By En France
February 8 2005

The continuing story of EF's & Wendy's nutty trip to Perpignan. This features the shortest match report ever published on this site, one small paragraph. If it doesn't make sense, either you haven't read part one, or you are sane and should not be reading this. The swift exit stage left was for two reasons.
(Please refer to the first post 'Perps Experiences' if you missed it and don't have a clue what I'm on about!)


One reason involves the lunar cycle and women below an indeterminate age. I go no further in that direction.

The second was the need to see our hotel room before the game - cos the hotel had a strange smell and I needed to ensure that our room had opening windows! :lol:
(and to see if Mr Col, Mr Sue, Mr Monkey, Mr Peter, Bubble and Squeak, P'tit Monkey or Pousse had booked into the hotel as promised).
Here's me thinking that Monkey was in a party of just 4 people.
Sounds like the potential existed for a coach load.......

We spent a few minutes recovering in the quiet solitude of our room.
The wonderful 'Geordie/Falcons supporters on tour' hospitality we had encountered a few minutes earlier had overwhelmed us.

We gathered our composure and returned to the massed throng outside the Bar Imberon. Without that godawful hat. And consumed another carafe of rouge. And discussed the merits of the local high profile artwork scattered around the canal banks and on top of the nearby citadel.
I won't go any further with that one either.
Esoteric art is beyond me. But it was a massive talking point after 3 carafes of vin rouge.......

3pm arrived.
I had 2 maps of the route to the ground.
It was so very simple - in concept.
And after our minor problems with Wendy using maps on the way into the city by car, I did the male thing and took charge.

Bad move.

The ground is a gentle 20 minute walk away from Bar Imberon.
Or perhaps 20 minutes with a slight sweat for us unfit ones or those who stop for another beer or kebab en route.
Along main roads.
With no turn offs.
And signs showing the way at every junction.

We set off before everyone else cos Wendy is relatively small.
And we were determined she would see the game.
It has been our experience that French standing areas around the pitch are flat.
So you have to 'wear' the advertising hoardings to get a good view or be prepared to carry an orange box.
We couldn't find an orange box - so we set off early.

Needless to say that we arrived as the players ran onto the pitch.
After everyone else had taken their seats and got the best standing spots.
Cos I made a slight error in the map reading.

It was a very pleasant meander along the river bank.
The wildlife was fantastic.
The sun was just breaking through the threatening clouds.
Kingfishers were darting in every direction.
Trout were topping as the nymphs hatched.
Stray dogs came towards us hoping for a free meal.
The sunlight glistened off the ripples in the late afternoon sun.
It was magical.
My soul felt at one with nature.

But I'd wrong slotted badly and that 20 minute walk to the ground ended up taking over 45 minutes.
And Wendy was wearing wholly inappropriate footwear for a wildlife hike.
She'd decided to wear stack heeled wellies to elevate her viewpoint at the game.

Sorry Wifey - I hope your blisters are better now and I promise to pay for new leather on your boot soles.
I was humiliated.

Due to this minor oversight caused by a shift in the space continuum (otherwise referred to as Male Ego) I marched into the ground in a mild temper. I was annoyed at my own inadequacy displayed through map reading skills.

I've navigated on many car rallies in most parts of the UK over 20 years, found my way through various undersea cavern complex in scuba gear and successfully climbed and descended many mountains throughout Europe in the worst conditions imaginable.

But I somehow failed to find the most direct route to the Stade Aime Giral.
On tarmac and on foot and with a perfectly adequate map.

Male pride had taken a sharp knock.
To say the least.

We met up with the wonderful bunch of blokes who we'd met at the Bar Imberon. We camped together under the scoreboard at the South End of the ground. Mainly cos the bars were close by

PJ needed to find the toilets.
He'd spent some time in Paris in years gone by, so he was able to ask the attendants "Ou est les toilettes".
I was impressed!
Someone who speaks French like me :lol:

Unfortunately he found a cubicle without toilet paper.
I was more fortunate and waited patiently outside.
Then I saw him running from one cubicle to another.
"Skid marks" crossed my mind.

Anyway, the game was about to start and I was itching to get back to the action. And PJ eventually sortied from les toilettes and decided it was time for more beer. So we bought the tickets and then chatted up the barmaid.
Who was gorgeous.
And somehow, despite us both being short/fat/middle aged, we got an extra beer.

Our hurried return to the South End was halted by the one minute silence for the Tsunami victims.

On our return we handed out the beers to anyone who wanted one in our immediate area (locals or visitors) - and the game was underway.

I can sum the match up in a very short paragraph.
And I will.

We got stuffed up front.
At halftime we had a chance to win.
A couple of minutes after halftime we were praying for a losing bonus point.

Back to the action then............
By halftime we had really made ourselves noticed to the locals.
Banter was flying in all directions.
The songs were being sung.
It was great.
Give as hard as you get - even if you can't understand what they're saying.
Body language says everything.

It was clearly obvious that the local security staff had become aware of our vociferous small group and were closing in from all directions. A few smiles and knowing looks went a long way. Even when one of our number, who I believe holds a prominent position with a certain Council, was seen to dance around the crowd, much like Nobby Stiles after the 1966 Cup Final, whilst wearing a totally inappropriate pink and black striped fleece top hat.
You had to be there.
It lifted our spirits as the game ended.

We got some stick.
Naturally.
But it ended with handshakes with the securitymen, handshakes and photos with the locals wearing yellow and red striped flags and a few spare beers shared with the local teenagers.

Everyone was happy - despite the drubbing we got.
It was a point of issue when our beloved team left the sporting arena without acknowledging our efforts in travelling to support them. In some people's eyes that was worse than losing the game or not getting the much needed bonus point.
And I wholly understand why.

We trogged disconsulate back towards the town centre.
The mood had changed.
We were pretty much fed up once we left the sporting arena.

But at least we found the correct route this time and everything changed again in a few short minutes.

Next Chapter is "Apres le Match"


To be continued.