By Stan The Man
October 31 2006

In the words of the Sunday Telegraph, “SHOCKING, absolutely shocking”. And that was just Kev’s description of James’ hair while we were having dinner on Friday evening. It’s also somewhat of an understatement when referring to a certain eighty minutes of Saturday afternoon. Friday:

The weekend started well, (as do most after a week at work), and, having wangled myself a ‘posting’ to the Colchester office either side of the DW Tour, I had an easy drive to Stansted instead of the usual four hour motorway marathon from north of Bristol. Having taken the ‘get there early due to security hold-ups’ advice, and over-estimated the time it would take me to get through the traffic, I arrived at the ungodly hour of 10:00 am for a 2:00 pm flight! Others had obviously also taken the same advice and it wasn’t long before a few more black and gold shirts could be seen wandering around the check-in areas. With no sign of Ryanair playing the game and opening the check-ins desks early, it was time for a coffee and an umpteenth double-check of flight confirmation, passport and money (the main ingredients of a DW Tour). Having killed all of twenty minutes, it was back to the main concourse to find lots more travellers huddling around the information boards looking for check-in announcements. This wasn’t quite as easy as it sounds as the screens had the full glare of the sun on them and were impossible to read unless you stood two feet away (thereby preventing anyone else from seeing them). It wasn’t long before numerous DW’s were swarming around the boards (and half-blocking the main entrance in the process) eagerly awaiting the information to get them checked-in, through security and into the bars. Ryanair, God bless ‘em, finally decided to open the check-in about thirty minutes ahead of schedule, thereby still leaving themselves an ‘out’ if there were problems getting through the security checks in time; “Wasn’t our fault guv, blame BAA!”. Having picked the ‘lucky’ queue (lucky, in that one queue led to two check-in desks) it didn’t take long to overtake many of those who got the to the check-in queues ahead of us and we were soon heading for the security check and the non-existent delays. Roger Evans, being a seasoned traveller, decided to put his passport and boarding pass in his jacket pocket and send it through the scanner before showing it to the security guard (it’s little thing like this which contribute to the four hour delays, you know !).

We were now left with just the two hours ‘bar side’ before departure, so hardly enough time to stock up on water, ‘smellies’ and duty-frees then get a decent drink and meet and greet a few more DW’s. It was also an opportunity for KevtheB to introduce us all to Selena and Kate; the two tour ‘virgins’.

Finally, the flight departure was announced and we made our way to Gate 49, (a smart move, in my opinion, as this is where the flight was leaving from), doing our ‘herd of cattle’ impressions as we went through the finally check-in and fought our way to a seat on board. In order to relive the tedium of the safety briefings, and as part of their new pre-flight entertainment program, Ryanair have introduced ‘Boarding Card Bingo’ where they call out a boarding card number and we have to find the passenger! Friday’s lucky number was 17. Unfortunately, despite several times of being announced and the stewardesses then demanding to inspect our boarding cards (which in my case was in my back-pack in the overhead locker), we couldn’t find Mr 17. So, no lucky winners this week, and next week will be a rollover. (Remember ‘It could be you’). Eventually, some twenty or so minutes later than scheduled, and with a promise from the pilot to make up time en-route, we left for the South of France.

For those who don’t know, I suffer from near-terminal travel sickness; so, having fought my way to a window seat, I did my usual trick of watching the world go by until we were above the clouds and then putting my head down to sleep for the rest of the journey. I’ve, therefore, absolutely no idea what happened on the flight. If I missed anything exciting, no-one told me about it and, with the exception of ticket 17, we all arrived safely on the ground in Perpignan to glorious late afternoon sunshine.

Apart from half a dozen assorted light aircraft and a military transport, ours was the only plane there so no delays retrieving the bags and outside to grab a taxi… Ah, no taxis! However, all was not lost. There was a medium-sized mini-bus which was bound for the town centre. James, as tour-leader and leading from the front as ever, leapt aboard (remembering to take Cath with him) and, with a cheery wave, departed for Perpignan (also taking with him the list of everyone on tour and which hotels they were staying at!). Leadership of World War 1 General quality! Undeterred, and being British, we formed an orderly queue, cussed under our breaths, and waited for a taxi or two to appear. The lucky ones got a ‘normal’ French taxi driver, the less fortunate found their taxis arriving with a screech of brakes, a twenty yard skid, and the smell of burning rubber. Sixteen Euros to the centre of Perpignan and a white-knuckle ride thrown in for free.

With typical French efficiency, the queue was cleared in less than an hour, with some taxis doing more than one round-trip. As each taxi appeared on the horizon you could hear the muttered prayers; “Please God, don’t let my driver be the nutter.”

I eventually found myself deposited outside the Hotel Mondial - my French is obviously better than I thought. (Aided, of course, by the hand-written note of the name and address of the hotel which I’d thrust under the drivers nose). Some of us had used the Mondial on the previous tour. It’s ok, double bed, wardrobe and bathroom; all you need for a tour (but maybe not the 1970’s bathroom suite in a dubious shade of pink with flowered tiles on the wall). However, at least the staff have a good command of English. Which is more than can be said of the hotels I use in Colchester.

Having wasted more than enough time queuing and travelling, it was off to the Bar Imbernon, a mere five minutes walk away (but about fifteen minutes on the return journey). A couple of Grand Biers to whet the taste buds and then it was on to the carafes of Vin Rouge. It was still warm enough to sit outside by the canal and watch the world go by. Eventually, small groups drifted away to various eating establishments (Perpignan has something for everyone) and I joined Kev, James, Cath, deb, the harem of virgins, Nigel and a few others for a brief stroll to a nearby Italian restaurant (when in Rome and all that!) . We ordered the now obligatory vats of Vin Rouge and some pasta dishes to soak it up. Over dinner, Kev enlightened us with a tale of some rather unusual orchids. This was later confirmed as true by none other than Dr Rob which just goes to prove that Kev doesn’t always talk complete b*llocks (believe me, you had to be there!). Having dined and passed a few idle moments taking the edge off the romantic evening of the young couple sitting nearby (well, he shouldn't have tickled her breast while we were all watching), we headed off back to Mr Imbernon’s place. Another “Grandish” Bier for me and it was then time to find my way back to the Mondial leaving the hardened drinkers to it.


Saturday:

A raging headache, an early start and a coach to catch! Whose idea was this? Breakfast, for my part, consisted of a large but swift black coffee and half a croissant, followed by a stroll to get some fresh air on the way to the coach pick-up point. If I looked and felt bad, I felt a whole lot better when I saw the state of deb! Obviously a batch of dodgy pasta the night before?

Unlike Ryanair, Gurney Tours departed on time after a half-hearted attempt at a roll-call. “Yeah, sod it, that’s close enough. Let’s go.” Some of us had been hoping to get some shut-eye on the way to the vineyard, not knowing that it was less than thirty minutes drive away. Barney did his best to entertain us with his ‘in flight’ commentary and even managed to crack a joke or two at Ryanair’s expense as we passed Perpignan airport. We arrived at La Maison du Muscat and decanted (which, given the amount of wine consumed the previous evening, is probably the correct term) ourselves at the entrance to the main building where our hosts Henri (blue) and Henri (green) were waiting to greet us. More importantly, not wishing to sound ungrateful to our hosts, also waiting to greet us were numerous bottles of wine and some wine glasses. Barney acted as translator as one of the Henri’s welcomed us and described the wine-making process. (If anyone watches the part in ‘Mock The Week’ where one person acts as the politician and the other as the ‘interpreter’, well it was a bit like that but half in French). We had a working demonstration of vine pruning using some battery powered clippers. Several of the girls remarked that they’d like a pair of those for the garden. It wasn’t cleared to me if they meant the clippers or the young lad doing the pruning. Some of us made friends with the vineyard cat which gave James the opportunity to get in a couple of French Pussy jokes! Talking of which, Mike Rixon also knows a very good I-pod joke! It was then down to the more serious stuff of topping up the previous nights alcohol levels courtesy of the two Henris. The wine was accompanied by some snacks, including that old favourite French party piece the innocuous looking ‘brie’ which is actually 99% proof garlic. But, for those of us who like garlic, very tasty once having got over the initial shock of having your tooth enamel removed. We were joined by one of the Mrs Henris which was the cue for Pete the Teach to start extolling the virtues of the older French woman and how much more attractive they are than their English counterparts (if any of our female readers wish to follow-up on this point, Peter can be found in Block N in the Frank Adams Stand at most home games!). All too soon it was time to depart for lunch (mainly because we’d drunk Henri out of house and home). Due to restrictions with taking liquids on flights, etc. we didn’t buy any wine there and then but there will be an opportunity to buy on-line at a later date with delivery to a central DW distribution point. The 2004 ‘Villages’ red at six Euros a throw is highly recommended. In any event, several free DW badges were a fair exchange for the hospitality.

We crawled back onto the bus for another short journey and some more mocking of Ryanair by Barney as we made our way to the restaurant and a ‘light’ lunch. Coach travel being thirsty work we headed for the wine reception. This was an unexpected ‘freebie’ thrown in by the restaurant and, not wishing to offend, we did it justice. We were joined at lunch by several Perpignan supporters, including Jean-Marc ‘Le Mullet’ who seemed to take a bit of a ’shine’ to Kate the virgin. We were joined at our table by Henri and several French ladies (of the more mature persuasion). Pete asked to swap seats with me as he wanted to practice his French (yeah, like!), being an obliging sort of chap, and having a vocabulary of no more than five words of French, I duly swapped seats. Unfortunately for Pete they wanted to practice their English!

The lunch was extremely good, but having had an unfortunate encounter with an undercooked burger in Calvisano on a previous tour, I decided to give the sausage a miss. Everything else went down well, including some more wine. No doubt encouraged by a glass or two of red, Barney and Mike led the community signing (although at times it had a touch of ‘care in the community’ signing from where I was sitting). A quick slurp of very strong coffee and time to head for the coach once more. It was at this point that Kate announced that some French guy had been following us around all morning and she thought he was stalking her. No Kate, he was the bus driver. Which explains why he’d been with us all morning!

I vaguely remember the trip from the restaurant to the stadium, but don’t recall hearing any more Ryanair jokes so presumably we didn’t go past the airport.

The few hours spent at the stadium was the low point of the weekend and best forgotten. The beer wasn’t up to much and was matched in quality by the performance on the pitch, i.e. it was p*ss poor and left a bad taste in the mouth. Even the home fans were much more subdued than last time. The only positive of the afternoon was the 26 degrees or so of Southern French sunshine. After the final whistle, we wandered aimlessly round the stadium waiting for the coach to depart and then headed into town to drown our sorrows.

A quick freshen-up and then off to the bar to contribute some more to Mr Imbernon’s pension fund. Another glorious evening and ideal for sitting outside doing our bit to reduce the French wine lake. Jean-Marc and a group of other Perpignan supporters joined us but, unfortunately for Kate, no sign of the bus driver! Somehow, thanks to local connections, we managed to book a table for sixteen of us. Mind you it was 10:00 pm by this time. David and Kath were having a quiet meal when we arrived, but Kev soon sorted that out and did his best to clear their plates for them (Sleepy Pete would have been proud of him). Jean-Marc was somewhat over-ambitious on the wine order but I seem to recall we struggled our way through most of it. The food was good and very welcome having eaten nothing since lunchtime.

At some point past midnight we headed our separate ways (thanks again to Barney for his translation services which by this time also included German). Sharon, (another Tour virgin), headed for bed leaving husband Pete to accompany some of the Perpignan supporters to the local Irish bar. Kate had over-indulged in something or other and was feeling somewhat poorly.

Sunday:

Somewhat quiet by comparison. Lots of sightseeing, including a brief tour of a rather scary local market in the Moroccan quarter. Back into town for a coffee and then a leisurely lunch, (which was going to be alcohol-free, wasn’t it Pete) before heading off to the airport and the joys of Ryanair. The flight provided an opportunity to catch up on some sleep. In-flight entertainment on this occasion being a last-minute full-throttle go round again approach when we were seconds away from landing. The Captains explanation being that the ‘runway wasn’t clear’. I’m no pilot, but I would have thought that several thousand feet of black tarmac with bright lights down either side would have been clear enough. Maybe I misunderstood and perhaps he meant that there was an obstruction on the runway rather than him being in urgent need of a trip to Specsavers!

As always the tour was great fun as was the company, but I felt it was much more subdued than some of the previous tours and some of the regulars seem to have gone ‘missing in action’ (will DW’s please stop buying houses, or getting married, or moving to Dubai, or any combination of these!), or maybe it’s just a reaction to the way the team are playing? This was also the first tour I’ve been on where none of the players were out with the fans in the evening.

Looking forward to Treviso in December and hoping that this time the team show up, in more ways than one.

Grateful thanks, as ever, to James, Kev, deb and Barney for all the organising and translating.

Stan The Man