Parkes Life: Fizzer in Geneva, blow up in Bordeaux, trapped in a train station and why the future is bleak for bra sellers

Looking to escape the Paris zoo for a few days, on a circuitous route to Lyon, a judicious piece of scheduling ensured a stopover in Geneva, at a hotel directly above a British themed sports bar.

That way I could be certain of watching South Africa versus Scotland and Fiji versus Wales with some atmosphere and kindred rugby spirit thrown in.

Colleague and host of The Roar Rugby Podcast, Brett McKay, wanted to know which side the local Swiss crowd would come down on, or whether they would be true to type, and remain neutral.

In a bar containing around 30 people, ‘neutral’ wasn’t the word for it. Perhaps they were too busy determining the optimal diameter of holes in cheese, or how to engineer the perfect watch, but nobody gave a rats.

There wasn’t a single person that I could tap on the arm and ask why Darcy Graham didn’t execute a basic draw and pass, or how much fun it would have been to sit next to Dan Biggar at half-time. They just weren’t interested.

While the tournament is off to a flyer in France, World Rugby clearly has some work to do to crack the Swiss market.

Perhaps Switzerland, for years a country so ‘together’ and organised, is drifting into decline. My train the next morning pulled out of the platform one minute late.

While World Cups are very much about moving on quickly from events of the past, and to keep punching forwards, just like last time in Japan, this second weekly wrap is an opportunity to reflect on some of the edgier or offbeat moments, both on and off the field.

The beggar per head of population ratio in Paris has changed since I was last here, and not for the better. Depending on which way you roll, that means a requirement for extra vigilance, or allowing extra time when out walking, for multiple trips to the ATM for change, or to buy food.

It’s a sobering sight, a product of too many economic, migration and societal factors to go into here. It’s also a pointer to where our own cities are heading, as anyone familiar with the Melbourne CBD in recent times will attest to.

Of interest in the lead-in was World Rugby’s announcement of a campaign to “protect officials and players from online abuse.” A worthy objective, no doubt, but what did this mean in practical terms? Were The Roar and other forums about to be shut down for the course of the tournament?

On cue, it didn’t take long for referee Matthew Carley to become the target of some hefty on-line abuse, for his handling of the Fiji vs Wales match. Yes, Wales should have had someone sat down well before they did. But the loss of perspective around anti-Pacific nations conspiracy theories serves no useful purpose.

Referee Matthew Carley shows a yellow card to Fiji’s Lekima Tagitagivalu. (Photo by David Davies/PA Images via Getty Images)

What stood out on the first weekend was the number of sides affected by injury, before a ball had been kicked in anger. France had lost their ram-raider Jonathan Danty, New Zealand the racoon-haired Jordie Barrett, Fiji their playmaker Caleb Muntz, and the Wallabies, any number of players.

It’s as if the tournament itself isn’t attritional enough, and any team who wants to be treated seriously, or needs an excuse for a loss, must knock their players around at training, then carry their wounded like a badge of honour.

Another big talking point was the furore over the Springboks’ use of a 7-1 bench against New Zealand in their warm-up match, with numerous people, including Australia’s ex-Scotland coach Matt Williams, and The Roar’s own, Spiro Zavos, whilst acknowledging the Boks’ entitlement, declaring it against the spirit of the law.

For this column, the only value was that it took the focus away from Eddie and Danny Cipriani squabbling over the latter’s sex life. Otherwise “Springboks play 7 forwards on the bench because they’re allowed to” didn’t feel like a story itching to be written.

As it happened, for their Marseilles opener against Scotland, coach Rassie Erasmus opted for a 6-2 bench; not because he felt that suited his side on the day, but because he’d been shamed into doing so. Right?

Oh, and before anyone takes me to task referencing “traffic light Rassie” instead of official head coach, Jacques Nienaber… yeah, pull the other one.

No better were rugby’s true values espoused than in Bordeaux by Dan Biggar; trotting off at half-time for a cup of tea and a lie down, before politely and rationally workshopping with teammates, a few of the ways they might best reconsider some of their decision making.

Anyone who ever doubted World Rugby’s ability to make things more complicated or difficult than they need be would not have been surprised by a couple of opening-weekend snafus.

Fans were herded in the heat like cattle in Marseilles, while the French and Italians in particular were up in arms at the decision to use recordings of school choirs for the national anthems. It’s fair to say that what may have seemed like a good idea on Bill Beaumont’s office whiteboard, ended up a little lacklustre and underwhelming in the delivery.

Never fear, with its finger on the pulse, in the decisive manner World Rugby is known and loved for, anthem changes were announced for round two. But who will think of the poor children?

For an unlucky few, including yours truly and The Roar’s intrepid editor, the media accreditation process proved a trial, including lining up in a queue, outdoors, on a 35-degree day, for over 2 ½ hours, only to discover an anomaly in the registration.

When that was finally sorted, and the long trek to the stadium media entry gate made, a problem with the bar-code scanner provided an officious security guard an opportunity to strut his stuff.

“Do mean to say, I’ve travelled halfway around the world to watch this match, and because your scanner is playing up, you won’t let me in?”

“Oui, monsieur.”

End of conversation. Well, except for the bit where I invited said gentleman to abscond to a quiet corner and make tender, passionate love to himself.

Two more trips back and forth to the registration centre – a formidable hike in the heat, having to push through swelling crowds – finally produced a barcode that the scanner would accept. But not before I’d lost two gallons of sweat and was redder than Barnaby Joyce upon discovering he now has to share an office with the Greens.

Oh, and not before Mark Telea had already scored the first try of the World Cup.

Things didn’t improve after the match, leaving the stadium late-ish after finishing the match article, to find myself, after another decent walk, along with another gentleman, locked inside a train station that had just seen its last train for the night.

Overcoming the language barrier, we pooled our ingenuity and set about trying to break out, only to be sprung by a security officer who – thankfully before drawing his weapon – agreed that it wasn’t our fault we had been locked in.

Trekking back to the stadium, I encountered pockets of fans, all train-less, all desperate like me to get to their hotels, running the gauntlet with capricious cab drivers selling themselves to the highest bidder.

It was then I stumbled across a dozen or so media personnel, at a meeting point for a so-called media shuttle bus; so-called because it never arrived. In retrospect, this turned out to be a good thing, after I discovered its intended destination was the Roland Garros media HQ; a squillion miles further out of my way.

There was nothing left to do but to lower myself to the level of everyone else and, in classic ‘Lord of the Flies’ scenes, I managed to fend off an anguished Japanese couple to be first into the back of a taxi, offering the driver a ridiculous amount of money, and the dejected couple the most piss-weak, hollow “I hope you get the next cab” salutation, that I just know Mr Karma will be calling me about soon.

Never before has arriving back from a game of rugby, well into the middle of the night, feet aching, drenched in sweat, to a shoebox of a hotel room without any air-conditioning, felt so luxurious and welcome.

Having learned that it’s impossible be fully immersed in such a tournament over seven straight weeks and stay sane, my first mini-break couldn’t have come at a better time. Nor at a better place; Italy’s Ligurian coast and my charming villa hosts an absolute winner.

And so, as phase one comes to a close, with sneaky Irish fans beside themselves with delight at how everyone already has France and South Africa locked in for the final, we look towards phase two, and how Cameron Woki (is he David Pocock’s favourite player?) has been named for France in their side to play Uruguay.

All roads lead to St Etienne on Sunday, and the eye-watering match-up that is Fiji versus Australia, where the Fijians have arrived at ‘last chance saloon’ far sooner than they, and most neutrals, would have liked. It feels like there are thrills in store.

Finally this week, because ‘Parkes Life’ is part rugby column, part community service, here’s an observation made for the benefit of readers who themselves, or their children, might be planning to visit France for an extended visit, who wish to obtain employment.

Being a Rothman’s or Benson and Hedges rep was once a status symbol in Australia. A solid salary accompanied a branded company motor vehicle – often a Kingswood or Falcon station wagon – and there was enough free product to keep one in mates for a lifetime.

Those jobs have since gone the way of halfbacks pinged for crooked scrum feeds.

But not in France. Demand for cigarettes is untapped, and if there is a health and safety movement extolling the dangers of tobacco smoking, it seems few people are listening.

One career to steer clear of however, is brassiere salesperson. To put it simply, there is almost zero demand, and no jobs available.