Right. Here we go.
Flew into Tokyo night before the opener. Chopped two perfect beers in the Ginza, savaged some overly pampered beef, smashed too many too complicated cocktails.
Woke up. Shook the cobwebs out in the arcades of Shinjuku then hit the opener.
Just a great vibe around the stadium. Russians doing boat races in a cardboard rocket. Loads of local fans mingling with rugby lovers from all over. Special mention to the two awesome frog lads in Asterix & Obelix gear.
As luck would have it, as we’re walking up the stairs into the stadium along with the throng of excited rugby fans the great Noddy himself [that’s Helmet, you helmet. Noddy’s Linagh - ed] comes down the stairs escorted by a phalanx of officials.
As Mr. Horan slowly pushed against the tide of supporters, I yelled out:
Look everybody: it’s former player of the Tournament, Tim Horan!
Leaving Timothy a half-beat to graciously acknowledge the rumble of approval with a shy wave of his hand, I naturally followed this up with a shout of: MASTER OF THE MARGINALLY FORWARD PASS!
Queue uproarious laughter as the little magician shuffled off, hopefully suitably chastened for dumping us out of the 99 semis.
(So if you happen to see Monsieur Horan in France, you know what to do.)
Top night in Golden Gai, trading yarns with Wallaby hookers, belting out Karoake and trying to teach a marriage ruining troop of Dutch dancers the intricacies of taking a tighthead.
Back to Tokyo stadium for the good guys v the forces of evil. Great Haka, better chat with the kiwis behind us, could feel the game turn when we didn’t get any reward for the first twenty minutes of dominance. Tried and failed to meet up with @gt12
Locals were so moved by my anguish at the final whistle that they gave me a baby. Must’ve gone off, smelt terrible, so I gave it back.
Back to Golden Gai. Sadly no dancers. But here are the indomitable Gauls. So drink our pain away in a Shibuya dive until dawn. Needing a slash I wander up to the roof to watch the sunrise against the odds.
What’s this? Young Japanese kid right on the edge. Shame so thick you can see it. So I wander over and tell him it can’t be that bad - he could be Australian or worse, English. Whether he understood or whether he was appalled by a drunk saffir pissing on his town from a great height, he turned around in a hurry.
When I got back to the bar the cops were busy trying to drag Obelix away for helping himself to the top shelf.
Nothing for it but to get some shuteye before heading out to Yokohama to smash a few frothies with two Valley RFC legends before a truly dire game of rugby.
24 hours later was back home with the glory of the next six weeks ahead of us all.
