Love is egg shaped…or is it?

I have a list of sporting venues and events I wish to see. On that list is Twickenham the home of English rugby. Some of my die-hard football fanatics had given their input on my decision to go. “Is it so you can stick your private part in a pint of Tetleys”, “It’s the strangest game with lots of handbells”, “The ref keeps pointing in the wrong bloody direction” etc. I’ve always quite enjoyed watching the six nations and Johnny Wilkinson’s drop goal to win the 2003 world cup is up there with my top sporting moments. My experience with the people that played rugby at university had been one of bemusement. Often seen vomiting into buckets or wearing very strange headgear. The cynical side of me did expect the crowd to be made up of wobbly mole’d Etonians that enjoyed nothing more than a linked arm sing-song of Jerusalem. I wasn’t disappointed.

First a warning to anyone traveling to Twickenham by train. DON’T. It’s a mission and a half. The journey from Twickenham station to the ground is a good 15 minutes walk. This part of the journey was made worse by the pouring rain. As you meander through the residential area you are welcomed by homeowners selling hot dogs, doughnuts, and hog roast. A really nice touch.

The Mrs and I arrived at the ground with an hour and a half to spare. It was OK though, as there are plenty of food, merchandise, and alcohol vendors around the perimeter of the ground. I spotted a merchandise stall selling the Lion’s red tour jersey for a discounted price, so I joined the very ad hoc queueing system. What made it worse was the number of school kids (presumably from Rugby clubs around the country) pushing in and causing carnage. It wasn’t just the kids though, adults also with the manners of a Mexican pimp were pushing in left right, and center. I remember thinking “Gentleman’s game eh?”. Eventually, I got the opportunity to shout “Large Red Lions Jersey Please” to the spotty youth behind the counter. The transaction was made and I was on my way. Better check the size…XL. RAGE!!!

I go back and push into the front waving the shirt. Eventually, I get the guy that sold it to me’s attention. “You sold me the wrong size”. The spotty oick went to get his supervisor. “You need to go to the club shop to get it changed” the supervisor shouts. Bloody Brilliant. The stress levels have erupted. Cursing ensues as I make my way around the other side of the ground to find the shop. We get to the shop and the queue is even bigger than the previous one. I tell the guy guarding the exit door my dilemma, but he wasn’t interested and told me I’d need to join the queue. “We’re leaving!” is my reaction.

The Mrs said, “No we’re not and grabs the jersey”. Forcing her way to the front of the initial merchandise stool she demands either a refund or the correct size. Nothing quite like a woman’s scorn to get the job done. Needless to say, we ended up with the correct size, but the tensions were still running high. We’ll laugh about this one day…mmmm. We decided to take our seats and enjoy the rest of the day.

Twickenham itself is a lovely stadium and I’ve never heard such a stirring rendition of God save the queen. The game itself was very very poor. People around the ground were more interested in whether the numerous paper airplanes could make it onto the field of play. The only highlight of the first half was the precision kicking of Johnny Wilkinson. The second half was a lot livelier than the first, with several great plays causing me to stand from my seat for the first time. Eventually, England managed to break through the resilient Argy defense to score the only try of the game. In the final moments of the game Argentina was pushing for the try as England managed to hold on.

If we thought getting to the ground was a pain we had a treat waiting for us on the journey back. The overground service didn’t run at the same regularity as the underground services you normally find situated near these venues. It took well over an hour to get from the ground to the train station. This isn’t a massive gripe as I’d expected this, the Mrs however was not impressed. Eventually, we get our train home, stop at the local curry house, grab a bottle of wine, and then we are home.

Overall I’m glad I can say I’ve been and experienced it. I won’t be in any hurry to go back though. The atmosphere just isn’t the same at Rugby as it is at Football. Everyone always states that Rugby is such a happy friendly atmosphere, so much so that you can drink in the stadium. This is true because the game in front of them isn’t of the same intensity as that you experience with Football. I’ve been to some absolutely terrible Football games but the atmosphere has surpassed this 76,000 spectator spectacle. The behaviour of the people at rugby is also just as bad as football. The group of lads sitting next to the Mrs was having a farting competition…quite sophisticated high-brow stuff.