Madness in Marseille Part 2

(Sat 6^th – Sun 7^th October)

Result: England 12 – 10 Australia

Although there had been no alcohol served in the stadium, that issue completely evaporated on exiting the Velodrome after the game. Every few metres was the next drinking spot, if not an official café then a ‘beer’ stand set up especially for the weekend. Everywhere you looked was a sea of white & red, faces red with excitement, and getting redder by the minute. There was much mixing of the ‘white and the reds’ with the ‘yellow and greens’, which now seemed quite normal, everyone was caught up in the excitement of it all. Many rugby personalities could also be seen mingling with the crowd. We parked ourselves near Andy Robinson & Scott Gibbs. No real reason, apart from the buzz.

At a some stage I turned around to find myself looking at a person dressed in a white suit, the jacket completely trimmed in red (as in the traditional public school prefect’s uniform), white shorts cut at the knee, and wearing a knitted chambermaid’s bonnet. I think he had a rose (red) in his buttonhole. After some introductory comments around my Scottishness as opposed to his Englishness we decided to buy each other a beer. This situation continued for a while, upon which a number of similarly dressed gents joined my new acquaintance, who by this time was defending all things Scottish, including me, due to his distant Scottish ancestry (a grandmother I think). Phil & Dave had by now joined the conversation, and it turned out the latter not only knew where they came from (Home Counties) but had been best man at one of their number’s weddings. It later transpired that there had been a very serious falling out of Ted Hughes/Sylvia Plath proportions, and they hadn’t spoken to each other for over 20 years. My last image of this scene was of Dave with tears in his eyes, lower lip wobbling, hugging the ex-husband as though his life depended on it.

By this time my attention had wandered to a six foot tall blonde/brunette who was balanced against the next bar, surrounded by half a dozen Frenchmen. She seemed to be holding her own, but I nevertheless decided to try out my French again, in order to distance myself from my recent immersion in the southern English language. Caroline was her name, a toulousienne and obviously a big rugby afficionada. The guys were all part of her entourage, vying for attention like multiple Othellos to her Desdemona. Toulouse and the south-west is THE heartland of rugby in France, and there is a pride and certain reserve (‘prove yourself’) which is usual in all forms of enclave. So while initially cold to the chat (and wary of alien male presence), they eventually warmed to the evident Francophilia and rugby understanding that surfaced. One more senior chap - in a beret - Marc-Andre, took up the pastis challenge, which, given that dinner was not for another 3 hours, was almost asking for trouble.

We survived however, and, gathering our possessions and people, we headed into the approaching evening. In spite of the crowds of people heading the same way, from the Velodrome towards centre ville along Boulevard Michelet, we managed somehow to catch a taxi to our restaurant on Place Castellane, in perfect time to save our table from being usurped by the queuing throngs. Being perfectly positioned beside one of the large TV screens for the upcoming France/New Zealand game, it really was ‘pole’ position.

While the others got settled in, I headed into the restaurant proper. A bet is a bet, and I wanted to find out the OM football result. The owner, Robert, was behind the bar, passing plates of food coming through from the kitchen via an old-fashioned hole in the wall alcove to the waiters, to be ferried outside to the tables in the street, now all full.

‘Eh – qui a gagne?’, I attempted.

‘2-0 for St Etienne’, he replied with a grimace.

‘… and 12-10 for England!’.

‘d’accord’.

When I got back to the table two pastis later, Giles wife, Marianne, her sister, their niece another friend and various male friends had joined the group. We were now formed up in two parallel lines of people, facing each other over the dinner table, like a dance formation waiting for its cue from the end of the line where the TV screen stood. In the meantime the eating, drinking, talking and (eventually) singing had begun. Dave was sitting to my left, we faced the 4 ladies, and I noticed that his French, like mine, was improving by the minute.

By this time Dave and I had begun serenading the increasingly attractive ladies sitting across from us. The youngest, Mary, had the black, flashing eyes of the Mediterranean and the smile of an angel, completely entrancing. I had no time for dessert … and before we knew it the teams were appearing on the screen, lining up for the pre-match ceremonials.

Part of this was, of course, le ‘haka’, the famous Maori war dance. This is a pretty formidable sight at any time, but what really impressed was the sight of the French player Chabal, a giant with hair like the Mona Lisa and a head like a wild boar, facing up to the Maori chant with rolling eyes, licking his lips (in anticipation of …?).

And so it went, another 80 minutes of ups and downs, highs and lows. All very fast, and, amazingly, France came through at the end, scoring a try with 5 minutes to go and hanging on grimly till the final whistle. At that moment the whole restaurant was on its feet, bouncing, shouting, singing, embracing! Phil appeared, his white England t-shirt covered in patches of red wine stains, a bottle of champagne in each hand. Phil’s father being French, his mother English, his day had reached a near perfect wholeness.

Result: France 20 – 18 New Zealand

The party continued for what seemed hours, till we managed to extricate ourselves from the throng. Somehow we got on the road and headed into the foothills of the Marseille suburbs, where most of our crowd were staying overnight at Valerie’s house.

From that point on the night merges into a blur of images: playing the same tune on Valerie’s son’s guitar till it was right (never got there); putting Phil to bed in French (which had become the language de jour); debating the mores of life with Dave in the middle of the night, me in the guest bed, him on the floor in his underwear and ‘ratter’; waking up in the early hours of Sunday on the sofa (how I got there I don’t know), other bodies strewn around the darkened room like a scene from a Dutch painting.

As I opened the volets (shutters), the sun streamed in, and I looked up at the grey/white wall of limestone rising almost directly above us, the beginning of the Mont Puget mountain range.

In this light and under the gaze of the mountain the events of the previous day seemed a world away.

Phil stirred. ‘What time is it?’ he groaned.

‘Six’.

‘What time’s the game?’, he asked, referring to the Fiji/South Africa game we were going to that afternoon.

‘Three. Coming to church?’ I asked.

‘Nope’ he replied, and soon he was once more fast asleep.

Madness in Marseille, indeed.