I

I am English and have a French O level which is to prove woefully inadequate.
Saturday morning we take the train to Dover. I remember nothing of the journey, which is strange as this was the only bit of the 48 hours when I was sober.
At Dover we boarded a ferry.

It was Spring and blowing a gale.
We cast off and were soon into the beer. The ferry was standing room only and packed with large Welshmen.
Neil and Robert had tickets but I had to go around begging for one.
After much piss-taking about my Englishness a ticket was offered.

Fearing that this would cost an arm and a leg, I was astonished to get it for face value with the admonishment to 'take good care of that, boyo; it's from Barry John'.
There was much hilarity at that, so I assume they were still taking the piss.

Given the vast quantity of beer being consumed, the lavatories (I believe the nautical term is 'heads') were soon awash, and during one visit there was a loud crash as the door was flung back on its hinges and a young woman dashed in and was heartily sick, oblivious of we men.

I think we may have started on the whisky shortly thereafter.
Fortunately Robert had slowed his consumption and, having disembarked in Calais, he guided us to the Paris train, which I believe was the (probably) now defunct Fleche d' Or or Golden Arrow.

This was clean and equipped with a steward who quickly realised that we desired frequent personal supplies of half bottles of red wine.On arrival at Gare du Nord, Robert led us to Parc des Princes, where we were pleased to find a kiosk selling plastic half bottles of red.

The game was fabulous as an unfancied, much changed Welsh team ran in five tries.
I believe Gareth Edwards, J.J. Williams and J.P.R. Williams were playing.
On the way out French supporters seemed to be surrounding us and we feared the worst.

Astonishingly, and in contrast to behaviour at football grounds, the French were slapping us on the back and shouting: "Vive les nouveaux!"....Hooray for the new team!
Thus Robert led us in triumph to our hotel.

This proved to be a sort of Gallic homage to the Bates Motel from Psycho, tucked away in a scruffy back street by a market.
Inside the lift was guarded by a black clad crone who took our passports and delivered a long and stern lecture, not a word of which I understood...

...except for the repeated use of 'non'. In the lift, a rickety, metal trellised contraption, Robert explained that we were not to bring in any food, drink or women.
Having deposited our bags we bought some bread and ham at the adjacent market and smuggled it past Mme. Defarge.

Having eaten half, we stored the rest for later outside the window on the roof, as this was an attic room.
We ventured out and found a bar where we passed the evening in determined consumption of Ricard, an aniseed drink that, though taken with water, only makes you thirstier.

By midnight, le patronne seemed anxious for us to leave but after a walk around we saw a light in the distance and found a very plush place still open.
Furnished with comfortable couches and beautifully decorated in shades of pink, cream and red, and the bar tended by three ...

..smiling women, this seemed like a good billet.
After an opening snifter of the aniseed refresher, the head barista asked us if we required anything further. There seemed to be no sign of food or dining facilities so we politely declined and ordered another round.

At this point I should explain that the custom then was to order drinks and the bar staff would literally chalk the amount on the bar, settlement being just prior to departure. Robert noticed that our tally was already probably more than our ability to pay.

At about this time a large gentleman entered from a concealed door and looked meaningfully at our hostess, who shook her head and he withdrew.
Sotto voce, Robert explained that we were in a knocking shop, were unable to pay the bill, and that he would take out his wallet...

..and try to explain whilst we were to get out quicksmart and wait for him.
We slipped out and in short order Robert was with us and we were running like the hounds of hell were after us, only to be stopped abruptly when a car screeched to a halt and three large men ....

..had us up against the wall with their hands in our pockets.
Robert was babbling in French and Neil and I were just babbling in terror, certain that the heavies from the red light parlour had got us.

Then a fourth man appeared in full gendarme uniform, like an apparition from Inspector Clouseau, and it appeared that he was in charge and they had stopped us because we were running, but now he understood that we were not French criminals or even English ones, but Welsh

..rugby fans, and careful how you go and Vive les Nouveaux!
Somewhat relieved we returned to our garret to finish off our bread and ham, only to find the pigeons had scoffed the lot.

To this day I have no idea how Robert managed to magic up some more money for us to return to London on the Sunday.
I recall that Neil and I finished the night off in a pub on the Lower Richmond Road in Putney, where possibly Bob Kerr and his Whoopie Band were on.

As a postscript, this nascent interest in rugby led to an association with some likeable ruffians from Derby Rugby Club, but that is another story.