Tour to Krakow, Poland - 2004

Well, gentlemen, it's been a while but your Tour Reporter has finally dusted off the typewriter and peered into his notes to remind himself of what went on on tour. And I have to say I'm shocked by the grevious behaviour, the debauchery and the sheer amount that I had forgotten. This report will hold with previous and universally recognised rugby rules of what goes on tour stays on tour (WGOTSOT), and so not only have the names been changed to protect the guilty, but they may be given several names. On the other hand, I can say that el Presidente Gordon was late to the meet with the tickets, again. Naming and shaming him last year clearly didn't have the desired effect. So we've sacked him and are relying on Jono to get the tour to Croatia sorted out!

PRE TOUR

The club has grown enormously over the last year which gave us a large pool of tour virgins to torment, abuse and generally get grafting for us. At this point I suppose I should introduce you to Tour "Effoff", the main culprit in trying to get us to divulge the tour rules. He failed, but not before he was told the following:


"You will be punished for the things that you have done, and things that you haven't done. You will be punished for the sins of your father and your father's father. You will be punished for the Hezbollah, Canadian seal clubbers, for failing to produce, when asked, the Turin Shroud, for kicking the ball on tour and for not chipping it when plainly you had the legs on your man. You will be punished for being drunk and yet not drunk enough. And the same will happen to me, too..."
[This is available on an attractive Quintin RFC t-shirt, available from the club for a very small sum - Ed]

Having raised our ire with underhand and sneaky attempts to subvert tour veterans, we constructed an elaborate campaign of dis-information, explaining that although we couldn't tell him the rules, the following people would be sartorially correct if they were to come on tour with us: Darth Vader, Compo, Charlie Dimmock and Captain Pugwash.

FRIDAY

We met at Liverpool street station on the concourse before catching the train to Stansted Airport. Various old hands turned up and gave each other knowing looks. Not a virgin was to be seen... until one of us spotted one of them on the balcony furiously trying to divest himself of a pair of wellington boots. Another besuited virgin was spotted getting money out of the wall, also in wellies. The ploy had worked. They were rumbled and told that they were going to wearing them the whole weekend. Tour Effoff was so upset at the potential prospect of having them filled with beer, either to walk around in or to drink from, that he'd cut holes in his. Will he never learn that tour is something that just happens to you whether you like it or not? I pity next year's virgins, I can see him cooking up some terrible stitches.

Anyway, we made it to Stansted and were joined by our first new Tour Kiwi (mk. II no. 1). The rule of "No Kiwis (or Irish or Welsh) on Tour" had clearly been broken in several places. The Streams arrived all tooled up for mischief and began inflicting their fiendish brew on the assembled cast. It's not so much that it's red and looks a bit like tomato juice, it's just that it's in a three litre Coke bottle with the sticker removed. At least when someone gives you a bottle of Tequila you know what's coming. This, on the other hand, looks like tomato juice, tastes a bit like tomato juice but there the resemblance to a drink that has horseraddish and a bit of celery lurking in it ends. A certain veteran tourist can attest to this after the he was caught with it on the plane last year and was banned by the stewardess from passing it on - he drank it and slept all the way to Heidelberg.

Bound as we were for Poland, there's not that much more merriment to report before we landed as we're all such well-behaved frequent flyers. Well, we almost missed the flight, or was that last year? I forget. Anyway, the more nervous amongst us were goaded with stories of how Air Polonia planes dropped out of the sky with frightening regularity, but the flight passed without incident and we landed in a grey Kratowitzce Airport. It's nowhere near Krakow, it seems, so we piled on the bus and waited for Tour Kiwi mk. II no. 2 to make it through customs as the fool had failed to sort out his visa. Not to worry, he got through in the end, it got dark and we were away toward Krakow.

However, part way to Krakow, el Presidente's voice came up over the the hubbub on the bus and said that we were going to be too late to go out and get anything to eat in Krakow once we'd checked-in to the hotel, so wouldn't we like to stop at a nice little place that the driver knew on the way there? This sounded like complete b*ll*x to your Tour Reporter. Since when has Maccy-D's and other tour-eateries shut before 10pm on a Friday? Nonetheless, we were bound for a mystery early evening food-stop.

What we were expecting to be a greasy spoon and suitable establishment for 30 touring rugby players actually looked like something more suited to a soiree-a-deux. The tourists hadn't come prepared for this. One or two were sent in to see whether they would be ejected, for wearing wellies, amongst other idiotic items. However, they were not: we were expected. Not only that, but we were the only people expected that night. 30 places were laid out and had ornamental - real cloth - napkins set at each place. There were strata of cutlery spreading out from each place-mat. Wine glasses by the dozen competed for place at the table with the truly enormous plant in the centre. Tourists suddenly saw their beer kitty evaporating before their eyes. Some even started blubbing.

However, the warmth of Polish hospitality got to us and we tucked into our... well, not sure, let's say: fish. Your Tour Reporter was starving and so troughed the lot. Wine and beer were served and the tour eased into first gear. In fact, the beer waiter was kept the busiest of the lot and the beer tap had never passed so much liquid in one go in it's life. You could imagine him saying to his colleagues something like "I could have sworn I put seven full beers down on that table a moment ago..." but then you could imagine anything you liked as we couldn't understand a bloody word he was saying, which became a common feature of our contact with the natives*.


*Author's note on natives: we came to conclusion that in Poland they're very sensible when sharing out the gene responsible for physical beauty (and it's evidence that a man is in charge of the process) because they give it to the women every time. This also makes for a frigtening rugby oppositon.

Time time to leave came and went, and so we finished up and left for Krakow. El Presidente had obviously had qualms about how much it was going to cost the kitty as well and I'm told he picked up the tab - for which, thanks - and thereby saved himself a ritual wedgie. Age and seniority are no bar to being dropped through the crotch of your previous favourite pair of boxer shorts and being forced to wear them like a headband.

So what else happened on Friday? Well so far as your Tour Reporter understands, we checked into the hotel, then the coach took us all into Krakow. The Tour Mechanic walked off like a man with a mission in what he thought was the direction of the centre of town. Most of us followed him, because bad news like "he's got the whole beer kitty" travels fast, so like the Pied Piper we followed him into the office district, devoid of life, character, bars, clubs, strip joints, fast food take-aways, porn shops, fights (for the Aged), in fact anything which we hoped for on tour. Idiot.

Having located the shorter "kitty keeper" with better navigational skills than the Tour Mechanic, our party found a kareoke bar on the main square. Although Effoff sang a lovely duet with Avid Merrion that night, the Purple One spoilt everyone's dinner. Japanese Elvis impersonators would have committed sibicu. Feeling the effects of brewed vegetables, Elvis was murdered, words were mumbled, lines missed out and eventually the DJ was forced to ask Elvis to leave the building. Fortunately, Purple did not expire on the toilet, although he passed out on several occasions. The evening was spent wandering from warehouse bar to cellar until we were forced to take a ride somewhere into the suburbs to find a gentleman's bar. I can report that the other place in the town centre with the broken door was better.

Other tourists had also piled into a taxi and asked the driver to take them to a gentlemen's club. All was apparently going well until the houses disappeared and dark country roads took their place. The more nervous of the passengers had obviously seen Deliverance too often (cf: "the Natives", "Squeal piggy, squeal") and made the driver turn round. By the time they got back all that was left to do was take part in a deadlifting competiton, although clearly some people didn't know their own strength.

Other stories from Friday as recounted by tourists include:

"Tourist A burst into our open room (I was too drunk to bother closing the door), ransacked the place, poured water all over us, put our duvets in the shower and threw our clothes and cases into the corridor, while Tourist B chucked the chair on top of me. Someone nicked my tour XXXXX [Censored - tour secret] too, the b*stard... but the absolute climax after this melee of activity was Tourist A collapsing on the floor and then having to puke in our sink while Big Brother was taking a dump." A fine performance, I'm sure you'll agree. That'll teach him for going to bed and being too drunk to close the door - the idiot. You may wonder whether this man had toured before, on which, more later.

Another tourist had this to say:

"Whilst sitting in the beautiful town square, under the gaze of Pope JPII's very own cathedral, one tourist noticed that he had lost his money. Upon realising this, he proceeded to head-butt his nearest colleague. The reaction? A lovely wicker chair was promptly picked up and jettisoned towards him with all the force of Mr Muscle. The two ex-friends returned to the hotel to find a rather purple tourist asleep in the lobby, next to the lift. Once again, affection was showered on him through a head-butt and growling contest. Oh, and when the idiot awoke and sobered up, he found his money in his wallet where he'd put it for safe-keeping."

SATURDAY

Madame Vines rose early and purchased the adult reading material for the rest of the club and I can report that his tastes are as unusual as ever they were [that's a bloody understatement - Ed.]. Age has clearly not sapped his libido, although it's ravaged practically every other part of him. True-to-form your Tour Reporter overslept and missed the breakfast and lunch part of the day, but arose to catch up on his Lucozade drinking and locate the rest of the touring party. Apparently, we were preparing to go and play a game of rugby against Juvenia rugby club. El Presidente assured us it was a five minute walk "that way", but not believing the man we organised taxis to take us (clean across town) to the clubhouse.

We found out later that the rugby club was sponsored by an ex-military outfit who specialised in security work (eg Iraq etc). This went some way to explaining why the opposition looked fitter, stronger and better prepared than us. We had hoped to avoid the fate of that veterans rugby team which went to the Czech Republic and played the national 1st team as they had mistranslated "veteran" as "senior". I'm sure we cut quite the same image when we turned up at Juvenia as that veterans team did before us. Ridiculous tour uniforms, wellies and catatonic supporters all arrived up over the next twenty minutes and having spotted some native females, we thought it was time to clean up our act and start thinking about the game.

We really needn't have bothered, and not just because the Admiral was refereeing. The opposition was bigger, better drilled and, crucially, neither fielding a pensioner nor still inebriated nor carrying a monster hangover. We lost, although we performed well enough at the set piece, which was surprising given the different pack sizes. Our lineout suffered when they brought on their convert from basketball, who did a good job of stealing our ball. Their fitness and speed around the field was our undoing as we could neither retain possession in the tackle nor challenge effectively at the breakdown for theirs. It didn't help that Tour Scottish was dodging tackles left right and centre - letting the opposition run right past him and into some unsuspecting team-mate half his size.

We didn't go away empty handed, though, as late in the second half a break from a maul by Tour Kiwi mk. II no. 2. put Tour Scottish over in the corner. And with honours morally even (come on, we scored, didn't we?), we adjourned to clubhouse, though not before noticing that the Tour Gimp was so the worse for wear on 12.5% Amsterdam lager that we needed to find some way of keeping him upright for his own protection. Fortunately one of the uprights looked up the the job and so using the Purple Tourist's finest* insulating tape, we achieved our goal. That he'd then water the Tour Gimp for good measure we didn't know, but he might have been marking his territory.

So what happened next? Well, there was some milling around, general back slapping, gesturing and grunting by all before we got down to the serious business of a boat race. Most tour veterans declined on the basis that they were broken, nominating the youthful virgins to uphold the good name of Quintin. There's always a "however" to these stories, though, isn't there? Well, this time it came in the towering shape of the Tour Fetishist.

Stood halfway down our boat he loomed over his opposite man like a heavy metal Goliath, with wild red and green hair. This can't be fair, the opposition thought, and pulled their man, replacing him with a giant of their own. Roaring ensued. Shirt taking off and more roaring followed. Chest beating happened. Roaring. AAAAAARARRRRRRRGHGGGGHGHHHHHH. Some eagle-eyed Poles had by now noticed the first of the Fetishist's adornments. The roaring continued, though it had an uncertain warbling tone now. What next? Trousers down and more roaring, "Come on you ****ing ****, **** off and **** ****** ***er ****ing". Roar. Zip. Flop. Silence. Ding.

Their man abandoned ship.

You see, in order to tour you don't need to be young, good, fast or skillful, all you need to do is take the kinkiest b*gger you can find along and you can scare the living **** out of any opposition. Especially if he has a month's wages hanging off the end of his

Further down the bar there was a more than a little interest in the Tour Fetishist's arsenal. Tour Kiwi mk. II no. 1 was getting a little bit too much attention for his own sanity from the opposition scrum half. Very touchy feely if you get my drift. The Kiwi must have been relieved when he went to inspect the goods on show down the other end of the bar. A bit too closely really, which means he got splashed when the Tour Psycho spilled his pint on the Fetishist's bits and pieces from over six feet away. Such a vulgar display of wealth after all.

Life then got back to something approaching normality with the Tour Mechanic showing Mme Vines how to lineout - trouble was they couldn't coordinate the jump and while one lifted the other resolutely stayed put, with the result that his underwear went shooting over his head, accompanied by a high-pitched squeal and a nasty tearing sound. Some things never change.

Hat's off to our hosts, though, they got the hang of some of our games rather quickly and did a good job by narrowly beating the Tour Psycho at the bottle game - you know the one where you walk out in a press-up position on two bottles, leave one as far out as you can before hopping back with both hands on your remaining bottle. I reckon the record that night was about 8' from the line. Great stuff. Your tour reporter was told by one of the old timers that it used to be his party piece and he could take on all comers, that is, until age and injury blighted his form and he began to resembe Derek Hatton.

Finally, before we left for the centre of town and cloaked by the early stages of darkness, we went out to perform the Haka with our Tour Kiwi (II/1). The best reason for breaking the "No Kiwi's on Tour" rule is so that when we perform the Haka it's guaranteed to be genuine. An authentic, naked Haka, performed en masse in the centre of the pitch. If you ever happen to tour to Poland, trot one of these out for your hosts and they'll love it. As far as rugby folklore goes, the Haka is it. It's the Daddy. And you can all agree not to understand what you're saying, even if you know the words. We even have the pictures to prove it, but the repro department has refused to mosaic-out twenty pairs of faces, and, er, nethers.

Once in the centre of town the story gets a little frayed. I can't remember what happened next, although I'm pretty sure that we did a (semi-naked) Haka around the statue in the square next to JPII's cathedral. We didn't feel so bad about the cultural insult as it was our hosts who lead the way and insisted that Tour Kiwi Mk. II No. 1 climb the statue to lead the troops. Possibly 50 rugby players, Poles, English, Welsh, Irish and Scottish then stood in a semi-circle around him and belted out the largest Haka ever to be seen in Krakow, while the rest of the square looked on in disbelief at what grown men do for fun.

Exactly how we all got to Krakow's finest club I don't know but with the help of one of the opposition who I think was working on the door, even those resolutely still clinging to their tour uniform were allowed in. Our first impressions of the natives were confirmed. Your Tour Reporter thought he was doing quite well until it turned out that "going for a walk" actually turned out to be an educational trip round Krakow with various antiquities pointed out en route. Fortunately, he spotted a taxi rank, dug out £2.50 and got back to the hotel.

SUNDAY

Once again the world came into focus around 1pm leaving your somewhat groggy Tour Reporter only two hours to feel better before playing a second match against Juvenia rugby club. The team took to the pitch under the fractious and high-pitched captaincy of Mme. Vines. We were still not sure that the opposition had the idea about touring "social rugby" clubs and seemed to have picked another fit and able team to administer another pounding. Well, I suppose we ought to get used to the idea of taking a pounding if we insist on touring to countries that know how to play rugby. Surely if we went to the Netherland Antilles we could find someone to beat?

Anyway, I digress. The match got underway and within five minutes Tour Why had to come off because he tore his fingernail. Lots of swearing and stamping around later and it was still bloody obvious it was a pathetic injury and he was being a complete woman. The same tourist had to be saved later by the the Purple Tourist who administered a Heimlich manoever by the roadside. It seems Tour Why had got five pints of lager stuck in his windpipe.

I don't really remember what happened, although Tour Scottish had decided he was going to go into contact this time and carried the ball well all afternoon. It didn't make that much difference, actually, as we took another beating but still scored a couple of tries. In one of them the Perpetual Virgin ran through their centres as they "parted like the Red Sea" - apparently even Vinesey could have scored it - and in the other the Purple Tourist's unconventional re-start took the opposition by surprise (the centre spot seemed to have moved to the touchline) and the Perpetual Virgin ran in the try. After consulting the video ref (having a seaky fag) the try was awarded and the final whistle was blown. Apparently the Tour Fetishist ran down one of their chaps after a 70m run, but I don't believe a word of it, he'd pop his clogs if he ran that far.

Well, the after match party had to top the previous day so Tour Nutter started off with an all-comers arm-wrestling competition. He beat everyone, one after another with his bad arm and then swapped to the other one when he got bored. Juvenia then did our work for us by punishing Tour Kiwi (II/1) for a tour indiscretion. Your Tour Reporter really felt for the poor chap having succeeded where the other man had failed, but that didn't stop him (the Kiwi) from being taped to the railings (she had his undivided attention as he couldn't look left or right). While he was indisposed our hosts borrowed his shoes, took down their posts and put one shoe on top of each before replacing the uprights as God intended. When the Tour Kiwi was released, his attempts to shake the shoes down merely made them spin round on top of the posts, which of course had us in stitches. Climbing the posts was attempted, but discarded as a life-threatening idea. Eventually another Haka was performed on the crossbar and our hosts got the shoes down for him.

We went into town and eventually managed to meet up in the square where we had a few beers, this time without anyone getting nutted. We did spot some of those cycle-taxi things and had an idea. Two of you, one very large square (200m long), four of us... Right chaps, here's 20 Zlottys that says you can't race round the square. The winner gets 10 Zlottys prize money! GO!!!!!! And with that we were off, with the wind wafting through our hair as the two asthmatic old farts in the engine room sedately pedalled behind us. We didn't even get onto two wheels in the corner, despite the fact that the Human Swizzle Stick was my co-pilot. The drivers were chatting away, but clearly both of them were intent on the 10 Zlotty prize and picked up speed in the final straight, ringing their bell at any natives that strayed into our paths. The breathing got more asthmatic and strained. One of them broke into a sweat. The race was on, and with about 20 metres to go we nosed ahead. In savage danger of crashing into our fellow tourists sat at the finish line, the bike went through more g-force deceleration than it was made to handle and it all got a bit out of shape, but no matter, we were winners, our drivers both survived the exertions and we bid them farewell. We even paid up 10 to the winner!

The next mission was to find some food, so we piled into a cheap pizza shop and ordered fifteen dustbin lid pizzas. We couldn't finish them all so the virgins were dispatched to distribute the left-overs to the homeless. Tour Fetishist stole some of my tour uniform, and claimed he had paid a taxi driver to take it back to the hotel, the b*stard, but worse than that I realised he had it secreted about his person (ugh) and thus got another tour virgin to retrieve it. Sadly I have lost the said article, but wearing something that had been down his trousers is not something I'll miss. Full points for inventive use of an imaginary taxi, though.

Tour Ferret took some of the boys out to a club where we might have got off on the wrong foot with the barman by asking if we could buy the beer fridge, but he cheered up at the sight of the tour kitty being produced. After that we seemed to do quite well, and the native females even decided we were safe enough to talk to. That is until the "Tour Glove" incident. I'm not sure that I can disclose this peculiar tour ritual, but think 18th century French aristcrats getting in a tizzy and you're about there. Needless to say the tourist in question was slapped and the girl he had been doing so well with stormed off into the distance. The up-side to this is that the barman wanted to know what had happened, so we filled him in on the details which reduced him to a hysterical mess. When he recovered a full bottle of vodka arrived on the house!

Another tourist tells me "Also in said bar, we were dishing out the Vodka to various students and out-singing the expensive sound system. One of the student girls (a stunner as they'd say in The Sun) came up and started chatting. Aware of her boyfriend loooking on we tried to distance ourselves from her. She then says that she would do anything, anything to live in London. Boyfriend ended up in tears in the corner... oops". Oops indeed. "Anything to live in London"??? My mobile phone worked all over Krakow and I didn't get a call.

And there the tour report must go quiet again, for things such as the rest of the evening's goings on will remain a secret until one of the more misguided tour youngsters spills the beans, usually in an attempt to impress some young lady. All I can disclose is that:

· "The Door to Heaven" broke. Bugger.
· the accidental tourist was driven all over town again and became infuriated at (a) not finding the bar and (b) missing out on valuable drinking time.
· Someone's political career is over. What is backstage anyway? And how do you put 20 Zlottys into that?
· Flat Leaf getting me £100 out the wall on my card and helping himself to a further £100
· She loves me more than you.
· No, she likes me more.

Some of those who had gone back to pack and prepare for the morning flight were invited to an cocktail evening in the boys' room. Having discussed history at length it was decided that any money which the club had in the bank should be used in a huge firework display. Such was the intellect on display, the motion was carried and went down on the second flush having been displayed on the "shelf" in the toilet. Unfortunately, Tour Psycho and a few of his mates turned up and ruined the night. Beds were turned, toilets filled and soft furnishing thrown. A demonstration of the strength of Polish light bulbs on the head revealed an amazing resilience even on Psycho's cranium. During this diversionary action, it is believed that Chunky and his posse acquired the whole of the boys' vodka supply and the party ended before any more decisions were made on the clubs' future.

Some idiot (see above) had booked the return flight for 0700 'pm'. That's right, oh-seven-hundred. Idiot. What this meant was that there was to be no sleeping on Sunday night, the bus would leave for the airport at 0500 (oh-five-hundred) and we would have two hours to sober up. Well, there's nothing quite like cutting it fine, so your Tour Reporter took Sick Boy out for a last pint at some bar in town, though not before the obligatory taxi ride into the middle of nowhere to bump up the price. Eventually we got to a bar that was still open and against music playing at over 200 beats a minute we ordered our last beers on tour. I was happily enjoying mine when I realised that I'd lost Sick Boy. Bugger. There was twenty minutes to go before the coach left and some hasty drinking and searching later I found him in the other room, haranguing the barman for some reason, who in perfect English was replying "No. You police. You leave now." That's a good idea, thought I, and bundled Sick Boy into a cab.

Some of the more responsible tourists were waiting outside the hotel for three missing tourists. The Perpetual Virgin was upstairs in bed, the lazy sod (no sleeping on tour). The other two were waving money at their taxi driver trying to get him to go faster. "They're not going to make it y'know" said The Admiral. Pookie looked worried and waggled his eyebrows. Then, in the distance, the sound of a tortured engine being pushed to the redline. A taxi. Could it be them?

Aware of the need to get out of the taxi and into the coach in the shorted possible time, I got a firm hold on Sick Boy's head and made ready to jump out. The plan was to get me and the gibbering wreck next to me out of the taxi, pay the man and get on the bus. That's not quite what happened. The taxi stopped. I opened the door and jumped, pulling Sick Boy behind me. We exited the taxi at high speed and, as far as the driver was concerned, completely vanished. Not not the back seat, not outside, not in the mirror.

By this time the assembled cast on the pavement were crying with laughter at the scene before them and the taxi driver going spastic at the loss of such a promising fare. I, meanwhile, was trying to free my feet from under the passenger seat where they had got stuck. This was not as easy as it sounds because (a) I'd been drinking for fourteen hours and (b) Sick Boy was passed out on top of me. I'm pretty sure I was lying in a puddle but can't quite remember. Apparently, with tears streaming down his face Pookie stepped up and paid the driver. As far as cutting it fine goes, that was was 10/10 for timing and 10 for presentation. "Quick, get your stuff, someone get Sick Boy's stuff, and someone go and get the Perpetual Virgin". We waved goodbye to our comrades staying in Krakow for a couple more days, and departed for the airport.

As I recall on the journey home, Mme Vines began to get a little bit fruity. Maybe he had the hangover horn. Either way, goaded by the Tour Mechanic, he decided that a Glaswegian kiss was required to get into the Tour Reporter's good books. Unfortunately for Mme. Vines, it had the opposite effect and the favour was returned with some considerable force. The Admiral came over and sent the reporter to the front of the bus. The petulant cry of "I wasn't me - he started it!" fell on deaf ears, and he was sin-binned for the rest of the journey. Like SO unfair. I am told that the following text message appeared on a phone still in Krakow:

Just butted Vinesey
Will tell anyone what
it felt like for a
fiver.

Can't say fairer than that, really, can you? And as touring has moved into the 21st century, download some of the authentic sounds of tour here.

And there, the tour report sort of comes to an end for your Reporter. Sick Boy was held upright at the airport by Tour Mechanic with one hand on his cranium, marionette-like. Sick Boy lost his wallet and phone. We flew home. I felt awful.

THE END

OR IS IT?

MONDAY & TUESDAY

While Flat Leaf and Nutter succumbed as broken men to the booze, hard men Effoff and Ginge went out for turbo shandies. Their bar hopping and pint smashing led them to be locked behind three iron doors in a cellar of ill repute. Presented with a host of tracksuit-clad minging harlots (obviously British) they hoped to leave, but felt the fear of God when they realised none of the drunk, angry Polish mafia spoke English. Arguments to leave consisted of Ginge saying Effoff was homosexual (in hindsight not clever), with Effoff suggesting that while they could take them (the mafia), shouldn't they just do one of them (the minging British)? In the end they were apprently allowed to escape unmolested for a substantial figure of funny money.

One tourist left his door ajar for the two errant tourists, only see it opened by a man in a dog collar. Alcohol poisoning hallucinations may account for this, but it's suspected that he was looking for the Tour Nutter to read him his last rites.

Culture was not forgotten and the remainder went round the salt mines where Chunk got a phone call while 160 metres underground in the middle of nowhere, whereas reception in Stanstead was nil...

Eating standards improved vastly from the petrol station hot dogs to scantily clad waitresses at Polish Hooters, but the pièce de résistance was the dinner at Michelin two star and most expensive restaurant in Krakow. All in honour of a certain food connoisseur whom had been forced to eat dodgy pizzas all tour. This was dubbed the Keith Vines memorial dinner and attended by half the England international team. The fantastic cuisine was inspirational and was well documented. This evening was cheap as chips, considering the caviar, king prawns, veal, fillet, 40 quid bottles of wine for 15, gallons of port and Rememi Martin XO cognac at 8 quid a glass. Ask Chunk some more about this, as this was truly one of the best meals we've all ever had!

Final moments of tour comprised of the mystery mullet man appearing in Pookie's bed... and Flat Leaf's 20 stone finally getting the better of his bed which collapsed in the middle of the night!

And finally...

Avid Merrion was spotted in Poland, seen to fall down some stairs and a barrel land on his head. He may also have suffered a ridiculous tackle in the 2nd match.

Post tour emails

"After XXXX's aid memoir I would like to congratulate the devious tourist who traded my tour shirt for Juvenia souvenirs while I was in hospital with Avid. A superb feat of genius thievery which I should have been prepared for. Pikey Git. I will be looking out for any signs of lucky heather or pegs in future. In addition the bugle has been misplaced, if it is languishing in your kit bag next to something sweaty, can you bring it to the ball or AGM. If not I will have to get something even bigger and louder, you have been warned."

"In my defence it was not theft, I found it, and besides theft isn't a crime in Poland, and it wasn't me that gave away the club email address, though I am unable to divulge who did."


> Greetings From Poland!
> We hope that you enjoyed & decide to come back to
> Poland again! You not like Polish man, which I like.
> It was big fun 4 us too.
> When can we come to London? We get visas on 1 May.
> Bye
> Anna


From Madame Vines: "Why did you headbutt me?"