大象传媒

Sweet and sour memories of Marseille (84)

• Tom Fordyce
• 8 Oct 07, 12:00 PM

Marseille, Monday morning - There鈥檚 no two ways about it 鈥� that was without doubt the greatest sporting weekend I鈥檝e ever been involved in.

Marseille this weekend has been a city drenched in beer, tension, disbelief, sorrow, happiness and wild, wide-eyed celebration.

Even now, with the streets finally emptying of campervans, sleeping fans and plastic pint pots, you can still almost feel the excitement bouncing off the sticky pavements.

It would have been enough had the city simply played host to England鈥檚 , gast-flabbering win over Australia.

But for to then do that to the All Blacks in , when the entire nation was resigned to their side going out of their own World Cup in a different country 鈥� well, it just picked the whole thing up by the scruff of the neck and threw it high into hyperspace.

Memories of Saturday night in the after the final whistle in Cardiff keep drifting back in fractured technicolour flashbacks: bars so rammed with fans that they were 20-deep on the pavements; men dressed as Zulu-era, red-coated British soldiers thrashing each other with inflatable kangaroos; Aussies and English singing endless happy choruses of 鈥淎llez les Bleus鈥�;

French supporters stripping off their blue shirts and diving into the yacht-packed harbour; men in pink wigs astride life-sized plastic cows while 30-a-side games of full-contact rugby broke out all around them.

For the England fans, the total unexpectedness of the win left them staggering around in open-mouthed, stranger-hugging ecstasy.

The tension in the Stade Velodrome on Saturday afternoon? Fearsome. Brutal. At 60 minutes, my hands were shaking so much I had to clasp them together, and even then my shoulders starting wobbling.

As for the Aussies 鈥� I鈥檝e never seen a bunch of fans take defeat so well.

Magnanimous doesn鈥檛 even get close. I don鈥檛 know why they鈥檙e such good losers 鈥� it can鈥檛 be through practise 鈥� but I was congratulated on England鈥檚 win by so many of them that you would have thought I鈥檇 actually been playing.

When it came to the All Blacks game, shown on giant screens and in every caf茅, restaurant and bar in town, there was a unity of support so powerful that it brought the entire city together into one bellowing, inebriated army.

England fans were screaming for France, on the basis that they didn鈥檛 want to face New Zealand in the semis. So were the Aussies, simply to get revenge for all the cockahoop crowing text messages they鈥檇 got from Kiwi fans after their own defeat.

And the thousands of Welsh fans who鈥檇 come over to support Fiji in Sunday鈥檚 match? They weren鈥檛 in any mood to poop the party.

People must have stopped drinking at some stage. They must have done. But by mid-morning on Sunday the Irish bars were once again full of croaky-voiced fans rehydrating on Guinness, hell-bent on proving the old adage that you can take the hoarse to porter but you can鈥檛 make them think.

It seemed inconceivable that the city had anything left in its tank for the South Africa match.

That was before , roared on by thousands of Welsh, French and Aussie fans wearing garlands of plastic flowers, came so thunderously close to knocking the Springboks out that people were pinching themselves in astonishment.

Sadly, we鈥檒l also be leaving Marseille with some far less pleasant memories.

On Saturday night, with taxis in such short supply that even Andy Farrell was left waiting at the rank for almost an hour, the police came up to the group of fans I was talking to and warned us not to risk walking back to their hotels.

Why? Because, they told us, you will get mugged.

At the time, we laughed uproariously. Got to stick that in the blog, I thought 鈥� the cops telling eight towering, brooding rugby fans that someone would be mad enough to attempt to mug them.

Lesson number one: the local police know their city better than you do.

On Sunday evening, Ben went out and returned later - his eyes puffed up like a punched-out panda鈥檚 鈥� to tell me that he鈥檇 been walking back home alone the coastal road, and was attacked.

He鈥檇 been squirted in the face with pepper spray and robbed of everything he had on him.

Ben being Ben, he was doing his best to play it down.

鈥淎t least they didn鈥檛 knife me,鈥� he said, as we rinsed his eyes and nose.

Before you fly over, Mrs Dirs, I should tell you that he swears he鈥檚 fine this morning.

Admittedly he no longer has a mobile from which to call you, or credit cards with which to buy you presents, but I do, and the Bloggernaut residents always look after their own.

It also takes more than a can of pepper spray to put a man like Dirsy off his World Cup fun. Even last night the main thing he kept repeating was simply, 鈥�! In Paris! In Paris!鈥�

So, in a few hours time, we鈥檒l begin our slow journey up north, probably a fair bit quieter than we had imagined we would be.

Any suggestions for stop-offs en route 鈥� we鈥檒l probably aim to get to the capital by Thursday night 鈥� hugely welcome as always. Hey 鈥� there鈥檚 even room in Le Bloggernaut for a couple of passengers if you need a ride.

If we don鈥檛 see you en route, get yourself over to next weekend. It鈥檒l be awesome. And you can give Ben a hug when you鈥檙e over too.

Tom Fordyce is a 大象传媒 Sport journalist travelling around France in a camper van with Ben Dirs.

• Permalink