Right. An act of catharsis; I shall try and convey my thoughts about that day.
Semi-Final Saturday arrived for me at 0400. Waking early with excitement, I wiled away an hour reading before abluting and breakfasting. As it was still before 0600 I went for a long walk as the Sun came up on this historic day for the Principality. Collecting the paper when the 4Skin opened at 0700, I suddenly realised that the travel arrangements made earlier with John were all well and good, but that we were actually booked to fly from Wellington at 1130 rather than 1230! What is it with us Ballingalls when it comes to tickets and departure times relating to The Great Game? An emergency call to our first born soon remedied the situation and we arranged that I would be met from the train arriving at 0900 rather than 1000.
Having bussed into Ppm Station I was sitting on the platform doing the crossword when who should sidle up and nudge me than our friend Bev Pickersgill? (Quick aside. Bev and her husband Rob are former residents of Farnsfield, now living here in Paraparaumu Beach. We got to know them last year and were around when they arrived in Godzone). It was great to catch up with her and to hear all her news on the journey into the capital where Bev has a part-time job in Farmers, a Kiwi department store a bit like Debenhams. John was there to meet me, along with Amie and we were soon sitting in a local cafe awaiting breakfast. Amie was a bit grumpy that morning, and enlivened matters by tipping a bottle of strawberry milk drink all over my trousers. Remedial action in the cafe loo left me with a damp stain down my trouser leg which must have been most off-putting to the casual observer. It was a bit rich, looking as if I had pissed myself when I hadn't even touched a drop! Anyway, it dried out eventually, and no harm done, and my black pudding and eggs Benedict brekkie was ace. We dropped Amie of at her Mum's, dropped the car off at John's and got a cab to the airport, arriving at about 1045.
Deciding to be really grown up about our drink intake in view of the fact that kick off was not until 9 p.m. (I'm usually in bed by then!) we eschewed the wine and beer on offer in the Koru Lounge (John has membership through his business, and I was his guest), John settled for a coffee and I had a glass of cider. Now I know that purists will point out that cider is in fact alcohol, but it's a bit girly and thus doesn't count if taken before noon. With our father and son matching strips on + 2 welsh flags (mine was a red dragon cape, a snip at $10 in the toy shop at Ppm Beach) we were easily identifiable, so the call rang out from the barista who was of Island extraction, (so try an accent here, make some effort P-lease) "Hey, B'lingle your coffee's ready". Managed to get some cheese and biscuits too. The Koru Lounge is one of the few places where you can get a decent bit of fromage in New Zealand without having to pay an arm and a leg, although on reflection, given the cost of the air fares, we had paid an arm, a leg and most of the lower torso.
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| Father being sensible and eating fruit |
Negotiating our way through the throng in the Basin, we soaked up the atmosphere of milling fans, sunshine and occasional Basque country brass bandage (band-age?) before finding a typically raucous establishment which was the Irish bar that had been commandeered by the Welsh boys for the duration. There must be an inate gene in our breeding which enables us to home in on our like-minded fellow countrymen even without directions or prior knowledge. (Women have a similar knack with expensive shops I gather). Having secured supplies of the brew that cheers (quite good beer, and very reasonably priced for a central Auckland venue) the first person we saw was Bryce Lawrence, the Kiwi ref who had done the Australia v Saffers match the weekend before. He'd had a hell of a lot of flak down the week from the disgruntled Saffers, so good on him for getting out and about amongst the fans. Do you see that happening in soccer?
We would have gone over and said hello (John knows him) but we then met a real star! Yes, it was he! The Welsh Troubadour, the man from Hamilton, Plymouth, Wellington's Welsh bar and all other places in NZ where drunken Taffs congregate - The Sloop John B Man. (see blogs passim).We felt honoured to be in his presence, even more so when he came over and said to me "Aren't you the old looney on the You-tube video?" He likened my enthusiasm to that of an attendee at one of Hitler's rallies which was an interesting co-incidence since I'd said the same about the obnoxious Saffer sitting next to us last Sunday. Are rugby fans a secret neo-Nazi pressure group? or are they, just like the followers of the tooth-brush mustachioed, testicularly-deficient Fuehrer, just slightly gullible? ( You lot wouldn't have lasted 5 minutes in the Third Reich - Herr Ed.) So impressed was The Great Man with our devotion that he invited us to join his chorus for a shortly to be recorded interview with TVNZ. Good bloke TGM, no idea what his name is (Richard?) but he has been a feature of this RWC and the source of much joy. Mary has since informed me that Captain Sam (yes, the real one!) has been recorded as saying that he has also been viewing the eponymous clip on You-tube and so John and I are content that, in our own little way, we have been part of The Boys' preparations for the RWC. (By the way, if you find my use of capitalisation for real nouns a bit idiosyncratic, tough whatsit!).
For those unaware of the Sloop John B phenomenon, here is a copy of the lyrics a la TGM for your delectation. They were being passed around in various bars during the day's festivities, such is the fame of TGM.
Sam Our Captain
We came over from old blighty / Warren Gatland's army and me / We're here to take the cup / all the way home/ Six quid for a pint / A grand for a flight / With Sam our captain, we'll take the cup home!
Chorus (sing along out there!)
So hoist up the John B's sail, see how the main sail sails
Call for the captain ashore, take the cup home.
We'll take the cup home, we'll take the cup home,
With Sam our captain, we'll take the cup home
Martin Johnson's a bitter man / without Clive he has no plan / He always bitches and moans / Like a true Pom. / He's losing his hair/ but we don't care, / With Sam our captain, we'll take the cup home
Andy Powell's a friend of mine / he drives buggies in his spare time / He once gave me a lift / Down the M4 /
But he went the wrong way / in the nick for a day / With Sam our captain, we'll take the cup home
Jamie Roberts' got a clever mind / He'll be a doctor in two year's time / He always gets the ball / over gain line./ They can't tackle him / So Wales will win / With Sam our captain, we'll take the cup home
Mike Phillips is a handsome guy/ He's a model in his spare time / He always pulls the best birds / when he's on tour. / Last night he shagged four. / He's not jealous of me / cos he's shagged Duffy! / With Sam our captain, we'll take the cup home
Wayne Barnes is a laughing stock / He's got a tiny little cock / James Hook asked him to go TMO / but Barnsey he said no/ He can't do his job / we think he's a knob! / With Sam our captain, we'll take the cup home
This has rapidly become the unofficial anthem of Wales' RWC campaign 2011 and it was soon that John and I were outside on the Viaduct Harbour singing for TVNZ, and becoming part of the photo-record of hundreds of fellow fans. The girl who interviewed TGM was a blonde in an alarmingly short and free-flowing skirt for a windy harbour, but I digress ......................!
Feeling in need of more sustenance after our gruelling exposure to the mass media we then lurked off to a bar -restaurant opposite the Skytower which was confusingly called the Lord Nelson (as far as I recollect, Lord N never crossed the Equator. Being one-eyed he could have been an England supporter of course, or come to that, having only one arm he could have been an England centre.) I had a venison steak with kumara in a fancy sauce which was good, and actually cooked rare as asked but John fared less well in the vegetarian stakes. Being slightly underwhelmed by the thought of stir fry, he asked if they could fix him up with vegetarian pasta thingy, to which they readily agreed. It was obvious from the discussion that we could overhear from the kitchen that this was proving difficult for the cook (chef might be stretching it a little) who ended up producing the stir fry with a tomato on it and a bit of parmesan to top his creation. John took it in good heart, beer-induced bonhomie being the order of the day.
By now it was about 4 p.m. and with 5 hours to go before kick off we decided to continue our healthy-living regime and so we walked down and queued up to enter the Fanzone. After all the bad press that Auckland got on the opening night, this seemed to be working well. We took sustenance in the Long White Cloud which is a somewhat controversial and expensive architectural tribute to NZ but had the great merit of having lots of accessible bar space. We got chatting to a South African who turned out to be a good egg, very enthusiastic in his support of Wales. Whilst this was going on, I had to turn down another media appearance as some guy wanted to interview me in Welsh! So well-regarded are the Welsh fans over here, that I doubt there's one of them who hasn't appeared on the TV, radio or in the papers somewhere! Of course that's because there's bugger all else happening out here and they've got to fill the media with something other than adverts for sheep worming remedies. I think the Welsh fans out here have been a credit to their country, good on 'em. To the credit of the Kiwis, their food outlets had gone the whole hog ( le porc entier?) in an attempt to welcome the French with their "Poisson et Frites" and other such efforts. One enterprising merchant was even selling escargots at 2 for a dollar. The smell of garlic was intense and pervaded lower Auckland, but even with my iron guts, I thought it better to avoid that culinary minefield.
Having had enough of the Fanzone, we returned to the Viaduct Harbour and finding queues outside Welsh HQ joined up with some pals of John's who had a prime position table at one of the smarter harbourside bars. My memory is rather hazy as to the details, but I think we met up with some of them before, in the latter stages of last week's carouse. We spent a pleasant hour their, sitting in the sun and, remarkably, having a semi-lucid conversation with an ex-pat American concerning the state of US politics. At 5.30 ish we decided that the trek to Eden Park beckoned. One great criticism of EP as a stadium (more to come later) is that it is situated in a residential district some way north of the city centre and has no dedicated rail links. There were free bus shuttles, but being the fitness fanatics that we are ( and not wishing to miss out on bars on the way) we decided to walk the walk. This was well signposted and featured lots of entertainment along the way, but it was alarming that at 15 minute intervals we passed stewards with signs saying "well done, only 2.5 km to go" which was reassuring the first time, worrying the second time and positively dispiriting the third time! God knows how far we walked, at least 8 km I reckon, but it was good fun sharing our pain with fellow fanatics. At one intersection in town, all four sets of lights would go to red to allow pedestrians to cross and the space in the middle would be taken over by youngsters rushing around with Welsh flags (good) and a group of young dancing ladies dressed, in the interest of balance, as French maids - which was even better.
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| Cultural diversity at its very best I hope this catches on in Cardiff, but somehow doubt it! |
Stopping off for a libation on the way (thirsty work this trekking) we were again hounded by the paparazzi for pictures of the Ballingall + Ballingall Junior combo shirts and John somehow ended up drinking some evil looking concoction whose name escapes me (an Antipodean version of a Depth Charge, although I've no idea what that is either) with a group of young ladies who were passing through. Rescuing my son from these Jezebels, we continued on with our assault on the north face of Eden Path passing numerous music combos playing in bus shelters, assorted sausage sizzles and some rather mystifying "performance art" to reach K Road which John told me was quite a notorious district. We decided not to go into a Pole Dancing Club, as John assured me that it would just be full of Central European emigre pensioners doing the mazurka and then noticed a striking young lady, at least six foot tall and on staggeringly high heels wearing a green lame (can't do accents, lah-may) tube dress which left little to the imagination. It was only when 'she' turned to acknowledge some comment of appreciation from the crowd that we realised 'she' was a transvestite! By gum this trip is an education for a chap from such a sheltered background. This apparition in green lurex was, later that evening, positively identified as Allain Rolland's father (see later, and the Welsh rugby press for the next twelve-month). With our mental and physical reserves almost expended we finally made it to Eden Park which I must say would have made a nice stadium if they had finished it. At 60,000 capacity it is far too big for normal Kiwi matches, and with the two ends behind the goalposts open to the elements it looks a bit makeshift. Still, mustn't grumble! We were there (copyright Max Boyce, 1803) to see Wales fulfil their destiny. It didn't help that it hosed it down for ten minutes about half an hour before kick off, but we soon dried out jumping up and down, singing 'Delilah' and generally throwing abuse at passing Frenchmen who didn't have any idea what we were saying, but smiled graciously and were generally bons garcons. We won the battle of the anthems easily, the support for Wales far outnumbering that for the Garlic Eaters, but that was to prove the last thing we won that night ................................................ (Pauses to find handkerchief and a bottle of lager.)
Not a lot to say about the match really that hasn't been gone over ad nauseam in other media. The French didn't win the match, Wales lost it. Even after the sending off (18 minutes in), about which more later, we were all over them.We had chances to win the game but unfortunately this young Welsh side proved not to have the maturity to take them. That may sound harsh, but it is not meant to be. Wales have been the revelation of RWC 2011 and could, and should, have made a dream final against the All Blacks in their own backyard. If this team can hang together, maintain their incredible fitness levels (i.e. stay off the pop) and stop NZ stealing Warren the Wonderful, then surely their time will come. The Nation should be proud of this group of young men who have been such great ambassadors for real rugby and for their country. I didn't really feel disappointed at the final whistle, just immensely frustrated that all that promise has yet to be realised. Wales lost two matches in the competition, one against the defending champions and one in the semi-final. Each match was lost by just one point. And when I came out here I had my doubts that we would get out of the "Pool of Death" ....................................
And now about THAT tackle! Should Sam the Captain have been sent off? Well yes, according to current law interpretation, but therein lies the rub. I must say that the refereeing at this RWC has been outstanding. The referees have worked with each other as a team, rather than against each other in order to gain preference as has often been the case in the past. There has been been very good consistency in law interpretation and the players seem to have had confidence in the officials. Of course there have been controversies ( Barnesy in our first match v S.A. for a start!) but each incident could be explained with some logic. So why all the debate about Warburton's sending off? It's still rolling on in the NZ media two days after the event, to the point where it has become tedious now.
My feeling of great regret is only that referees now are having to referee according to IRB directives and have little room to apply common sense and a feeling for the game and place each incident in context. As it happens, we were seated so as to have a very good view of the incident. Vincent Clerc hit a gap at very high speed and was met very hard by Warburton. Sam stopped Clerc's upper body dead, but Clerc's momentum seemed to me to take his legs up. Such was the force involved in the collision that Warburton could not hold on to Clerc to bring him back to ground as the Law demands. This was no 'spear tackle' just a bloody great big hit. The reaction of Rolland was to bring out the red card immediately. I didn't see it at first, since a melee developed around the incident. I thought that Sam had been yellow carded which I thought was fair enough!
Now perhaps I'm being a bit hypocritical here. I've always said that a referee acts instinctively to produce a sending off; if you have to think about it, it probably isn't one. But the game, and refereeing have moved on since my day; referees go through 'processes' now in making their decisions, but in doing so I feel they may have gone away from involving their feel for the state of the game and the intention, rather than the result, of players' actions. I just wish that Allain had consulted his Assistant Referees, perhaps had a sneaky look at the replays on the big screen and then come to a considered decision rather than "legs up in the air, wasn't brought to ground, - off) Did it ruin the game? No, but it certainly changed its course immeasurably and certainly cost some players their only chance of deservedly appearing in a RWC Final. The way Wales played in the 60 minutes of the game after the sending off was amazing, probably the greatest display of 14 man rugby in the history of the game. Unfortunately with the loss of their captain and chief ball scavenger, wales had to alter their tactics (obviously) and they lost their way in a match they threatened to win up to the last minute. In that final push of 26 (!) phases, they were out on their feet, the effort was superhuman. What if? What if Stephen Jones hadn't hit the post? What if Halfpenny's long range shot had gone over the bar rather than falling just under it? What if James Hook had kicked two reasonable penalties? Well, 'what if' is irrelevant and 'what was' was on the scoreboard and in the record books. What was ,was Wales 8 France 9 and a French team largely devoid of ideas but tactically aware and surprisingly disciplined have pinched our place in the World Cup Final.
After all that seriousness, here's a picture of a pair of tits;-
Best bit of banter heard at the match:
Loud Welsh voice: " Oi you, Medard! Give JPR his sideburns back!"
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| JPR (for it is not he!) |
It had been a long, but enjoyable trip. A day of dreams unfulfilled, but what a time I've had out here following Wales around.
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