Man of the match

    Simon and Debbie were a great couple; he was good for a laugh, she was really nice to talk to.  Although she wasn’t really that into rugby, she would come along to a few games and she didn’t mind when Simon came away with us for European or international trips.  Perhaps he wasn’t quite the party animal he had been in his prime and often he would head off home early after the match instead of coming along for beer and curry with the rest of us.  It’s also true that when the pair of them were together, they could get a bit lovey-dovey which wasn’t great to witness.  ‘Get a room,’ Maz used to shout at them.

    On the whole Debbie was ok though.  She had let Simon out for the weekend when we got tickets for the England v France match at Twickenham and he only had to phone her up to let her know where he was every couple of hours.  Not that we teased him for that or anything.

    It was a terrible game in damp weather (‘Good weather for frogs,’ said one of our Gallic chums on the way to the ground) but the French made the best of the conditions and treated England to a masterclass of attacking rugby.  We were so miserable with our boys’ performance that by the end of the game we were cheering the Frenchies on, especially their dazzling wingers.  Rightly so one of these lads won the man of the match vote and afterwards he walked around the ground waving his bottle of champagne at the crowd.  Simon had swapped his St George’s flag for a Tricolore and dashed down to the front to wave it at the winger.  The guy seemed to appreciate the sign of cross-channel friendship so Simon shouted, ‘Give us some champagne then!’  To our amazement the little fella in blue handed it over there and then before jogging off down the tunnel.  The boys went wild.  What a nice gesture and what a treat for us.

    That evening we trawled round the pubs of Twickenham bearing the champagne in its blue plastic RBS wrapping along with us.  It was a great story to tell everyone but there was a bit of disagreement in our party about what to do with it.

    ‘Let’s drink it now,’ said Dean.

    ‘Don’t be daft,’ said Simon, ‘it’s good stuff this, you want to drink it when you’re less plastered.’

    I was in two minds but it didn’t seem in the spirit of the day not to drink it while we were all together, so I suggested we have it after hours when we got back to the hotel.  This seemed to satisfy everyone and we carried on sinking the beers.

    Full of curry and a bit the worse for wear, the four of us crashed into Maz’s room and grabbed plastic glasses from wherever we could find them.

    ‘Let’s gerrit down us,’ shouted Dean and we all cheered.

    Except there was something wrong.  The bottle was gone.

    ‘I thought you had it,’ I said to Simon.

    ‘No, Maz had it last.’

    ‘Maz, you spaz,’ said Dean, ‘you bloody left it in the curry shop.’

    ‘I can’t have, I put it down under the table and–’

    He couldn’t finish as we drowned him out in boos.  It was a disappointing end to the night and, having nothing left to drink, we all drifted off to sleep and to prepare ourselves for the inevitable hangovers.

    We were still having a go at Maz the next week when we met up for the Sale home game.

    ‘Surprised to see you here, mate,’ I said, ‘I thought you might have lost your bottle.’

    He didn’t see the funny side, really, and kept protesting how he was sure he couldn’t have forgotten the prize.  As we were still arguing, Simon came in with Debbie.

    ‘You had a good time last weekend then?’ she asked.

    ‘Yeah, we had a top time.  Si was a bit wasted though.’

    She laughed.  ‘Yeah he was in a bit of a state when he got back but he’s been very sweet to me this week.  Treated me on Valentine’s Day.’

    ‘Oh yeah, nice meal and all that?’

    ‘Yeah, and he got me this really nice bottle of champagne in this fancy blue wrapping.  It said RBS on the outside – which stands for Rheims Best Selection, Simon told me.’

    Maz managed to say, ‘Simon you bas–’ before we pulled him away.  Simon’s face went red and we practically fought each other to tell Debbie the true story of the champagne.  Good job she’s such a good sport, but Simon was going to have some making up to do.

    ‘Noel, mate,’ we heard him say to the landlord, ‘have you got any champagne in?’ 

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