A couple of weeks previously England had been the breadth of Cueto’s toenail away from improbably but successfully defending the World Cup – a tournament with all the usual ingredients; Australia non-plussed as they struggle to find the game to match their bravado in yet another World Cup tie with England, New Zealand do the standard [insert generic choke gag #1] and France string together 2 of the Frenchiest of French performances:  Firstly they dominate an All Blacks side seemingly steamrolling their way to the final until [insert generic choke gag #2], then they roll over to have their bellies tickled like toy poodles against an England side who had blagged their way to the semis by slight of hand, magic and probably voodoo.

With the Springboks rightfully crowned World Cup champions attention returns to the domestic scene and the ECC draw is made – it’s Brive, Montpellier and Petrarca.  Big Tim, SaleGangster, Strawberry Nuts and I hold a brief conflab and unanimously decide on Italy this year (too many painful memories of extortion in Paris the year before preclude an early return to France).  Although… where the hell is this Petrarca anyway?  SaleGangster thinks it’s in Venice, I begin to wonder how I’m going to swing this one past Mrs Tickle – still narked that last year’s trip to the romance capital of the world was with the lads and not her, I’m gonna have to tell a whopper to get a pass out for a trip to Venice.  While I’m mulling over the lie, Big Tim hits Google Earth and it turns out to be Padova.  This is perfect – Mrs T will have zero interest in lazy, provincial Italian towns, and to seal the deal, Ryanair fly to Treviso (an hour’s drive from Padova) and we can do this on the cheap – result!

The game is on the Saturday, so we fly out from Liverpool on Friday morning.  We get to the airport early and decide on a couple of breakfast pints.  For some reason drinking beer at 9:30 in the morning seems like a reasonable thing to do...  I consider this for a moment… then get another round in.  As we sit in the departure lounge in giddy anticipation there’s an unexpected bonus as one by one the Sale players start to file past and we realise we’ll be on the same flight as the team!  Luke McAllister is with the team for the first time since signing and I’m momentarily star struck… then I remember the last time I saw him play – in the World Cup match against France when he got sin-binned – and I allow myself a chuckle at his expense.  Haha!  Four more years ABs!  Genius of a player though, had a great World Cup and I can’t wait to see him in a Sale shirt.

It’s time to board the flight and the usual rucking, mauling Ryanair boarding system ensues.  The players are ushered onto the plane first and take the seats at the very back.  We board using the rear stairs and file past the already seated players.  Charlie Hodgson, Chris Mayor and Mark Cueto are in the very back row.  As we make our way down the aisle Strawberry Nuts lands his size nine on Cueto’s toe who yelps out loud.  Poor Strawbs is mortified and can only gawp at him in stunned silence until some mischievous scamp behind us yells “That’ll teach you to keep your foot inside the line!”.   Hodgson and Mayor p*** themselves and Quates goes red.  Reassured that he hasn’t landed Quates back in the treatment room, Strawbs makes his apologies and shuffles down the aisle to his seat.

We arrive in Treviso airport and the moustachioed attendant at the Hertz desk apparently understands Manco-Italian, and points us towards our hire car.  Big Tim is the designated driver and isn’t looking forward to driving on the wrong side of the car and the wrong side of the road.  He’s grumpy about not being able to drink with the rest of us and is alarmed by the increasing levels of blood in his alcohol stream, but nonetheless he takes to the driving with stoic abandon.  Designated navigator, SaleGangster, is less reserved and performs ‘percussive’ maintenance on the sat nav in a bid to change the language to English.  Strawbs and I know when to keep the hell out of it and leave mum and dad to bicker in the front seat while we snooze in the back.

After 20 minutes SaleGangster eventually bests the sat nav and thank Christ for that – the first instruction we hear in English is to perform a U-turn.  Big Tim negotiates the manoeuvre and we’re back on track.  It takes an hour or so to reach Padova and another hour to drive across town in the Friday afternoon rush.  Big Tim is spitting feathers so we throw our bags in the hotel and go looking for the nightlife.

This was a more difficult proposition than we’d bargained for, as Padova doesn’t have anything like what you’d call a ‘main drag’.  Cafes, bars and restaurants are few and difficult to find, so we wander around aimlessly in the freezing cold for about an hour before eventually finding a small pizzeria where we have a bite and a beer.  After dinner, SaleGangster decides to preserve his match day liver and heads back to the hotel for an early night, while Big Tim, Strawbs and I go looking for bars.  After a few minutes in the labyrinthine alleyways we find a piazza with a small bar, probably about half the size of our usual pre-match pub, The Olde Vic.  Despite the sub-zero temperatures, the bar is open-fronted - allowing the icy chill in to accompany our beers and peanuts.  It’s too cold so we drink up and leave.  On the other side of the piazza is a tiny sweet shop with colourful, delicately crafted marzipans in the window, the lights are on and there are people inside…  One of them is holding a beer…  In fact all of them are holding beers…  Oh my God - it’s a sweet shop that does a sideline as a bar!  We go in and have a couple of the most surreal pints of our lives – surrounded by pralines, truffles and chocolates.

It’s now after 11pm and we’re well oiled.  We leave the sweet shop and go walkabout.  Before long we find another tiny bar bedecked in Heineken paraphernalia… well it’d be rude not to, wouldn’t it?  A couple of pints and a slightly slurry, Manco-Italian chat with the barman later we’re back outside and walking again.  We head down a tiny alley and stumble upon a proper pub – The Highlander – complete with hanging sign depicting a kilted William Wallace type character.  Now you’re talking!  Inside it’s quite busy and we decide to sit at the bar where we order 3 large beers and 3 large chasers.  Several of the locals come over to chat with us periodically – Christ knows what they make of us as Manco-Italian has made its excuses and exited with the last of our sobriety.  I finally realise that I’m drunk when I start an argument with Big Tim and Strawbs where I proclaim Tim Henman to be the greatest British hero of the last decade…

Unfortunately, that is the last thing I remember, I’ll continue my story later, but in the interests of chronology, this is what happened next, as told by the most heavyweight of our party, Big Tim:

“Mr Tickle is being an a*sehole – he’s hammered and it’s bad enough he insists on trying to speak Italian to everyone, but that cr*p about Tim Henman is the last straw.  It’s kicking out time and it looks like I’m going to have to herd Tickle and Strawberry Nuts back to the hotel – no idea where it is but these 2 are a liability when they’ve had a few so I guess that means I’m dad.  As we leave the bar a couple of the barmen recognise the Sale shirt and challenge us to a scrum.  I crouch and hold but they cheat and get the push on early - they’re no match for my 18 stone though and I take them easily, Mr T and SN have little interest and saunter off in opposite directions.

“It takes about 5 minutes to round up Tickle and Strawbs and we head off in what I hope is the right direction.  We walk down a road on the edge of a park with a steep, grassy downhill slope to our right when a police car pulls up.  I approach the passenger side to ask directions, but Strawbs beats me to it and jumps in the back seat yelling “Take us home driver!”.  Dammit!  The Carabinieri are out of the car in a flash – hands on guns.  Tickle looks a bit more awake now and he gets Strawbs out of the car and is holding onto him by the shoulders.  OK, no need to panic, I’ll convince these coppers not to arrest or shoot anyone and they’ll point us on our way… I turn back to the Carabinieri and make my palms-out apologies.  It goes down well, and while their eyes occasionally dart back and forth from my crumpled map to tweedle-dum and tweedle-dummer behind me, they helpfully direct me to the hotel and leave.  I turn back just in time to see Tickle & Strawbs wrestle their way over the edge of the slope and go cart-wheeling down the grassy hill.  That’s it – I’m out of here.  Screw them.”

Thanks Tim – back to my story now:

I wake up leaning against the wall of the hotel corridor.  How did I get here?  And where are Big Tim and Strawbs?  And for that matter, why the hell am I naked???  Uh-oh.  I’m outside the right room but the door is closed and I don’t have a key.  I’m sharing with Strawbs, so maybe he is in there – I knock but he’s either not in or asleep.  Dammit.  I sit back down and lean on the door, which swings open and I fall flat on my back across the threshold.  Clearly, the door hadn’t closed properly and I bless my luck – until the door swings back again and cracks me on the head.  I check the time on my phone – 5:30am – then go to bed.  Minutes later a breathless Strawbs bursts in.  “Where the hell have you been?”  I enquire.  “Asleep in a truck stop” he responds.  Fair enough.  We go to sleep.

I’m awakened on match day morning by a phone call from a bright eyed, bushy tailed SaleGangster who is already in the pub with Big Tim.  It’s 11:30.  Strawberry Nuts is up already so we bedeck ourselves in our finest match day regalia and join the other two in the pub.  We’re back in the freezing pub again from last night where we breakfast on salt pork sandwiches and peroni.  The ground is a couple of miles away and, too hung over to try for directions in Manco Italian, we get a cab straight there.  The ground is tiny with a concrete stand on one side.  The locals and seasoned away-dayers have brought small, thin cushions to sit on.  The rest of us have to sit on the icy concrete terrace.

The game kicks off and Sale dominate from the first minute.  Nacho Lobbe marshals the pack with commanding authority while Lee Thomas, playing fly half, dictates the play in the back line - sending wave after of wave of attack towards the Petrarca line.  Sitting near the front on the halfway line is a change in perspective from my normal perch high in the Cheadle End and it allows me a first, close-up look at Rory Lamont – my God that boy is fast!  He’s playing on the wing today and is turning every high ball into a sprinting, jinking counter attack.  Petrarca have no answer to this threat and Lamont scores the 3rd of 4 tries in the 1st half to give us a 27-7 half time lead.

Will Perry and the Talking Sharks crew are here and they interview some of the Sale fans at half time.  Perry remembers SaleGangster giving him some lip before kick off so he seeks him out and sticks a camera in his face in retribution.  Unfortunately his research doesn’t match his ambition on this one and his first question to SaleGangster is whether he thinks Sale will secure the bonus point.  Never one to miss an open goal, SG sarcastically but politely points out that this was already in the bag, leaving everyone – cameraman included – p***ing themselves at poor Will’s expense.  (Credit to Will – this did appear on Talking Sharks).

Into the second half and Sale pick up where they left off in the first, with Cueto and Lamont frightening the bejesus out of the Italian defence from the wings while Keil and Mayor run straight and hard in the midfield.  Lobbe senior is man of the match by some distance and we can hear him barking instructions and drilling the pack right till the end.  4 more tries are added in the second period and the final score is 14-53 and in truth it could be more.  It’s a solid, professional performance from the team and a thoroughly entertaining one to watch too.

We exchange pleasantries with some of the Italian fans on the way out of the ground who are disappointed with the manner of the defeat, but are nonetheless good humoured and wish us well.  We do a family headcount before catching the bus back into town – all are present but I notice for the first time that Strawbs looks a bit rough.  Apparently the rugby and the freezing cold concrete weren’t enough to keep him awake through the game and he missed most of the second half.  It’s a shame that, because I’m thirsty and there’s some celebrating to be done – now where was that sweet shop again…???

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