From the moment I arrived, I knew it was all going to go wrong. Having already had a shitty four-hour drive through Friday afternoon traffic, the one thing I really wanted to happen was to get to the junction with Treharris Street and find a stupid BINT cab driver parked right across it with her hazards flashing, looking at me with a "I don't really know what to do because I'm a woman and I shouldn't have a driver's license, never mind a taxi license" smile on her face. So in the time it took me to manouevre around her, some twat in a BMW Z3 who could clearly see I was going for a parking space practically handbrake turned to steal it. Parking further down the street, I was over the moon naturally then to see Big Will jump in aforementioned cab and fuck off without me.
The 20 minute wait for the next cab to turn up and the paying the solo fare was soon forgotten however on arriving at the Eli Jenkins, apparently named after the bloke with the lazy eye that used to be in Emmerdale, seeing old friends and meeting some new ones, and getting straight on the long drinks.
For once in my life I managed to pace myself on a Friday instead of the usual kicking the arse out of it and waking up on match day shaking like a shitting dog. Having said that, watching the Tron down a foaming pint of Big Will's still steaming piss for a meager £20 of Sam's cash was enough to sober anyone up. So I awoke feeling oddly fresh, despite having been spooned by a slightly irritable, Ross Kemp lookalike screw from Cardiff bighouse. Fortunately, I didn't have to share the shower with him as well like they do in the nick, and despite Ski's protestations, I was up and ready to go in LC official matchday attire by about 10am.
So it was with happy hearts that we piled into Pete the Meat's motor and took the magical mystery tour through some of the more salubrious Cardiff suburbs to (eventually) find the Glamorgan Wanderers ground where the Tron was soon to be prancing around like Cliff Morgan. This is when Part 2 of the things going wrong went wrong. Ferg gives me a handful of tickets for the game to distribute evenly amongst the LCs on arrival, as for some reason he thinks I'm sensible. These tickets included a serial number for the raffle to win two tickets to the Wales/England match. Of course I knew straight away and full well that despite having a pocket full of the fuckers, I would undoubtedly give away the winning ticket, but when I did, and it was Sam that got it, it didn't make me feel any better.
Notwithstanding the joyous sight of Ferg scoring a try straight from the kick-off, and knowing that we weren't going to hear the end of it, and getting a couple of comedy phone calls from Morgs (including the classic Morganism "Spenny, is this charity match starting at 12, or at 10.30? Because if it starts at 10.30, it's over already obviously"), I couldn't help being a bit pissed off about the raffle. Because Fergs doesn't have a monopoly on being childish.
But still, all down to the Tavistock to get beers and a decent enough seat to watch what would turn out to be probably the match of the tournament this year, France v Scotland, followed by the Part 3 of the things going wrong going wrong, namely Wales beating England. Even so, it too was a pretty good game, and apparently the Welsh have now finally come up with a new song to replace that old favourite "Way-yuls! Way-yuls!"; it's to the tune of Bread of Heaven and goes "We came fifth instead of sixth, we came fifth instead of sixth". I maintain that if Wales had the same, totally unjustified but complete and utter hatred for every country that they have for England, they could be World Champions. Like England.
Town was a strange affair after the match this year. The disaster movie weather effects didn't help proceedings, and all the decent bars having massive queues to get in, and all the empty bars being a bit shit, but those of us that braved it still managed to muster up a good time. That is until, of course, Part 4 of things going wrong went wrong. Instead of bowing to peer pressure and just going to Kiwi's, I decided that the flattering feeling of walking down the street to Lloyd's with a girl fifteen years my junior on each arm was preferable. And I have to say, it was as well. The girls were very nice, and humoured me by being surprised at some of my more contemporary musical tastes, but when they realised I wasn't going to buy them drinks all night, they politely made their excuses and we parted company. I managed to find my way to Kiwi's on the Tron's instructions, but no LCs were in there, so I thought quit while you're ahead and go home. Sadly, PC Rain was rounding up the revellers and taxis were like rocking horse shit, so I decided to brave the elements and walk it. Big mistake. I reckon I walked under every single fucking railway bridge in the city hoping one of them would be the one on the way home. Then, after about two hours and somewhere near Roath, a pissed-up youth got very upset that I didn't want to be his friend, and kicked off on me. At which point I was forced to grab him by the throat and bend him backwards over the bonnet of a Vauxhall Corsa. If that was your Corsa, I'm sorry about the wing mirror, but I don't know if it hit the floor so it might still be stuck up that kid's arse. Luckily for him (and me) he had a sensible, pacifist mate who stepped in and calmed him down, but not before I sustained an injury to my thumb that has left it looking like a black pudding.
Another hour and several degrees below zero later, I was just about to curl up in a shop doorway and quietly cry until I slipped into a coma, when I started to recognise fast-food places and pubs and realised I was back at the top of Treharris Street. And do you know, here's how happy I was to be there: The sight of a red-eyed, blotchy-faced drunken Ski still sitting up at 3.30am watching the Grand Prix and telling anyone who'd listen that he knew that bloke, was one of the best things ever.
Here's to the next one.
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