A Work-In-Progress About Rugby. To be Continued...

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LONDON IRISH ON TOUR

IN WHICH FOGGY-BALLA DISCOVERS THE JOYS OF TOURING

Anyone who knows me will be aware that I can bore for Britain and Ireland on the subject of Rugby. This enthusiasm is, sadly, backed by little real knowledge or any discernable talent. If it were a certain J Wilkinson would languish in obscurity as a relatively successful kicker somewhere in a part of the country better known for the round-ball abomination, pigeon fancying and hard men going out on the toon in Arctic temperatures; while the hero of the game would be F Balla having made the jump from Nottingham Casuals 3rd XV (2nd XV if they were really desperate) to representative honours despite his refusal to wear a jersey looking more like a T-Shirt bought from a petrol station by an “Engerlund” aficionado.

How did I change from a fairly keen and only slightly vocal London Irish fan to a card carrying LISC member with a wardrobe made up mainly of clothes in shades of green and pink who will, at the drop of a passport, go to places like Hong Kong, France, Italy (strikes permitting), Ireland and even really foreign and exotic locations like Newport in Gwent to inflict his rendition of “Fields of Athenry” on unsuspecting locals accompanied by people known as Eek, Giles the Drunk, Tallula, Classy Bird and others too many to mention, but frequently under the cryptic nickname “The Flatulent Fairies”? In short I blame my Bother-in-Law, or more specifically his employer who saw fit to exile him to Saudi Arabia for several years, doing things with people who can navigate ships of the desert enormously well but have grave difficulties doing the same in actual ships. B-i-L is a traditional chap who at times makes Bertie Wooster look like an East-Coast rapper and therefore needed to escape the Kingdom periodically to get his fill of beer, gin and bacon sandwiches and be able to have contact with members of the fair sex who were not dressed up like black pillar boxes. He mentioned to me that this “Dubai 7’s” thing seemed to be just the place for such consumption and sociability; that on a previous jaunt he was pretty sure there was some Rugby going on; and did I fancy going out to join him - he’d sort out a hotel, some tickets and a local guide. Being owed some leave and recently returned to bachelor condition I said I’d give it a whirl.

Tickets with Emirates were a reasonable price, so one cold, late November I chucked a couple of pairs of shorts and a polo shirt or two in a bag & set off for my first taste of the Middle East. The flight was pretty luxurious, even in cattle class, and by the time I arrived in Dubai I was too tired to be too concerned about the huge queues to enter the Emirate (although glad I wasn’t one of the somewhat downtrodden looking Pakistanis with mysterious packages in checked plastic bags who seemed to be having even more difficulty with immigration than I). The scrum of touts outside the airport was pretty well controlled, though, and I soon found myself a cab heading for our hotel. After my Balkan experience I ever thought I’d find erratic driving frightening again, but this transfer was true white-knuckle stuff. At least in Dubai the cabs are modern, well maintained and have luxuries such as seat belts, lights and do not (presumably for religious reasons) carry trussed up pigs in the back seats (see Memories of a Mobilised Yeoman for more…)

Arrival at the hotel which I will dub al-Fawlty Towers to protect the innocent, and also to get across the efficient checking in procedure and facilities, was a little more problematic. The receptionist, who’s English (or any other of the several languages I can communicate in) was about as fluent as my Arabic, had difficulties with my being a weary traveller who wanted to check in and go to his room. I was not assisted by the fact that B-i-L had only returned from refreshment an hour or so before (it was now 3 am) and was a little discombobulated by said refreshment and my arrival about four hours before expected. Here was presented disaster one of the trip. B-i-L had after I telephoned the room propped open the door and returned to his deep slumber, not to be woken again. This would not have been too much of an issue had it not been for the fact that there was one double bed in the room, B-i-L was occupying it, and thanks to the frigid air-conditioning he had wrapped himself in all the bedding. By this stage I was overcome with tiredness and just had to crash, so lay down on the bed with “one cheek on” (as my skydiving instructor used to describe the novices’ position in the door of an aircraft) and attempted to sleep. Blessed Morpheus came just in time for me to jerk upright again as the call to prayer rang out across the city, and particularly from the mosque next door to the hotel. A gently snoring B-i-L, used to the sounds of the muezzin from living in the Kingdom, slept on. Eventually his system told him it needed coffee and sprang him from “our” pit so we wended or way down to a hearty breakfast of bread, cheese, fruit, sausages fashioned from unidentifiable meat products, coffee &and cigarettes. As we ate, drank and smoked the rest of our party appeared, some from upstairs but the majority fresh back from their cultural excursions in the city which had commenced the previous evening. It turned out these the cream of the Kingdom’s expat community, were the local guides. A fleet of cabs soon arrived to take us to the stadium and I relaxed thinking what more could go wrong, especially as we had arranged to be moved to a room with a proper complement of beds by the time we returned in the early hours of the next morning.

It was en route that disaster two came to light. No one had bought the promised tickets as the plan was to get them on the gate, or from willing acquaintances who would, no doubt, be glad to give them away. Even as a novice at this International 7’s thing I could spot the immediate flaw in the plan, specifically that it was rubbish. It had been made clear to me by more knowledgeable friends in the UK that tickets for finals day were rarer than rocking-horse manure and turning up without them was a recipe if not for disaster then certainly for watching the culmination of the tournament in the pub which could have been achieved at home without the expense of flying to Dubai. Thankfully we did get tickets for the first day (but hollow laughter when asking for passes for the finals) and made our way into the stadium. It became immediately evident that this was not going to be like Twickenham or the dear old MadStad as the stands were temporary; the sun shone; and with the exception of the incredibly green pitches all under foot was sand. After some of the inevitable milling around which always goes with travelling in a large group I eventually persuaded the B-i-L to take a seat to enjoy the matches. What enjoyment there was to be had! Not only were the best teams in the world playing alongside some truly comedy pub and local sides but each had brought their own enthusiastic bands of supporters, all with their own rituals yet united (save one nation) by one of the 7’s anthems, “Stand Up If You Hate The French”. Other entertainment away from the matches consisted largely of a highly excitable DJ belting out songs I have come to know as 7’s favourites like “Sweet Caroline” and “Hey Baby”, accompanied by vigorous cavorting from the crowd and more expert dancing from a very presentable group of young ladies who had formed a troupe and performed on the pitch but who’s outfits seemed to have shrunk in the wash which I suppose allowed more freedom of movement. When this excitement became too much one could stretch out on the terrace, which was built as a series of deep, carpeted steps and indulge in those other Dubai traditions, essential to avoid starvation and dehydration, hot pies and “buckets of fun”. The former speak for themselves (although the closest interrogation could not reveal exactly what was in them); while for the uninitiated the latter were green plastic buckets filled with ice and cans of Heineken. Best of all, these were delivered to the stands by ever obliging pie-and-bucket sellers. From time to time it was pleasant to take a stroll in the larger stadium area, watch some of the more comedy games and eye up the “Jumeirah Janes” (highly tanned and toned expat wives) and their daughters, although at all times running the risk of being flattened by a group of expat sons playing vigorous games of touch Rugby or expat fathers noting the attention being paid to the Janes and their daughters.

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