What do we gain by going to the game?
The deficit is palpable. It costs. A Round 4 ticket to sold-out Twickenham with England still in the Six Nations hunt? A lot.
It takes time. Twickers is not really in London. It has no tube station. It’s in the Heathrow flight path. There are no real pubs.
After the match, a visitor shuffles a mile in a throng sure to include thousands of discontented until herded into a chute to take the 40-minute train to Waterloo station, desperate to hear the last ‘Sweet Caroline’ or ‘Tell Me More’ rendition of the night.
You are committed. If a red card is whipped out after 82 seconds, you cannot turn off the telly and start doing your DIY tasks. You sit, chagrined, hoping the 14-man team can make a game of it. You are the Vegas fan who came around the world to see a first-round KO. You are the punchline.
Also, Twickenham seats are not made for forwards. Sitting down requires scrum engagement protocol, and a strong bind. An item dropped is lost forever. If the man in front of you leans back in his bending chair, your aching knee will say hello. Halfbacks designed this special torture.
If anyone departs the row, the only way to avoid an awkward lap dance grind is to step to the aisle, as well. Happens quite a bit.
Rugby is renowned for a lack of statistics. But here is one certainty: the average time spent by Twickenham season ticket holders away from their seats (to get four beers, to expel said beers, to stand in line for either activity) equals the average ball-in-play average, and given the impossibility of matching excursion with ball-in-play, the median English fan’s in-person watching time is nine minutes.
Which means these barristers pay 20 quid a minute to be confused, bloated, and far from their Soho flat or house in Surrey.
Being at the Test match means you cannot hear a French referee murmur his thoughts about angles and harm. In each section, one or two investment bankers have supernatural 5G connection and inform the general vicinity what Twitter has pronounced.
“Hands in the ruck, they say. Bloody French frog reffing next week, today.”
In person, you are subjected to relentless ref-bashing. The Irish boy to your left, dressed like he is in Top Gun, complete with unnecessary aviators and a leather flight jacket, is screaming for another red card. The lads behind him are tracking how bent the same referee is, and start to call the Irishman ‘Maverick’ and order him to sit down. He squats in the aisle, spreading his cheeks.
“Kiss my hairy …” You know the rest.
Perceived injustice. Righteous victims all. And freedom to spew bile.
Live, you miss perspective. Every Garryowen looks like a bomb. Breaks seem wide, until they aren’t. One clean break by England in the whole game, created by an absurdly forward pass; and afterwards, when I looked at the stats one lacks in the match, I was actually surprised England ran for 214 meters (Ireland: 555).
Speaking of stats: live, all you can do is guess.
I was pretty accurate about the Irish-dominant ratio of passes (192 versus 69) and offloads (11 to four) but given the volume of ref-bashing around me, I did not get the penalty count right. It turned out it was a 15-8 ratio, which is rather extraordinary.
Turnovers (17) and penalties kept England alive till ten minutes left. But in the stadium it was all about the clock and the kicks.
If Marcus Smith kept making the goals and time kept ticking, the English portion of the stadium believed. But the dam broke.
Being there forces delayed gratification: the foul trough at halftime, the pasties from Cornwall or elsewhere, the Guinness and Becks after an eternal queue, and the staggered departure.
But being there gives you more than it takes.
The sound of the moan of tens of thousands for a tiny mistake. The swell of the roar as a chance comes at last: Freddie Steward with the intercept that wasn’t. The wry laughter as Joe Marler banters with the bobbies. The smell of those pasties in your pocket and the way they pair with the dark glass of goodness.
The beckoning sky heralding a match to be. The sight of the old warrior, Johnny Sexton, calmly taking five-degree shots at the poles before his last Twickenham rodeo. The impossible sheen of the pitch. The sight of Courtney Lawes and Maro Itoje both tackling the same man at the same time and feeling that crunch.
The quicker sight of a kick being a spiral. The truth of how narrow the gaps are for Jamison Gibson-Parks to slither through. The giddy height of the poles as the sun falls. The kindness of strangers who turn with a smile and a shared observation.
I will always make the pilgrimage. It is worth it to see and hear it and even smell the contest. Gain line and tackle power is sensed. Momentum adheres and adjusts. That television commentator cannot infect your view, and soon, the cacophony of the near crowd blends into a blurred brew of atmosphere.
Maverick bought beers for the lads behind him in the end. Hands were shook: elbow patches and bomber jackets, chinos and jeans.
Two hours or so in a citadel of rugby, where cabbages once grew.
You can always watch the replay if you want, but you cannot televise the feeling of being there, in the flesh, paying the price, and rolling the dice.
Nicholas Bishop
Expert
Typically hyperbolic comment FB. And I'd bet, a made up faction based on no actual experience :laughing:
Khun Phil
Roar Rookie
Yes,KCOL,I was looking for somewhere to hide in the first 10 minutes,but amazing how a gold try can restore the confidence!
Derek Murray
Roar Rookie
Pretty sure that’s right
Derek Murray
Roar Rookie
No. In the 90s I think. Would have been 5N
Check-side for the boundary
Roar Rookie
That wasn't in 1973, was it ??
FunBus
Roar Rookie
Yes, Cardiff is great, Nick – unless you’re English, of course, in which case you’re almost certain to come out of the ground covered in phlegm, beer and, if you’re unlucky, urine. Then an interminable walk to where you’ve managed to stash the car wondering what humourless, drunken, knuckle-dragger will work out your English and demand a fight because we stole all his great grandad’s coal. :sick:
Sgt Pepperoni
Roar Rookie
And then you sell your child to buy a beer at the ground
Sgt Pepperoni
Roar Rookie
Aussie rugby crowds are pretty dull. Quiet applause and prioritizing leaving to beat the traffic is the Sydney experience. Give me a six nations crowd any day
Derek Murray
Roar Rookie
We love kicking off at the Crown. Good food, great beer garden, go service. Avoid the inside catering. 30 minute walk to the ground after to get rid of the steak/beer/wine. If you can do a late evening, return after. During the WC, on a QF weekend I returned on Sunday and was reminded of my performance the previous evening when I fell asleep in front of the fire. Highly recommended
Sgt Pepperoni
Roar Rookie
Keep going over the rail bridge and you come to one - the cabbage patch. Good spot to grab a pint and wait for the train queue to abate (takes quite a few pints for that to happen). At spring tour you might be lucky and find another match televised post the twickers game
Sgt Pepperoni
Roar Rookie
I've met a few people who live near Twickenham and they uniformly grow to dislike the rugby as an army of people descend on their suburb. The queue to the trains after the game is a wonder to behold. I seem to remember the locals getting some sort of small compensation like a ticket per year or a ballot to get a ticket per year?
CW Moss
Roar Rookie
While I'm on a bit of a roll re Twickenham. After the Wallabies game in 1998 Rod, my old teammate from Collaroy Plateau Primary School invited me into the dressing room and took me round to shake hands with John Eales, George Gregan, David Giffin, Richard Harry who all looked at Rod "who the fcuk is this guy?" until we got to Joe Roff. "What's your connection, Geoff?", "I played with Rod in the Collaroy Plateau U12's". "Was he any good?". "He's a better coach!". :stoked: :happy:
adamv
Roar Rookie
My Dad and I went to the Sydney 7's in 2016, and then plus my uncle and one of my cousins in 2017. We walked down from Oxford Street to the SFS, and had two weekends of the most fun. If you have not been with 45k people singing Sweet Caroline (Da, Da, Da!) or Living on a Prayer, you haven't lived. There was a bugle player in the crowd and in the Aussie vs South Africa semi, he played the first four bars of Waltzing Matilda. Even if you don't like the games (and there was 48 of them!), the event, the spectacle was more than entertaining.
Digby
Roar Guru
Love it
Kashmir Pete
Roar Guru
Harry Many thanks, great read. Cheers KP
Francisco Roldan
Roar Rookie
Don't lose hope in literature and keep traveling...! Ultimately it is the same thing.
Harry Jones
Expert
As I went from Neath to Cardiff to London to Twickenham to California in the space of 36 hours, I feel like I am a Jules Verne character about to expire!
Francisco Roldan
Roar Rookie
Tremendous chronicle Harry...! Misrepresenting our unforgettable Jules Verne, we could talk about Around the Day in eighty worlds starting at Twickenham, right...?
itsgoodtobelucky
Roar Rookie
You ever heard of 'la peña baiona'... ? Sung by Bayonne fans waiting for the teams to run on https://youtu.be/iHbxI0XeyMk Raises hairs on the back of your neck and from the comments it seems most other French clubs fans love it too Great article Harry :thumbup:
Harry Jones
Expert
Forrestsrs Arms yes oh yes. And the sweet walk to the old lady.