Tour to the land of Wurst and Bier

This year the destination was a new one for the club: Deutschland. El Presidente Gordon had by executive decree put the Schtoppers on any suggestions of flying to Latvia or Poland because, in his view, the club couldn't be trusted to get on an aeroplane. That seemed like a good point and by further Diktat we were bound for Heidelberg, a mere 13 hour coach journey away.

Well, it would have been, if Gordon had not "amended" the travel arrangements at the last minute and booked us all on British Airways flights to Frankfurt. At least we know now that Europe, nay, the world is our oyster, because I have it on good authority (I don't remember) that everyone made it home without so much as a "any more of that and we'll divert to Paris" from the stewardesses.

Heidelberg: eine wundersch?ne, alte Stadt no more than an hour south of Frankfurt, set in a valley bounded by steep tree-decked hills, with a river running through it too. The old winding high street is a beautiful cobbled thoroughfare devoid of Wagen (useful if you're a bit unsteady on your feet). All the old buildings were preserved through the war years and Mme Vines (or perhaps now Frau Vines) told us tales of how there was an agreement not to bomb Heidelberg. Apparently the Eisenhower family descended from Heidelberg and was it was therefore left untouched. Apparently again, it became the US base of operations after the war. Whatever.

Day 1

Your Tour Reporter arrived at checkin with Tour Victim, The Chiswick Express and Tour Chunder in time to find Tour Worrier worrying about where we were going to check-in. Sick Boy eventually appeared, followed by one, two and then three Stream brothers. Eventually the touring party was complete at 28, but not before the prize and fine for late arrival was shared three-ways: Tour Bitch and the Director of Rugby were late, and a fine went to them for the most ridiculous touring uniforms, but they still managed to beat El Presidente (the keeper of tickets) to Heathrow. He'd decided to run the gauntlet of public transport, through Feltham of all places. Maybe he was fined flagrant disregard for his own safety and sheer recklessness.

After managing to check-in, Tour Fetishist's trouble with the metal detector, and with only minutes to spare, we made it onto the plane. The stewardess was obviously a paid-up member of the Temperance Society and prompty banned us from passing around Dyke's evil concoction. Tour Victim was over the moon. However, having no one to share it with, Tour Psycho (for t'was he who had it) broke himself and had to sleep it off on the transfer bus.

The tour party adjourned to their room in the "deluxe" IBIS hotel overlooking Heidelberg Hauptbahnhof. Good area to be in, we thought, there's bound to be a red light area round here somewhere. But no, El Presidente had obviously taken instruction from the wives and taken us to the only Stadt in Germany without one (roll on Poland next year...). We were off. We were told by the coach driver of a night-club that was pretty rugby-tolerant, so we headed off into town to do some serious drinking before all congregating at the club. Tall tales abound but are utterly unreportable. All I can say is that no one killed the Tour Idiot. However, some tourists lived up to their reputations and others needed carrying home, via unscheduled stops in the gutter, flowerbeds and bushes when they got to heavy.

Day 2

Everyone was alive, and with a 4pm kick-off planned against the local Rudergesellschaft Heidelberg 1st team, we set about getting a few beers down our necks. Mostly this was a bad idea, because some way during the match we decided the result did actually matter to us and we were going to have a crack at it.

We made it to the ground with time to spare and were happy to find that the ref had most of an idea what was going on, apart from one terrible incident in which he gave a tourist off-side in open play. The opposition obviously knew that we were subject to the rule "No kicking on tour", and gave us about seven penalties to wear ourselves out on. The more asthmatic among us decided enough was enough and promised to drink any kicker's fine as long as they would boot the damn thing as far as possible the next time they got their hands on it. What can be said? Q's held together well enough against a German National Division 1 side, possibly the standard of a county League 1 side, and even went over for a try in the second half. Your Tour Reporter even had his moment (only one) when he wrapped up their 2nd row as he crashed over the line, denying him the touchdown. From our point of view there were few highlights to a game in which, had we not been as drinking for three hours, we could have competed.

Tour Ferret proved beyond doubt that the German team was not full of those ready to die for the Fatherland by recruiting four of them who lived in London for next season! One surprisingly well co-ordinated Haka later (your Director of Rugby and the Tour Bitch being led by an eye-bulging Tour Pro) and we were ready to hit the bar.

We did win the post-match drinking, I am happy to report. The boat race, the head-to-head, the sending of tourists on naked laps of the pitch in lieu of drinking fine, the naked tackling of one such tourist by another, the size of man-breasts on display as well as the taping of one hapless tourist to one of the uprights beat them hands down. However, their glee at seeing us inflict this suffering on one another was surpassed entirely by their surprise at the Tour Latecomer managing to bolt two litres of fizzy lager from a glass boot in one go. That surprise promptly turned to fear when it bounced and showered anyone within a three metre radius - earning him the new title of Tour Exorcist. Two litres (plus previous beers) covers a lot of floor, and it's now accepted that standing on a table means you can get it to go further. In the end we parted from our hosts with a couple of their team in tow with a vague idea we might break them some more in the drinking events later on.

We all arranged to get back into the same club as beforee. All was going well until Tour Chunder started to feel a bit ill. Most of us were oblivious to him leaving at pace (no running on tour) for the "lavat'ries", being sick on his hand before he got in and promptly being sick all over the floor after he got in. Believing that the best place to hide from the Gestapo was in a toilet cubicle, he disappeared from view, so when the Goons burst in seconds later, he was nowhere to be seen. Unfortunately for Tour Bitch, dressed in a blazer, slacks, shirt and club tie, they thought it was him. Despite his protestations they were about to eject him when Tour Chunder let rip with an earth-splitting roar that rattled the cubicle door, burst a blood vessel in his eye and sent the Heidelberg Water Ministry into conniptions. More tremors followed.

The Goons looked at each other. The cubicle door opened. They looked at Tour Chunder. This wasn't meant to happen. Their victims were neither meant to be that big, nor have hands that made bowling balls cross their legs. Fortunately for them, Tour Chunder was dragged-up proper-like, and so offered to eject himself, but informed them that he would be going to see his friends first.

"Very well, we will allow zis" they thought, not a little perplexed, and so followed him over to where the rest of the touring party were already getting the news from a very excited Tour Bitch who was making no sense at all while at the same time killing himself laughing.

"Alright Gents, I'm being thrown out now, so I'll see you lads in the morning."
"Being thrown out? Who's throwing you out?"
"Klaus here" he said, pointing to the upside down triangle in the spray-on t-shirt, "Come on then Klaus, it's time for to go." and with that, Tour Chunder patted him on his shaven pate and walked off in completely the wrong direction. Klaus followed in hot pursuit and it's believed that he eventually managed to guide our errant tourist to the exit.

Some punishment beatings ("punch yourself!!") and lots of beer later, we were ready to head home. The Director of Rugby won the Tour UNHCR Award for saving a member of the touring party from the effects of excess alcohol and the clutches of a 50 year old German crone (in spandex). Tourists from years gone by know what that's like (cf: Dinner Dance '00). Other than that, there's really not much I can say.

Day 3

Your Tour Reporter managed to get to the cafe-bar for around midday, and so missed most of the gossip, but someone informed him that Tour Idiot had pulled the night before - and what's more that the girl in question was English and was capable of understanding everything he said. He was incredulous. Howe was this possible?? She even looked like she might be quite pretty after only a couple of pints. More investigation was required, but that was put off until later because our friendly driver turned up to take us to TSV Handschuhsheim Rugby club. To say their facilities made English the clubs' look bad was the understatement of the century. Three - flat - pitches, one of which had just been relaid with turf. Stone lions on the bannisters to the veranda with a rugby ball under one paw. Decent tasting beer on tap. On the other hand, their showers seemed to have been designed by someone with no sense of historical irony.

We started with the English-speaking pulls and their friends as cheerleaders, and most of the able-bodied touring Veterans on the pitch. We lasted a while before going a couple of scores down after some poor play.

A stern talking to from the Dicke Dame [pronounciation note: "dick-er dahm-er"] half-way through the first half had us firing on all cylinders, and with Tour Chieftan switched to inside centre we gathered some momentum. It wasn't until Tour Psycho came on and the second half that we replied with two scores of our own - the first an absolute peach and an all-front-row-effort. Tour Chunder (obviously feeling better for having evacuated his bowels and going to bed early) dived onto a loose ball at the back of the line out and passed it to the Dicke Dame in one fluid motion. Both sides jaws hit the floor, not believing the display of skill they had just witnessed. The impact of the airborne prop coming to earth shook players out of their reverie and the Dicke Dame popped it to the Chiswick Express, who was approaching the line at pace. Being just half the height of a short arse he crashed over for our first try, which earned him a vow to marry his sister from at least one desperate Tourist.

Our second try should have come courtesy of our estimable scrum-half, but was disallowed in a travesty of refereeing. It did finally arrive courtesy of Tour Psycho, who worked (fought) his way over the line with determination (aggravated menaces). The try came after some fine work from the Tour Excursions Officer, who combined with the Director of Rugby to put the Chiswick Express clear for a 50mrun. He was stopped short but popped the ball to the Tour Psycho, who wasrunning in close support like all good opensides! By the end of a match, which saw a member of the previous day's opposition (Andy, a US Marine from San Diego, very German though) pull on a Quintin shirt and join the front row, we were down roughly five tries to two. Given a fresh team etc. etc. we might have gained our first German scalp, but it wasn't to be, so we resorted to Kampftrinken tactics in the bar again. More beer was drunk and a naked Haka performed, though how anyone knew how to do it remained a mystery, as the tour rule "no Kiwis on tour" was clearly still in effect. Sick Boy really was and even eating Tour Chunder's mysterious sweets did him no good. It isn't clear whether he remained catatonic until the end of tour, but your Tour Reporter believes it's possible.

Possibly the best episode on tour is what I might refer to as cock-fighting "with a difference", and there I will leave it. Neither party won, neither lost, but the combatants' ineffectual thrusting aided neither party. Once both combatants were exhausted, a German decided he'd have a go and gave chase. I have never seen one of the tourists involved move so quickly, nor for such a great distance. How the other tourist avoided a threatened tea-bagging by his roommate I have no idea. One stout Tourist faced-up to the challenge of drinking from the cup passed down from The Director of Rugby to Lillian* to your Tour Reporter. He managed to keep it down (this time).

* Lillian isn't allowed to tour anymore because he's made of chocolate and is quite breakable. He also couldn't bear to be parted from his Unix boxes for that long.

We eventually adjourned into town for our judicial proceedings, and there the story must skip a bit. All I can report is that Tour Bitch got scarier than usual, Tour Victim wasn't nearly victim enough and Sick Boy was granted an amnesty for being too broken to punish. One tourist exchanged punches with the Marine, but only after he asked whether it was ok to hit him back. Tour Ninny was escorted home for an early night after it all got a bit too much for him, but he seemed happy enough once he got to bed. While Tour Ferret finally, FINALLY, got lucky with the Tour Bike - he came first and fourth to Andy the Marine and a Tourist without name. Apparently it was the Tour Idiot's pull from the night before!

Day 4

Your Tour Reporter was totally broken. Tour Idiot conspired to break the boot donated by the first club, but sensing the beating coming his way purchased another at the airport. The pilot shook the plane around a bit. Tour Reporter felt worse and swapped his lunch for an extra sick-bag. Tour Idiot went white. We landed.

THE END.

Or so you may think. Some tourists went to a titty bar and had some more to drink. For my part, a curry sufficed. You can keep the Wurst!

TOUR REPORTER