En France en Perpignan Part 1 - The journey

By En France
February 8 2005

I've decided to write this short piece cos Monkey is obviously too frightened to write his own protracted story of woe. Please note that I've embellished some phrases - exaggeration is too strong a word.

But I have nowhere exaggerated the kindness, spirit and joviality of those Falcons fans we encountered on our wonderful journey. To everyone who made our day special - thankyou from the bottom of our hearts. Even if I can't remember your names through the haze of vin rouge, Beamish Red and Champagne. More of that later.





It all began at 8am Saturday morning.
Well it started long before that - but I won't bore you with the whole story of how I managed to end up travelling to Perps for a rugby match :lol:

We called at our 'local' bar so that Wendy could buy some expensive B&H fags.
I smoke roll-ups.
So I'd made a wadge of rollies the night before and put them in my favourite metal fag box.
The classy artwork on the lid of the box depicted an alluringly 50s style redhead female in sussies and stockings.
I needed to have a familiar and enjoyable image to soothe my soul - just in case it went t*ts up later.

The bar was, at that time, full of the usual retail workers and artisans beginning their daily chores with a strong coffee accompanied by a glass of rouge, a Kir Royale or a small beer.

Wendy bought her fags and made the mistake of telling them that we were on our way to Perps for the match.
They laughed.
Lots.
And declared, as one, that Perps would stuff Newcastle in revenge for what happened last year against Wasps.
We sniggered confidently.
But how true would their assertion be in just a few hours time?

We dropped the dogs off at the kennels.
Madame des Chiens (forgive me Niall) was equally amused.
Her husband played rugby for one of our regional teams just last year.
He fell off his ladder (he was fitting new lights in the kennels) when he overheard the conversation.
My wife was speaking.
Declaring that The Falcons would win.
In English.
And he only understands French.
But he still managed to figure out our bizarre confidence and fall off his ladder.....

The journey south was easy.
Bright sun, wonderful scenery and empty French autoroutes all the way.
Except for having to slow down from 160kph to 110kph at the well notified speed camera just south of Toulouse.
It's well known.
It's the only one on the whole journey.
But it does mean that you end up close to other traffic at this point.
It causes more accidents than it saves injuries.
Cos everyone slaps the anchors on at the last second.


Within 3 and a bit hours we arrived in Perpignan.
We'd never been anywhere near this place before.
We'd noted the barren Med landscape as we turned south at Narbonne.
It didn't appeal to wifey.
In fact she never shut up about how much better the landscape was further north.
Ad inifinitum.
To the point of distraction.
She was duly advised (in a manner appropiate to the circumstances!) and eventually shut up when she realised how much cheaper the diesel was compared with further north. Presumably that means she has more money to go shopping with - which is why the price of diesel eventually had more impact than the landscape.

She was reading the map as we drove down the N9 towards the city centre.

"Which way do we go?" I asked politely.
"Haven't got a clue" came the usual response.

The cloud had blotted out the sun.
I couldn't see the stars or the moon.
The compass was in a drawer at home.
Yes - we were potentially lost.

But no!!!
"A river bridge" I exclaimed with glee, "I reckon if we go over it, then cross the canal, turn left soon after and follow our noses we should end up outside the Hotel de France and see the Bar Imberon across the canal."

Indeed that is exactly the way it happened.
No fuss and no further need for cross words.
It fell into place before our sunglass protected eyes.

We moved a few bollards outside the Hotel de France to create a parking place. It said "Deliveries Only" and in my mind we were delivering ourselves and our baggage.
For at least 24 hrs.
Guess I'm becoming French without knowing it.

We checked in.
The room wasn't ready cos the chambermaids were having a fag.
Perfectly normal.
Left the baggage in reception (plastic case not wifey!), put my dodgy hat on, changed into my Falcons training shirt on the street (to the delight of a very interesting 20 yr old female in the immediate area - dream on) and wandered over the canal bridge to the Bar Imberon.

The hat was a point of reference.
More of that later.

A few Falcons fans had already gathered around and inside the Bar.
We went inside and had a light lunch consisting of vin rouge and a bit of salad. It was at this point that my dearly beloved started asking awkward questions about the details.
Questions like "What's his name?", "What does he look like?" and "Where did you arrange to meet him?" were quietly and skilfully ignored.

It was 1pm.
By 2.15pm, and a carafe or two of house rouge later, the questions seemed to have more bite and were certainly more probing.

I had to confess.

"His name's Col.
He uses an email address with a girl's name.
I don't think he's a tranny.
But his name might be Sue.
He's probably got Dave with him and two others called Bubble and Squeak.
I told him I'd wear a hat.
He's staying at the same Hotel as us.
I said we'd meet in the Hotel Bar."

The obvious questions were fired back at me.
"The Hotel doesn't have a bar".
"Do you really think you'll recognise a bloke/woman who's not sure about his/her sexuality, who you've never met before, in a place this size?"
"WTF happens when he/she/it doesn't turn up?"
"Do Bubble and Squeak have their names tattoed on their foreheads?"
"Who's Dave then?"
"How are we going to get tickets?"
"And where's that book I bought you for Xmas?"



It was time to make a decision.



"OKay pet - I'll go to the Hotel and see if Col has booked in" - that was my opening gambit.
The reply was obvious.
"So you think Col will have booked in using the name Col do you?"

God I hate logical thought coming from the mouth of a woman ;)

"Please Wendy, just hear me out. I'll go to the Hotel and, while I'm there, you go outside the Bar and ask if anyone knows Col or Monkey. There's bound to be someone who knows him here".

"F*ck off" was, quite expectadly, the only reply I received.

So I went outside, with Wifey alongside, and tried to gain the ear of the, by now, vociferous massed throng.
I believe my dodgy hat helped in this arena.
It took a minute or so to get everyones attention.
But they all stared in amazement as I made my announcement.
I suppose, on reflection, they were staring at my hat.
At the time I believed I had them in the palm of my hand.

"Anyone know a bloke called Col or Monkey?" I shouted across the canalside bar area.
"Yes I know him" came the obviously false response.
"We need to find him cos he has our tickets for the match".
"Here have these".

At which point Wendy descended, in sheer overwhelming gratitude, on a bloke wearing one of the blue away strips cos he had a pair of tickets in his hand. I looked around hoping that Monkey would save her from what was about to occur. But Monkey was nowhere to be seen.

So, in the fullness of time, Wendy was passed around from middle aged lap to middle aged lap.
The forfeit had to be carried out.
Smiles were on many faces - especially those with cucumbers in their pockets.
I tried to hide behind a lamppost.
But I'm an ex-hooker - and hiding behind lamp posts is quite a challenge, especially after 2 carafes of rouge.
And I was still wearing THAT hat.

We ended up saying our genuine thankyous to the massed throng and made a swift exit stage left.
With Wendy wearing two match tickets in her hair and me desperately trying to rid myself of my stupid hat.

Thanks Monkey.
If you ever need a travel advisor in future, please give me a bell.



To be continued.
Chapter Two is The Match.