By Skippy
February 5 2004

1.At no point during the tour could the author have been described of sound mind. This is an interpretation of the events that unfolded before his glazed and unfocused eyes and do not amount to a confession. Reference to persons living or dead-drunk is coincidental as what goes on tour stays on tour 2. Friday morning a relieved Sleepy phones me at 11am saying that he is already at Stansted and has time for a second breakfast before lunch. It also transpires there is ample time for a snack between lunch and catching the plane, along with a last few bitters before 'Continental' lager becomes the default choice for the rest of the tour.

3. I arrive at the check-in to find everything is under control. The tour reps, James and Cath Gurney and Debs (or to use their Club 18-30 monikers: Jamma, Cazza and Debbo) were clearly running a tight ship. Little Stinger was also checking in with the youngest tourist Tiny Stinger who had quite an education this weekend. This is rather fortunate as it is my guess that he is now excluded from school after regaling his classmates on Monday morning with a song about his work experience at an old shop in the Windy City.

4. Moments later, I'm safely through security with no-one spotting any of the proscribed implements in my bag (syringes, and all the other bits carried by diabetics). At least I don't have the feeling for the rest of the weekend that I have been 'digitised' by an elephant.

5. Once airside, it comes as no surprise that the black and gold shirts are converged on the bar - this could be a long tour! I learn of Dolly's sad demise in Wales, and console myself with a beer. My spirits rapidly rise when I realise Dolly's stable mate and long time confidant, the cow-formerly-know-as-Daisy, is still with us and as mad as ever. She soon receives her first blow of the tour, and boy does she look pumped up. We later dedicate a song to Dolly (on the return coach), with a tune similar to "Tie me Kangaroo down sport."

6. After a bit more beer and catching up we board our Plummet Airways flight to de-de-de-de-de-derrr-Girona. The cabin crew appear really pleased that they've drawn Friday in this week's roster - stag groups and rugby tourists must be so entertaining for them. Still, they serve us beer without any problems, or smiles. Maybe the lack of smiles is down to the airline losing its second court case of the week - normal operating procedure means that this will probably come out of the wages of the frontline staff. Complete sense of humour failure really kicks in when TCFKAD explores the grub trolley for a nosebag - I think TCFKAD was a little confused about the phrase trolley dolly. Fortunately for crew and other passengers, the flight passes without further incident, mishap, mischief or mayhem. A dereliction of duty on my part, for which I am truly sorry.

7. At the airport we meet Deutsche Wasp, who has been keeping the airport bar in profit having arrived on an earlier flight. The coach soon arrives and everyone boards in a timely, organised fashion. Even those with a predilection for tardiness keep their act together. Clearly, this is the company's first experience of the DWs, otherwise they would have rolled out a plastic seated and graffiti covered school bus. Set about redecorating the coach with various flags.

8. An uneventful, but pleasant coach journey is quickly over and we disembark. Jamma, the Head Tour Rep, makes a few announcements to assist the uninitiated, the inexperienced and the incapable. I do feel sorry for Jamma, as it is quite obvious that those from the last category, who would benefit most from such sage advice, pay little or no attention. Ooops James, could you repeat that last bit please, as I just tuned out?

9. Bags are soon dropped; a few pause for an MDR, which is the French equivalent of a SSS and the DW entourage drift to [insert name of bar]. The players are there, much to the excitement of the Groupies and Glen Close. Entertainment is provided on the TV in the form of Lezza's attempt at staying in the cup.

10. The rest of the evening goes something along the lines beer, beer, beer, beer, food, wine, more beer, pastiche (cheers Roger), beer, beer, accompanied by much talking of rubbish, stagger home and bed.

11. Saturday morning dawns, largely unnoticed by the slumbering/comatose DWs. Eventually, people begin to stir realising brekkie ends at 10.30. Standard continental breakfast is on the menu, shame about the lack of bacon and eggs. Dig in regardless.

12. Tim, Fats and myself head out for a stroll around the town. Others make their way to the station to catch a train to Toulouse, within the intention of catching the game against Edinburgh that afternoon.

13. Being a Saturday, and being France, a protest is underway. Today's objection is the building of power lines to take electricity across the border to Spain. Much woad, tie-dyed wool, dreadlocks and sandals are on display, giving the impression that at least a few of these people lack regular, gainful employment. Top of the class is Gimli's doppelganger.

14. Our urban orienteering exercise takes us on to tower where we spy Barmy Kev trying to lead an <<Allez>> from the ramparts. We decide to take refuge in the cathedral. Once Kev's onslaught has subsided we head back into the open and steer in the direction of the Citadel. The view from its top justifies the effort in getting here. There are also some bizarre displays with padlocked cabinets holding nothing but shelves, air and possibly the Emperor's new clothes.

15. At this juncture, the decision is to repast ourselves. We take in a delightful meal consisting of warm goats cheese salad, steak and cheese. It goes without saying that digestion was aided courtesy of some of the locally fermented grape juice.

16. Upon feeling replete, we return to Chez Ibannese, to watch Toulouse v Edinburgh on the box. Tim wisely returns to the hotel for a power nap, whilst Fats, myself and a significant number of DWs firmly ensconce ourselves in the bar.

17. A repeat of the previous evening's events now ensues, broken only by a rather delicious meal with wine at some point in the evening. We also present M. Ibannese with a large DW flag and badge. He seems rather pleased with this, but he could just be thinking of the profit he has made from the weekend.

18. In the small hours of Sunday morning, a return is made to the hotel.
19. Sunday morning, proper, I awake with the dreadful feeling that a Parker Pen moment is on the cards. Fortunately for me, and Sleepy Pete, who has developed an aversion to warm Red Bull, I survive the morning to make the game. Today will have to be a sans alcohol day.

20. The morning is spent by many in the fresh air or drinking coffee, in attempt to shale off the effects of the previous night. The coach comes along at midday to take us, but not Slim - because he has gone to by champagne flutes - to the game.

21. The hours before the game are killed by drinking (water in my case) and eating. Flags are erected by DWs and pulled down by the local care-in-the-community patients. Eventually, it is close enough to kick-off for us to take our seats. Joy of joys, I find myself sat close to the ambassador and spend much of the game entertained by his stunning wit and repartee. I doubt I will ever surpass the efforts of the ambassador - communicating is all too much trouble when every odd word is a profanity, every even word is an insult and the whole sentence is a diplomatic incident.

22. Post match is also spent in the company of beer, crisps and Perpignan supporters. They are a decent bunch and have a lot of respect for the pasting we just dealt them, mainly because they are passionate about, and understand, their rugby. One entertaining moment occurs when a DW borrows a push-bike and tries to Osama the bar.

23. Then it is back to the coach to sing songs all the way back to Girona. Some proper rugby songs are also sung, earning a few chaps a night in the spare room on their return (Spils!).

24. Plummet Airways get us back home safely, via a rough re-introduction to the tarmac at Stansted. Someone ought to tell these boys that rough landings may be the norm in Romania, but they are not so welcome in Blighty. Tearful farewells are said and then it is off home to nurse the three-day hangover. My return to Wimbledon is gratefully aided by lifts from Fats and Tim.