Swing Low
Clearly England makes me slack. Despite the travelling I did in Europe in June, I didn’t write up any of it. I got back from Paris on Monday and only now am I turning to blog. To be fair I have spent hours adding the places I have visited to Facebook on one of those travel map thingys. I think it's well worth a look.
And there’s a good chance I’ll be distracted as I’ve got The Empire Strikes Back on in the background-there were some things I knew I’d need to do when I got back. I meant to write this yesterday when I had Star Wars on in the background-it’s almost terrifying how I was subconsciously saying the lines. I haven’t seen it for well over a year, I guess I’ve seen it enough to know the script.
Anyway, enough of a galaxy far far away, closer to home Paris was a city given over to Rugby,
which I was quite surprised by. After all the Stade holds 80,000 people which ought to be a small splash in a city of several million, but the streets were littered with fans, flags, buildings given over to the world cup, former players (Tana Umaga) and a guy who advertises hair loss products and has a more tenuous connection to top class rugby than Shane Warne (that’d be Austin Healey).
My Dad and I arrived on the Thursday night in the midst of the transport chaos, which meant that we didn’t venture into town from our outlying hotel (one of few that had vacancies after the semi and was now full). It seemed our slightly dodgy suburb wasn’t exactly the kind of place where people ate out, so we struggled to find somewhere that wasn’t a smoky bar with 2 token formica tables. Eventually we chanced upon a fair size restaurant that was empty. 2 couples and a single bloke swelled the numbers to a level where passers by might have thought that the afternoon tea trade was a little slow. One couple were definitely English, so I guess that Thursday is slower than a snail and even on the outskirts the World Cup was boosting the economy.
Friday morning seemed a good time to get the lie of the land-we headed out to the Stade de France and arrived just as the ticket office opened. We weren’t destined to be that lucky-it was just for collections. Later we also checked out Parc des Princes, where similarly all tickets were sold. We were fortunate in that a tram 50m outside our hotel ran to a stop 15 minutes walk from the Stade, as otherwise getting round Paris was turgidly slow. It seems the effects of the strike roll on (it impacted all 5 days we were in Paris). I tried to charm some tickets out of some disillusioned kiwis as we waited for one tram. They wanted £800. I bit my tongue from pointing out that that’s a fuck of a lot of sheep. We headed to the Frog and Rosbif (scene of much media attention) in the hope of findig fans giving tickets away. Not to be, the market price on Friday was too high, but The Sun had a open top double decker red bus arrive (presumably with competition winners). Most of the pub seemed to think this was brilliant.
Emma C arrived at Gare du Nord just before 8 on the Friday night, which gave us enough time to get the trains to the legendary Parc des Princes, scalp some tickets, miss the anthems and be in place for the 3rd/4th play off. This is a game I normally rubbish. One of the hoariest clichés in sport is that losing in the semi is worst than losing the final, so the playoff tends to pit 2 disappointed teams against each other; 2 teams who’d rather have flown home in front of fans who’d hoped they be at the final. I had a feeling this might just be different. Argentina has just lost their first ever semi; I believe their shameful treatment, almost exclusion from the Rugby family has been well documented. This was a team who had really laid down a marker, were saying we can no longer be ignored and had beaten Ireland, France and Scotland (the 2 best teams in Europe for the past 4 years and Scotland). No easy Wales for Argentina. So here was a team for whom the difference between 3rd and 4th would matter.
On the other side were France. They were at home, Argentina had derailed their world cup with victory in the opener and their magical defeat of the kiwis had set them up to maintain their record of losing every competitive world cup match against England (France’s one win being the 1995 3rd/4th playoff). Surely they’d want to finish on a high? This should be a good game.
As an aside, pop quiz-who is the only Northern Hemisphere nation to knock England out of a world cup?
It wasn’t close in the end, as Argentina were class. I felt France were interested, at least until they were too far behind and it included one of the tries of this or any other tournament. After the final whistle there was widespread acclaim for Argentina; I couldn’t help but feel if that Argentina had turned up 5 days previously, England would be playing them rather than the Boks in the final.
Over the days we did manage to see some sites and let’s face it Paris is absolutely stuffed with things that are worth seeing. Arguably only Rome can top it in Europe. We skipped going in the Louvre as it seemed a bit of an intense option, but there’s a lovely walk from the Eiffel Tower to the Arc, down the Champs Elysees and through the Jardin de Tuileres up to the Palais and the pyramid, which I still fond odd. I’d forgotten just how many really famous images are in the Musee D’Orsay, but wandering into a room and seeing the Dejeuner sur L’herbe reminded me. I really like D’Orsay-it is a beautiful museum in a converted railway station. It is also a good satisfying siz for a museum-it is substantial enough to occupy several hours, but not the ludicrous size of something like the Louvre, which can occupy several days or weeks. I did miss my favourite place in Paris-the Orangerie, as it now opens as 12.30, which is a it weird. We also got a quick church fix on L’isle de la cite with Saint Chapelle and Notre Dame.
But let’s face it, we were drawn here by the oval ball.
The Final
They ran out of programmes 2 hours before kick off, but we were in our seats (purchased from kiwis in the Champs Elysees) well before the game started. We were clearly in a kiwi section-there were a number of glum folk in all black gear when we arrived (upon inquiry they weren’t supporting us), but the atmosphere grew as the English and South Africans who’d bought tickets off other kiwis arrived. If you were watching on TV, I doubt Jim Rosenthal showed the massive Tifo just before kick off-one of those thing where you all hold a bit of paper above your head and it creates a pattern. I think it was the biggest ever. I couldn’t see any of it
However, the ground was quite a sight,
there were lots of people there
and the anthems were quite something, even if there was no Marseillaise, surely the greatest national anthem. Even our old dirge resounded quite well, but later renditions of I vow to thee my country and Jerusalem (and of course swing slow) reinforced the desperate need of English sporting teams to plump for an English national anthem rather than persist in their odd habit of singing the British anthem. Maybe when Queenie dies we can get a proper tune.
Those who are bothered will have seen the game. It won’t have drawn new converts, but it was absorbing and tense. England could have won, South Africa could have played better-in a 5 test series I reckon South Africa would have won 4-1 or 3-2. Given England’s problems, not just 5 weeks ago when they lost 36-0, but also throughout the last four years, it was a very respectable effort. Let’s be honest they weren’t good enough, and unlike 4 years ago, I never really believed. Still good enough to get a medal
and make Jonny miserable
I didn’t recognise the aged, unbloodied Jean Pierre Rives, who brought out the cup, which stood proudly on its own
before a fan in an England shirt mosied up and picked it up. French security was not the best, someone had got on during the second half. Just after this final pitch invader, I realised that somebody had to win
Sweet chariot was sung resoundingly for much of the game and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up; less fun was the post match South African reworking of the England song, where they intimated where the fans in white could shove their chariot. What choked me up was the conduct of the England team after the match. They patiently waited during the very lengthy presentation ceremony and applauded when South Africa were finally given the cup (with their win already engraved on the trophy, like The Open). They then walked round the pitch and said thanks to the fans,
I’ve not even been here but I know the Lazarus nature of England’s campaign, their bouncebackability and the triumph of will and desire that this relatively limited side represent. Rarely has second been so respected, so celebrated. I didn’t think we’d win, but I am glad I was there to pay tribute to a great achievement, even if it wasn’t the ultimate achievement.
England won two finals in three weeks, they just couldn’t win a third.
And there’s a good chance I’ll be distracted as I’ve got The Empire Strikes Back on in the background-there were some things I knew I’d need to do when I got back. I meant to write this yesterday when I had Star Wars on in the background-it’s almost terrifying how I was subconsciously saying the lines. I haven’t seen it for well over a year, I guess I’ve seen it enough to know the script.
Anyway, enough of a galaxy far far away, closer to home Paris was a city given over to Rugby,
which I was quite surprised by. After all the Stade holds 80,000 people which ought to be a small splash in a city of several million, but the streets were littered with fans, flags, buildings given over to the world cup, former players (Tana Umaga) and a guy who advertises hair loss products and has a more tenuous connection to top class rugby than Shane Warne (that’d be Austin Healey).
My Dad and I arrived on the Thursday night in the midst of the transport chaos, which meant that we didn’t venture into town from our outlying hotel (one of few that had vacancies after the semi and was now full). It seemed our slightly dodgy suburb wasn’t exactly the kind of place where people ate out, so we struggled to find somewhere that wasn’t a smoky bar with 2 token formica tables. Eventually we chanced upon a fair size restaurant that was empty. 2 couples and a single bloke swelled the numbers to a level where passers by might have thought that the afternoon tea trade was a little slow. One couple were definitely English, so I guess that Thursday is slower than a snail and even on the outskirts the World Cup was boosting the economy.
Friday morning seemed a good time to get the lie of the land-we headed out to the Stade de France and arrived just as the ticket office opened. We weren’t destined to be that lucky-it was just for collections. Later we also checked out Parc des Princes, where similarly all tickets were sold. We were fortunate in that a tram 50m outside our hotel ran to a stop 15 minutes walk from the Stade, as otherwise getting round Paris was turgidly slow. It seems the effects of the strike roll on (it impacted all 5 days we were in Paris). I tried to charm some tickets out of some disillusioned kiwis as we waited for one tram. They wanted £800. I bit my tongue from pointing out that that’s a fuck of a lot of sheep. We headed to the Frog and Rosbif (scene of much media attention) in the hope of findig fans giving tickets away. Not to be, the market price on Friday was too high, but The Sun had a open top double decker red bus arrive (presumably with competition winners). Most of the pub seemed to think this was brilliant.
Emma C arrived at Gare du Nord just before 8 on the Friday night, which gave us enough time to get the trains to the legendary Parc des Princes, scalp some tickets, miss the anthems and be in place for the 3rd/4th play off. This is a game I normally rubbish. One of the hoariest clichés in sport is that losing in the semi is worst than losing the final, so the playoff tends to pit 2 disappointed teams against each other; 2 teams who’d rather have flown home in front of fans who’d hoped they be at the final. I had a feeling this might just be different. Argentina has just lost their first ever semi; I believe their shameful treatment, almost exclusion from the Rugby family has been well documented. This was a team who had really laid down a marker, were saying we can no longer be ignored and had beaten Ireland, France and Scotland (the 2 best teams in Europe for the past 4 years and Scotland). No easy Wales for Argentina. So here was a team for whom the difference between 3rd and 4th would matter.
On the other side were France. They were at home, Argentina had derailed their world cup with victory in the opener and their magical defeat of the kiwis had set them up to maintain their record of losing every competitive world cup match against England (France’s one win being the 1995 3rd/4th playoff). Surely they’d want to finish on a high? This should be a good game.
As an aside, pop quiz-who is the only Northern Hemisphere nation to knock England out of a world cup?
It wasn’t close in the end, as Argentina were class. I felt France were interested, at least until they were too far behind and it included one of the tries of this or any other tournament. After the final whistle there was widespread acclaim for Argentina; I couldn’t help but feel if that Argentina had turned up 5 days previously, England would be playing them rather than the Boks in the final.
Over the days we did manage to see some sites and let’s face it Paris is absolutely stuffed with things that are worth seeing. Arguably only Rome can top it in Europe. We skipped going in the Louvre as it seemed a bit of an intense option, but there’s a lovely walk from the Eiffel Tower to the Arc, down the Champs Elysees and through the Jardin de Tuileres up to the Palais and the pyramid, which I still fond odd. I’d forgotten just how many really famous images are in the Musee D’Orsay, but wandering into a room and seeing the Dejeuner sur L’herbe reminded me. I really like D’Orsay-it is a beautiful museum in a converted railway station. It is also a good satisfying siz for a museum-it is substantial enough to occupy several hours, but not the ludicrous size of something like the Louvre, which can occupy several days or weeks. I did miss my favourite place in Paris-the Orangerie, as it now opens as 12.30, which is a it weird. We also got a quick church fix on L’isle de la cite with Saint Chapelle and Notre Dame.
But let’s face it, we were drawn here by the oval ball.
The Final
They ran out of programmes 2 hours before kick off, but we were in our seats (purchased from kiwis in the Champs Elysees) well before the game started. We were clearly in a kiwi section-there were a number of glum folk in all black gear when we arrived (upon inquiry they weren’t supporting us), but the atmosphere grew as the English and South Africans who’d bought tickets off other kiwis arrived. If you were watching on TV, I doubt Jim Rosenthal showed the massive Tifo just before kick off-one of those thing where you all hold a bit of paper above your head and it creates a pattern. I think it was the biggest ever. I couldn’t see any of it
However, the ground was quite a sight,
there were lots of people there
and the anthems were quite something, even if there was no Marseillaise, surely the greatest national anthem. Even our old dirge resounded quite well, but later renditions of I vow to thee my country and Jerusalem (and of course swing slow) reinforced the desperate need of English sporting teams to plump for an English national anthem rather than persist in their odd habit of singing the British anthem. Maybe when Queenie dies we can get a proper tune.
Those who are bothered will have seen the game. It won’t have drawn new converts, but it was absorbing and tense. England could have won, South Africa could have played better-in a 5 test series I reckon South Africa would have won 4-1 or 3-2. Given England’s problems, not just 5 weeks ago when they lost 36-0, but also throughout the last four years, it was a very respectable effort. Let’s be honest they weren’t good enough, and unlike 4 years ago, I never really believed. Still good enough to get a medal
and make Jonny miserable
I didn’t recognise the aged, unbloodied Jean Pierre Rives, who brought out the cup, which stood proudly on its own
before a fan in an England shirt mosied up and picked it up. French security was not the best, someone had got on during the second half. Just after this final pitch invader, I realised that somebody had to win
Sweet chariot was sung resoundingly for much of the game and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up; less fun was the post match South African reworking of the England song, where they intimated where the fans in white could shove their chariot. What choked me up was the conduct of the England team after the match. They patiently waited during the very lengthy presentation ceremony and applauded when South Africa were finally given the cup (with their win already engraved on the trophy, like The Open). They then walked round the pitch and said thanks to the fans,
I’ve not even been here but I know the Lazarus nature of England’s campaign, their bouncebackability and the triumph of will and desire that this relatively limited side represent. Rarely has second been so respected, so celebrated. I didn’t think we’d win, but I am glad I was there to pay tribute to a great achievement, even if it wasn’t the ultimate achievement.
England won two finals in three weeks, they just couldn’t win a third.
posted by Poll Star at
3:50 PM
1 Comments:
It's funny how the team performed miracles and yet we are basically in the same position now as we were in 2003 - with a desperate need to rebuild. People like Dallaglio, Corry, Gomarsall, Catt, Farrell, Shaw and Vickery are simply not going to last much longer and we need new blood. I was much encouraged by Matt Tait's performance at fullback in the second half - was it just me or was it symbolic when he made those dancing runs that he had just taken the place of the now retired Jason Robinson?
SA deserved to win, no question, but the slightly annoying thing for me is that we had enough ball on the day to have perhaps won it, but in the end weren't quite good enough and didn't quite have the rub of the green with some decisions. No complaints, but it's frustrating.
What about some of the other home nations who were expecting so much more? Wales can console themselves that the game against Fiji somehow sums them up. Scotland nearly caught Argentina cold but were littered with errors (you're right, I think that the Argentina of the bronze medal game could have beaten the boks)... but Ireland? What the hell happened there? I know they were always in trouble after the opening game of the tournament... but really?
And anthems: ours is a dirge (and the British anthem, for God's sake), but surely we don't want to replace it with something religious like Jerusalem? What about something we can all get behind and sing along too, something stirring. "I Am The Resurrection" perhaps?
Oh, and Wales in 1987. The French beat us in 1995 but only in the bronze medal match.
ST
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swisslet, at 9:42 AM
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