alcoholic support was dearly needed and so with the reassurance of 2 x 4 packs of Heineken we moved to our seats, in a corner, high up and offering a superb view.
The game was a blur of happiness. Wales got the longed-for early score through Shane Williams and thereafter played magnificently, their defence being outstanding and providing a platform from which Mike Phillips and Jonathan Davies scored further tries. For a game of such importance it was very open, Wales and Ireland kept moving the ball and there were only about 6 scrums in the whole match. With the third try the realisation began to dawn that we were through! Next week the boys would be in Auckland for the World Cup Semi-Final!!!!! The Irish around us (and they were all around us, we must have been outnumbered 3 to 1 in the stadium) were obviously disappointed, but at the final whistle they were typically full of congratulations for us, and their best wishes for the semis before suggesting thst we all adjourn to the pub. Don't we just love the Irish! Play hard, party hard and bollocks to the rest of 'em! They made our evening something special.
Somehow we met up with Finbar again and made our way to the first watering hole,the name of which escapes me for some reason. Taffs and Micks united in jubilation and despair and their intense pleasure at watching the English book their flight home with an abject display against the Frogs. The Irish got over their disappointment after the first pint and then determined to drink Wellington dry. I remember having a glass of Jamieson's thrust into my hand (my first touch of spirits since arriving in NZ I might add) and a lunatic, but lovely, lady from the Emerald Isle taking pity on my emaciated state (we've seen the pictures you lying toad - Ed.) and nipping out to buy me sausage sizzles at regular intervals during the night. The fickle finger of fortune smiled on us then when one group of our new found pals decided to subsidise their further drinking by selling their semi-final tickets for a game in which they now had only an academic interest. John, bless him, was off down the road like an exocet missile to find an ATM whilst father stood guard over our benefactors to make sure they didn't move! To be fair, they sold us the tickets at face value (as most real fans would) and were at pains to show us their receipt (aaaaaaagh!) to prove that they were genuine, not that we could see in the maelstrom of the evening.
Bouyed with our good fortune John and I left to find the Fanzone with the good wishes of the Micks ringing in our ears. For the record, here is a photo of the two of us in our match day outfits;-
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| That's us that is! |
Anyway back to the carousing. We ended up in some bar with a dance floor (so I'm claiming it was a night club, another first for Ballingall Pere). Father was leant against the bar for a while whilst John went and strutted his stuff (so it was claimed - looked like St. Vitus' Dance to me). Summoned by cellphone (I'm beginning to get an insight into how these youngsters operate now, I'm hoping I'll get included in a flash-orgy before I leave) we went to yet another bar where who should I meet again but the Bar Manageress from Skewen via Hamilton who I last heard singing "We'll keep a welcome...." . Small place New Zealand, made smaller when your subset is those who are drunk in bars. Soon after midnight, and with no appearance from my magic coach, father decided to play the white man and head for John's place whilst he sought further pleasure.
The walk back along the bay was marvellous (if cold) and many of my successive steps were vaguely in the same direction. Pleased with having negotiated the hour-long walk, I managed to get into John's apartment complex and, with great concentration, managed to leave his keys in the place agreed so that he could get in later. This act of mental acuity took its toll however, as then I realised that I had completely forgotten which flat John lived in. At that time of night, and in my state alcohol-induced euphoria, all the doors looked the same. The solution was obvious to my razor-sharp mind (actually I'm lying. I did at one stage contemplate dossing down in the stairwell) - the cell phone, God bless it. Reasoning that J. would not appreciate a phone call from his old man if he had got lucky, and wouldn't hear it at all if the racket in the last two bars was anything to go by, I texted my dear lady wife in the UK for the relevant information. Now you may think it foolhardy of me to risk communication with the better half under the circumstances, but we arranged to chat on the phone when I had secured entry. That woman must be a saint! Not one word of criticism or complaint was there, despite the obvious bollocks that I was speaking. There was a rather large intake of breath when I said we had bought tickets for the semi-final, but she seemed reassured when I avouched that she hadn't been sold into the sex trade to pay for them. Grab-a-grannies are greatly in demand over here!
Anyway, happy to have shared my happiness with she who let it all happen, I hit the sack in John's front room to sleep the sleep of the blessed.
Sunday 8th October
Awoke at 0900 the beautiful sight of sun streaming in across Evans' Bay. There being no sign of John or Finbar (but significant farting and snoring from their rooms), I got dressed for an early-morning constitutional. Amazingly I didn't have a headache, although it did feel as if a feline had defecated in my mouth. I walked along the Bay to collect the paper, anxious to check the result in case I had dreamed it all. There were hundreds of camper vans parked along the seafront and there was a good amount of banter with those, Irish and Welsh, who had managed to stagger from their pits or who were, indeed, still on their way home. Wales' historic win confirmed, I returned to the apartment (nearly said flat there) and John produced a BBB of humungous proportions which was very well received by Finbar and myself. Then it was time for Finbar to get off to the airport for the start of his trip back to San Francisco. He was a good bloke, and has assured the two of us of a bed should we be passing through San Fran. The afternoon was spent dozing, watching TV and, for John, arranging flights for next weekend (which were at a premium naturally).
Being sensible chaps we decided to go semi-final-lite (I think our bodies left us no alternative) and so John took us into town in his car, which he parked at work which is quite close to the stadium. A search for some grub proved fruitless as everywhere was packed, but we did manage a couple of quiet hairs of the dog. A highlight of this period was a group of Welsh boys who had somehow commandeered a grey rust bucket (which may have been part of the Royal New Zealand Navy, who were in town en masse; two dinghies. a pedalo and a bath-tub) and were holding a barbecue on board. They had renamed the ship HMS Gatland (after the Welsh coach) and were moored up directly opposite a couple of swish watering holes, flying the Welsh Dragon with pride. To the amusement of the onlookers, and to great applause, two of the lads stripped to their undies and leapt into the bay from the top of the ship's superstructure in a pre-Tuilaga (see later) act of heroism.
By now the fans were making their way to the stadium. Two things were obviously apparent about the Springbok supporters;- a) they are bloody huge - no wonder their team is the bully-boy of international rugby, and b) they don't smile much. We lurked along and gained easy access to seats very much akin to those we had had the day before, the difference being that instead of being sat amongst a group of Mad Micks I found myself sitting next to one of the grumpiest, one-eyed bastards I'd ever met at a rugby match. (to be fair there were some good eggs amongst the other Saffers, one group had even prepared working models of a kangaroo on a barbecue spit which they delighted in rotating to the Aussie fans). Initial attempts at contact being rebuffed, being the good chap that I am, I ventured that "At least we've been through all this and are already in the semis" That did not go down well. Afrikaanasarse responded with "Well you've never been there before". As this was factually incorrect, I did mention that we'd made the semis in the inaugural RWC of 1987 to which he growled that "that was when Zimbabwe were playing". The fact that this was absolute bollocks confirmed that he was deranged so at this stage I gave up. The bastard smelt as if he had been smoking dried antelope dung which didn't help. It was interesting that during the Saffer anthem (which has parts in 4 different languages) this bloke only sang the Afrikaans bit, and seemed to have some difficulty with that.
Anyway the result is history, Australia managed to conjure a win with negligible possession and territory and it was interesting to watch a match in which I was not emotionally involved - it goes much more slowly for a start. In addition to the comedic entertainment provided by Quade Cooper (the man they love to hate had a shocker) Afrikaanasarse was by now getting apoplectic and John and I were having difficulty keeping a straight face. He was sitting rocking backwards and forwards and screaming Bokke, Bokke with the rest of the Saffer crowd. Whilst good support, this cry is quite intimidating, and reminded me of films of the Nuremburg rallies. Who knows, perhaps A-arse was Adolf's love child, they disappeared somewhere after the war.
At the end the Australian fans were ecstatic and my next door non-friend took off his Springbok hat, thrust it in his pocket and stomped from the ground without a word. I pity the poor lady who was with him as she was wearing Aussie favours and could well have been in for a clouting that night (unless Afrikaanasarse had brought a couple of house boys with him in the camper for thrashing purposes).
Back by train then to Paraparam in the company of more Saffers who proved much more jolly. After initial discussions of a mass suicide in Waikanae, they settled down to putting the blame on Peter de Villiers, their coach, who they reckoned had been a disaster three years in the making. They wished Wales well against the Frogs, which was nice.
An hour's walk back from the station (there being no buses on a Sunday, and me too tight to go by taxi - recouping semi-final tickets costs!) I ended the night with a quick phone call to Mary before hitting the sack at the end of a perfect weekend.
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