If you’ve never experienced the joy of twenty-odd university rugby lads attempting to navigate post-apartheid South Africa with more enthusiasm than brain cells, then pull up a chair and grab a Castle Lager. For the love of Francois Pienaar, this is a tale that needs telling.
The omens for chaos were set early when the coach window decided to make a break for freedom somewhere between the airport and Warmbaths. Thank God for Ben Lowe’s quick hands – probably the most important catch of the tour as he grabbed the escaping window before it could introduce itself to the tarmac at 60mph. Not all heroes wear capes; some just have exceptional reaction times and a healthy fear of being windswept.
Speaking of Warmbaths (now Bela-Bela for those keeping up with modern names), nothing quite prepares you for playing rugby against farm boys who look like they bench press tractors for fun. The natural hot springs were a blessed relief after they’d finished rearranging our skeletal structures. Top tip: when a South African prop forward smiles at you before a scrum, it’s not because he wants to be friends.
The tour took us to Amanzimtoti Rugby Club near Durban, where we discovered that humidity and hangovers go together about as well as our scrumhalf and sobriety. But sweet mercy, did they know how to host a post-match party – their braai and poitjiekos (that’s a traditional stew for the uninitiated) almost made us forget about the beating we’d just received. Almost.
Swellendam Rugby Club introduced us to the concept of homestays and my host Jacques took pre-match hospitality to new heights when he introduced us to Mampoer, a local firewater that makes paint stripper taste like orange squash. The night ended with us hosing him down in his own garden while his long-suffering wife called down from an upstairs window, probably wondering why she’d agreed to host these mad English boys in the first place. The next day’s match was… well, let’s just say nobody was playing at their peak. But we made up for it at the post-match festivities with a full rendition of American Pie – all eight minutes and thirty-two seconds of it, without a phone in sight. Don McLean would have been proud. Or possibly horrified.
The Port Elisabeth Harlequins match deserves its own chapter in rugby folklore – not for the rugby mind you, which was forgettable, but for the moment someone in the crowd decided to wave a gun around. Nothing quite focuses the mind like the sight of a firearm during a line-out. Still, in true rugby spirit, we recovered our composure enough to treat the streets of PE to a walking rendition of Father Abraham on our way back to the hotel. Because nothing says “we’re not fazed by near-death experiences” quite like twenty English lads doing synchronized dance moves through downtown Port Elisabeth.
Cape Town was where it all came together. Led by our fearless captain Rob Allard, we finally managed to put together some half-decent rugby and actually won a game. The squad – featuring the likes of Mark Ruddall, Matt Punch, Alex Ritchie, The Mekon (some nicknames need no explanation), Andy Jackson, and Jez Follett – even dominated in that most crucial of rugby skills: the boat race. Undefeated champions, thank you very much.
While some of the lads headed up Table Mountain (show-offs), others of us found ourselves in the Hard Rock Cafe sharing drinks with the Surrey Cricket Team. There we were, trading stories with the Hollioake brothers, Graham Thorpe, Alec Stewart, and even Carl Lewis, trying not to look too starstruck. Though I’m pretty sure our captain tried to demonstrate a lineout call after his sixth Castle Lager – the cricketers were suitably unimpressed.
Cape Town itself was a city of contrasts – none more striking than the unfinished flyover that just… stopped. Mid-air. Like someone had run out of money halfway through a game of SimCity. It became our running joke of the tour – much like our lineout calls.
For some incredible reason, we managed to blag our way into Newlands Stadium for a tour. Running out onto that hallowed turf, several lads attempted their best Joel Stransky impressions. Let’s just say South African rugby had nothing to fear from our drop-kicking abilities. Though I’m pretty sure our fly-half’s attempt is still orbiting somewhere over Cape Town.
The cultural highlight had to be our visit to KWV winery in Stellenbosch. Nothing says “refined wine tasting” quite like twenty rugby players attempting to use phrases like “subtle bouquet” and “delicate finish” while trying not to neck the samples in one go. The sommelier’s face was an absolute picture, bless her.
At Mabula Game Reserve, our front row forwards on horses looked like a circus act gone wrong, but somehow we managed to avoid becoming lion lunch. The horseback safari guide had the patience of a saint, especially when our loose forward kept shouting “SIMBA!” at every animal he saw.
Looking back now, the rugby scars have faded (mostly), the hangovers are distant memories, and some of us can even look at Castle Lager without wincing. But the memories? They’re as fresh as that first bone-crunching tackle in Warmbaths.
To the Southampton Rugby Class of ’97, wherever you are now: I raise a glass of KWV’s finest to you!
And to South African rugby – thanks for not killing us. We know you could have.
Deano's World 