Fifteen years ago* on our first visit to Paris, we sat in the Parc des Princes stadium amid thousands of Frenchmen whose patriotic fervour at such times seems a subconscious desire to obliterate memories of Agincourt and Waterloo.
The French tricolour, together with large banners on which their emblem, a cockerel, can be seen stamping the British Lion to pulp, are in profusion. Many of their supporters carry live cockerels painted red, white and blue, which invariably escape the strings to which they are attached and invade the pitch with red-faced Frenchmen in pursuit.
Between drinking red wine by the litre, they shout “Allez France” in chorus, to the accompaniment of exploding fireworks that cast great palls of coloured smoke over the ground. Regional bands play mutilated military type music as only the French know how.
We had no banners, but one of our number who wore ‘union jack’ socks was persuaded to take them off and wave in retaliation. They were immediately snatched by a Frenchman who was persuaded to return them on the promise he could have them back if the French won - which they did. After the match, the ‘snatcher’ and his three friends invited us to join them for a drink in a local bar. We drank and laughed, which was never easy in a bar packed shoulder to shoulder with celebrating Frenchmen. It was the beginning of a relationship which has lasted to this day.
A year later, when the memory of that day in Paris had been put aside in the mind, there came a telephone call from an official of a French bank in Paris. It was Max, with news of their impending visit to England for ‘the match’. Each year since, in alternate years, we go to Paris and they come to England.
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| Accordionist and pictures on wall - must be a French restaurant! |
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| disbelieving staff |
We have broken plates in a Greek restaurant; sung “Under The Bridges Of Paris With You” to the disbelieving staff and clientele of a French restaurant in Montmartre; thrown glasses over our shoulders and tried to remove the tablecloths from tables containing empty wine bottles without, initially, breaking the bottles, while a patient waiter with an eye to the main chance and napkin over his arm swept up the debris as he served. We watched, through a crack in the floorboards another French waiter in a somewhat lesser restaurant, refilling wine bottles from cask with ‘more rouge’. In the Mimiche restaurant in Montmartre, at four o'clock in the afternoon, in response to our inquiry as to when the place closed, the head waiter explained:
“Monsieur, we are already closed!”
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| Chrissie |
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| Jules Verne |
In their turn, our ‘amis du rugby’ have played darts against village teams in an English pub; played the perfect example of the French screen lover to Chrissie, the perfect example of the English barmaid in the Row Barge at Wallingford. Publican Horatio Septimus Hoddinott, seventh son of a seventh son, filled the pub with music. He was once runner-up in the ‘British Pub Pianist Of The Year’ competition. He would have won, but he exceeded his time limit of five minutes because the audience wouldn’t let him stop.
In return for gastronomy and wine of the highest standard in the Jules Verne restaurant at the top of the Eiffel Tower, our French friends have eaten steak and kidney pudding with pints of bitter at one of our locals, still believing they had the best of the bargain!
They have stayed in our homes. We send Christmas cards and holiday post-cards.
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| Sandwich with Georges |
Still do after 42 years!
Having a 'sandwich’ before the match at the home of Georges and his elegant wife Micheline meant three or four courses with liberal quantities of beer, wine, cognac and hilarity.
What about the rugby itself?
It helps to have an understanding wife who does not question our need to take five days to see something that lasts for an hour and a half.
Brexit mon cul!
*written 1991
