Clichès and close calls

There is nothing quite like success in a sporting event to ram home a sense of patriotism, all the more enhanced by a) Pickwicks, the biggest ex-pat haunt in Geneva and b) Scottish rugby watching "buddies". When England jammied their way into the finals of the Rugby World Cup last October, it was clear to me that I was meant to be at that game. Mainly cause it coincided with my one weekend off and I had already made plans to visit Paris anyway.

So Anastasia the legend got a shirt in the post to me, I packed my rucksack and grabbed a blanket in the full expectation that I would find nowhere to sleep that weekend. (I later discovered it was a very lux 100% cashmere throw that came with my appartement and probably would not have suited living on a bench for the duration.) As it is I was fortunate and found a space in a hostel about 10 minutes after stepping off the train (at Gare de Lyon) into the fray and realising I had possibly been a little too laid back. I may venture to say God was looking after me, but luck will suffice for the cynical.

Anyway, the whole weekend was totally fabulous; full of revelation and beauty, purchases of random second hand clothes at Marché aux Puces for 50 Euro centimes each and lots of bread, cheese, walking, walking and walking. Needless to say, I love Paris in the fall.

But what about the main event as it were? Well, it turns out being a lone blonde female in Paris at the best of times can aid making friends (not an observation of fortitude I may note) but during the England/SA rugby world cup final the atmosphere is so charged and fabulous that donning anything white and red and hanging out near the crowds (note that you are better off in crowds that aren't wearing predominantly green and yellow) is a sure bet to not be alone for very long - not always a issue but you want to have someone to alternate cheering, shouting and crying with. I had already decided that I would be watching the game at the big screen by the Eiffel Tower and so headed in this direction a few hours before. After ditching the Frenchies I went with (well meaning people but not really clued in with the fact that I was no longer in caring-about-their-culture mode) I found myself in a bar clutching a 2-pint tankard of beer and for a moment feeling the same sensation as when I stepped off that train the day before. Panic not, within mere moments the very fact that I had made the journey on my own to be there at this historic moment (which by the way I would recommend everyone do, it is a safe bet way to plan a holiday that will not be forgotten) had impressed a group of young English lads and one Saffa. A bit of banter about the fact that they had kidnapped this guy later and I was invited to sit down (mainly to get out of the way of the door). I had made some friends and boy were these good friends to make. Superficially and the biggest cliché of it all is that I had happened upon a group of young dashing trainee airforce pilots who were all too willing to take me under their wing(!). More usefully however, they invited me to watch the game with them and the rest of their colleagues who had secure a spot on the Champ de Mars (area in front of the tower where screen was erected) not 3 foot from the front along with a well stocked supply of beer, water and Maryland cookies (which were my salvation halfway through the match when I realised I had not had lunch or dinner excepting the aforementioned 2-pinter). There were even some really cool girls there too which was great for toilet camaraderie, not feeling like a common English trollop and also, seeing as my camera battery had died, proved a fabulous resource for photographic evidence to be retrieved at a later date via the dreaded facebook...

But yet, though the picture is sweet, it is joyful and it's also a true example of provision(!), what was it that made it so momentous? Well, it's a little something known as "Top-Gunning". I tell you, watching the thousands from the shoulders of a burly pilot is one thing but this is sommat else... Joining in with the banter of the crowds, singing a little JC and a few 'negro spirituals' (thanks Mr Powell) was a lot of fun, but then a new song was added to the repertoire which soon left me confused and a bit red in the face as the realisation dawned on me. 'We've Lost That Loving Feeling', classic tune and movie scene, but when you get the distinct impression that the boys around you are singing not alongside but toward you it gets a little disconcerting. A sideways glance at Hannah (really cool chick) and she was encouraging me in my assumptions. Suspicions were confirmed at the line "baby baby, I get down on my knees" and these 20-odd servants of her Majesty were all on the floor serenading me in unison, with their own unique harmonies going on and a firm beat being tapped out (on my bottom). I was not being self absorbed - they were singing to me! (Hannah later informed me that this is a long standing rugby crowd tradition). It did not end there however; as one of the guys gestured for me to to turn around and I look behind me at the crowds, I see the neighbouring folk - I kid you not environ 200 of them - in an alcohol fueled moment of worship: with me on the pedestal.

So yes Richard, Paris, Eiffel Tower, Rugby World Cup and pilots serenading me: it does seem a little far fetched. But hey, someone has to do it...

As for the close calls. End of the game aside there was falling in a river whilst looking for somewhere to pee (no I was not 'in Seine'), French riot police at the end of the night and the obvious stupidity of heading off to Paris with no clue as to anything, poor French skills and a whole lot of drunken English sports fans. Would I do it again? New Zealand 2011 anyone...?