sports – Deano's World

Rugby: Stockholm, Sweden 2014 (The Force Was Not Strong Enough)

04/08/201402/12/2024Mark "Deano" Dean

In a galaxy not so far away (well, Stockholm to be precise), a ragtag group of rugby warriors descended upon the Stockholm 10s tournament in what would double as my last hurrah as a free man. The Titans RFC, disguised as various characters from Star Wars, brought their unique brand of rugby chaos to Scandinavian shores.

Our motley crew featured an impressive cast: Mark Dean channeling his inner Peter Griffin, Emma Mark & Laura Hughes both making a fantastic Princess Leia, and Terry Sands doing his best Yoda impression. The tournament started brilliantly, with the Force clearly on our side. Tanimo “Mace” Samoa lived up to his namesake Mace Windu with some purple-lightsaber-worthy runs, while Michael Adeniya and Dean Gardner formed a formidable storm trooper duo in the forwards. Temi Okenla, playing the odds as C3PO, orchestrated play from the backs alongside David Stanton’s Jedi-esque precision passing.

As we progressed through the group stages, our confidence grew. Paul Archer, David Fenlon, and James Doherty brought the kind of energy you’d expect from a Millennium Falcon engine room, while Michael Hooke and Olisa Ofudiama provided enough firepower to destroy a Death Star.

Photo by Daniel Storch
Photo by Daniel Storch

Then came the fateful semi-final against the Stockholm Exiles. We were up at half-time, playing some of our best rugby of the tournament. In what will go down as either the best or worst tactical decision in Titans history (depending on who you ask), someone produced a bottle of Sambuca during the half-time team talk. In true Titans spirit, it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time.

Let’s just say the Dark Side of the Force (and Sambuca) took over in the second half. Our previously tight defensive line began to look more like the disorganized Mos Eisley Cantina, and our attacking moves had all the coordination of a droid with a loose wire. The semi-professional Stockholm Exiles, probably wondering what exactly they were witnessing, took full advantage and eventually overcame our lead to knock us out of the tournament.

“We could smell the alcohol on you guys from the touchline”

Oriol Ripol: Head Coach, Stockholm Exiles

Despite the loss, the tour embodied everything great about amateur rugby: friendship, questionable decision-making, and creating memories that will last a lifetime (even if some parts of the weekend remain mysteriously fuzzy). The Stockholm 10s may not have ended with us lifting the trophy, but as a stag do and tour, it was an absolute triumph.

As Master Yoda might say: “Judge us by our Sambuca consumption, do not. Powerful rugby warriors we are… until half-time refreshments, we take.”

May the Force (and better half-time decision making) be with us next time.

NB: Wick Nakely (Not his real name) was absolutely, postively and most definitely not on this tour. Just ask his ex wife.

Rugby: Southampton RFC’s Kiwi Adventure ’99

28/08/199902/12/2024Mark "Deano" Dean

There’s something magical about touring New Zealand as a rugby player. It’s like making a pilgrimage to the sport’s spiritual home, where every patch of grass has probably felt the studs of an All Black legend. In the summer of ’99, Southampton University RFC embarked on just such an odyssey, carrying our English hopes (and livers) to the land of the long white cloud.

Our journey began in Dunedin, that southern stronghold of rugby culture. The famous Carisbrook Stadium – the “House of Pain” – loomed before us like a cathedral of the sport. We were there to face Otago U21s, and while the scoreline didn’t go our way, the real story began afterward at the Furry Goblet. It was here that we lost our first man to the legendary Kiwi hospitality. Our prop (who shall remain nameless to protect the guilty) found himself whisked away by a kindly cleaner after falling asleep in the club. The next morning’s tale of waking up to children bouncing on his bed asking “Who are you? you’re not our dad!” and his quick-thinking response of “I’m your Uncle Mike” has become tour legend.

The team wound our way northward through the South Island. Christchurch offered a brief respite before we caught the ferry at Picton, watching the stunning Marlborough Sounds slip by as we crossed the Cook Strait to Wellington.

Rotorua brought us the high point of our rugby campaign with our sole victory, but it was the cultural experiences that truly made this stop special. We were privileged to be guests at a traditional Maori hangi, immersing ourselves in the rich heritage of New Zealand’s indigenous culture. The naturally heated thermal pools provided welcome relief for our battle-worn bodies, the mineral-rich waters working magic on tired muscles.

After the match, we experienced the legendary Kiwi hospitality firsthand when my cousins Amanda and Paul Redley, transplants from the UK, welcomed our entire rabble into their home. There’s something beautifully surreal about thirty muddy rugby players crammed into a house on the other side of the world, devouring massive pots of chili and rice, followed by industrial quantities of ice cream. It was like finding a slice of home 12,000 miles from where we started.

The adrenaline pursuits in Rotorua kept us busy between matches – hurling ourselves down concrete tracks on street luge, spinning ourselves silly in giant hamster balls called Zorbs, and scaring ourselves witless on a massive free-fall bungee swing. The whole time, we were one man down – our missing teammate having been delayed by the charms of a local lady in Dunedin, finally rejoining us with a sheepish grin and several unexplained hickeys.

The adventure continued at Lake Taupo, where we braved the Huka Falls in rafts and raced jet boats through impossibly narrow gorges. Some brave souls (after several confidence-building beverages) even took the plunge with a bungee jump into the crystal-clear river below.

Our final match against Waikato University in Hamilton might have been another loss on paper, but by then, the scorelines had become secondary to the experience. We wrapped up our tour in Auckland, scaling the Sky Tower for one last look across this magnificent country and raising a final toast at Viaduct Quay.

They say that what happens on tour stays on tour, but some stories are too good not to share. Our prop’s “Uncle Mike” saga and our teammate’s romantic detour have become part of Southampton RFC folklore, retold at every reunion with increasing embellishment. But beyond the rugby and the revelry, it was the warmth of the Kiwi people and the raw beauty of their country that left an indelible mark on all of us.

Looking back now, that summer of ’99 feels like a dream – a perfect blend of rugby, adventure, and the kind of mishaps that only seem to happen when you’re young and fearless in a foreign land. To my fellow tourists who shared those unforgettable weeks: here’s to you, to New Zealand, and to “Uncle Mike” – whoever he may really be.

Rugby: Southampton University RFCs South African Adventure 1997

01/10/199702/12/2024Mark "Deano" Dean

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.