This post is my entry in Hadyn’s Field Theory: Rugby World Cup stories competition.  I’m unsure what category ‘smart arse behaves immaturely at world cup’ fits into, but here we go. I *did* warn him my entry would be largely about getting shitfaced.

This was the 1999 world cup of John Hart, new jersies and All Black front-row painted jumbo jets, not to mention hubris, over-confidence and pride before a fall. I was living in London at the time and had the ‘pool pack’ of tickets for NZ v Tonga in Bristol, the match versus England at Twickenham and NZ v Italy up at Huddersfield. We were a group of five chaps, mostly from Hamilton, all fans of rugby, travelling, drinking and average behavior. The match against Italy was a jumping off point for a couple of days away in northern cities.

Our bus from London took us along some of the most boring, scenery-free motorways known to man to Huddersfield in West Yorkshire. Alfred McAlpine Stadium is a charming stadium, situated in the middle of a charming business park – you sit nice and close to the action, and we cheered and carried on as the All Blacks racked up 101 points to poor old Italy’s 3. Cullen, Lomu and Osborne ran riot – even Dylan Mika got on the scoresheet. It was arguably the peak of the All Blacks’ 1999 campaign – next up was a lackluster quarter final against Scotland and THAT match versus the French. Anyway. Rugby is not really the point of *this* story.

Our little group moved straight out of the stadium to the business park tavern to watch Wales v Samoa on the telly. This was the accumulation period, in cricket terms, where a solid base of fizzy lager pints was laid down, while cheering the Samoans on to their second win world cup win against the Welsh. We weren’t feeling much pain at full time, and it was just a quick stagger to the bus to the train station, stopping only for a quick photo-op with a passing Glen Osborne.

The blogger with Glen Osborne. Companion’s identify concealed to protect the drunk.

I soon found myself wandering alone around a Huddersfield train platform, having lost my companions for a while – they were in the station McDonalds loading up before the night ahead, they told me much later (Cheers! You bastards). Having regrouped, we boarded a train bound for Leeds. This being the UK, it was dark when we got there, and we were soon slipping down Leedside streets fruitlessly looking for a pub – on the way we spotted a huge, flash-looking bus outside a flash hotel. “Wouldn’t it be awesome if that was the All Blacks’ team bus?”someone said. Cue Twilight Zone theme.

We ended up in the Leeds equivalent of a Lone Star, thoughtfully offering a two-for-one happy hour, where more accumulation ensued. From there it was on to a dodgy nightclub, an upstairs, no-windowed affair. Our group was busy being loud witty in a fashion you can only be after 16 pints of lager, when we noticed a group of improbably wide-shouldered guys in matching polo shirts and pleated pants making their way in – it was only the bloody All Blacks! Imagine their surprise, having carefully chosen accommodation away from Huddersfield and getting out to a wee nightclub to unwind away from the glare of a rugby mad public, to see us in our All Black gears with a slurry welcome.

We bowled over to the group of seven or eight players, seemingly lead by Josh Kronfeld and Jeff Wilson, to say g’day. Kronfeld was the friendliest, happy to pose for photos and accept any drinks on offer. Wilson was happy to talk, but seemed to have trouble relaxing, weirdly answering any questions as talking to a post match interviewer. I made a great faux pas, asking Greg Feek, who towered over me by about seven feet, who he was. “Greg Feek,” he said helpfully but sternly, before stalking away.

I was pretty impressed with some of the All Blacks players’ own accumulation, considering this was the middle of the world cup. If you remember, John Hart took the team away to the south of France (the next day, as it turns out) for  ’frolicking in the surf’ photo ops before heading to Scotland for the quarter final. I can’t remember if we left first, or them, but we were soon on our way – I remember thinking “Won’t it be great when we get home to New Zealand, we can say we were on the piss with the All Blacks when they won the 1999 world cup!” Ahem.

From there, we were back to Leeds station, to get the last train to Manchester, where we were staying. Just to add to the surreality of it all, we found ourselves sharing the lift up to our hotel rooms with Begbie himself, Robert Carlisle, and two lady-friends. “You’re Robert Carlisle!” I said. “No I’m not,” he said. It bloody was, you know.

This was the first of a three-day tour up north – from Manchester we went to Newcastle (“Hey, we’re over here from New Zealand, do you know our long lost cousin – his name is Alan Shearer?”) then Edinburgh (“I know, let’s spend the day in this ancient city having a head-to-head drinking championship of the world!”). It was a lot of fun. More fun than the rugby.

Friday night was Hamilton.

Sunday afternoon was Hamilton.

Last Friday I was at a ‘work’ ‘off-site’ at Eden Park – it was fascinating seeing the game preparations, with guys marking out the advertising on the grass, seemingly by hand, the Auckland team playing a raucous game of touch and the Waikato team later mooching around the turf like a bunch of bored teenagers at a shopping mall, taking it all in. It seemed to work for them.

Meanwhile, the big screen on the Western stand played an unidentifiable swords n goblin epic (Underworld?) DVD menu. All day.

The new Southern stand must be pretty close to being finished – it’s imposing. The new terraces (that now incorporate the old Panasonic stand) look much more sanitary than the old ones, at this stage.

More photos – the Southern and Western stands, the Southern and a little model of the whole thing.

Having embraced this revolutionary scanner technology, I’m going to fire up some photos from the vault. You can click on the photos to make them bigger.

This was one one of my best sporting days out ever – New Zealand v Australia in the 1999 Cricket World Cup in Cardiff. Me and three of me besht mates made the train trip from London the night before, and after an evening out dodging short, angry Welsh men wound up to punching point by pissed antipodeans trying to steal their girlfriends, we woke up and made our way to the ground. Possibly the biggest cheer of the day came early when then-Wales Rugby coach Graham Henry (still the Great Redeemer at that stage) and Raewyn came past trying to find their seat.

We had great seats, if a little side-on. Behind us sat an English cricket boffin in a ‘I got dressed in the dark’ pink shirt. He’d bought his hand written notebook of handy stats, and scribbled away happily all day. We’d get questions like “Whatever happened to random under-20 player that toured England seven years ago we didn’t have a fucking clue about? I thought he might have been playing?”. Bless.

Behind us and to the side – an Aussie wearing only a mullet and Aussie flag boxers – I shit you not. He had an amazing array of songs and chants and mixed it up all day, not repeating himself once*. We soon discovered the beer tent, and spent most of the accumulation period getting fairly arseholed under the warm Cardiff sun. I forget what we were having, but it was served in proper plastic pint glasses. Very civilised.

As for the match, Geoff Allot took out the openers, and except for Lehmann’s Micheal Beven-impressions, the Aussies had nothing, really. 213 was the target and the between-innings beer queue murmurings were cautiously optimistic. Until we came out and started losing wickets. The Aussies were going through us like Kim Hughes goes through tissues, until Roger ‘hero’ Twose and Chris ‘bloody hero’ Cairns started turning things around, taking singles until they caught and passed the run rate, and started playing shots. In the haze, I can remember Cairns twice hitting Warne back over his head into the river running behind the ground. Glorious. Cairns went with a dozen or so to go, but we were all but there.

When the winning runs were hit, there was nothing to do but run on the field. I turned to shake hands with Pink Shirt, and he waved me on, saying “Enjoy it lads”. We bloody did, getting the obligatory ‘lying on the pitch!’ (above), and the ‘in front of the scoreboard on the day we wasted the Aussies! The bloody Aussies!’ (below) photo ops. Then it was back to the train station for the three hour journey home with the Aussie fans. Nice.

Then we lost to Pakistan in the semi, the Aussies somehow won theirs, and they only went and won the bloody thing. Still, I’ll always have Cardiff.

*this isn’t true.

Friday, I was at Eden Park for the Cricket, but if this is Saturday, it must be Rugby.

Last year’s Super 14 was the testing ground for ‘Look, Ma, no All Blacks!’. This year we’re testing the Experimental Law Variations (or something). The players all looked like they’d been in the gym. There were some really big hits.

They’ll need to be fit, cos the new rules make the game FAST. There was lots of sevens-style chasing after the ball slowly, forcing the opposition to cover you all the way back.

There was a lot of kicking. The forwards spent much of the game wandering around the half way line like a Zombie hoard while the full backs and wingers played force back over their heads.

The Chiefs have a great team – Mils, Sivivatu, Anesi, Kahui, Donald, Leonard, Messam, Gibbes, Luaki, and Willis… that’s a really solid spine, with some real experience tucked in there. The only thing we’re missing is a couple of massive, hairy props, which is strange, as Waikato teams are usually renowned for its great hairy props.

Eden Park seems to be taking the threat of cinemas seriously in it’s bid to retain the title “Biggest, evilest rip-off merchant of the year, Food and Drink”. I’ll review the items one by one.

- Chips – these are OK. Still. Four bucks.
- Battered Hot Dog – Horrible, pitiful, pitiful amount of sauce, and a round stick. A round stick just seems wrong.
- Fish and Chips – I’d rather have gravel and chips than pay $8.50 for fish and chips at a rugby ground.
- Calamari and Chips – No way. Just… no way.
- Soft drink / water – Jesus, don’t leave yourselves short, will you?

Overall, it was a fun, low key night out, and Eden Park is not a bad place to be of a balmy February evening. The Blues will do well this year, and it’s only early days for the Chiefs. It did make me feel I need to make the most of what’s left of this summer, though.

Today, I’ll be posting photos on Flickr from Eden park, where England are playing New Zealand.

Watch the action unfold – and pray it doesn’t rain.

Check out the Sportsfreak feed also.

Tomorrow, instead of spending my best years sitting at a desk (I love my job, really), I’ll mostly be sleeping in then trotting off to the Cricket (if the rain stays away). Let’s see if we can wrap it up 3-0 and then play the kids. What? We’re beating them WITH the kids? OK then.

While I’m there, I’ll fire some insight (heh) through to the Sportsfreak. Their live blog of game two was a real larf and got picked up on the Guardian’s blog.

Actually, I’m just hoping to see the lights. I’ve been to two day night matches where it’s been all over before they’re even turned on. Come on, England!

Then on Saturday night, it’s Eden Park again for the Chiefs v the Blues. They will play a game called Rugby, you may have heard of it. Surreally, it’s that season again, seems like only yesterday I was wallowing in a black hovel of despair… Still, it’s not going to go away, and as much as I hate myself, I’ve got a nagging curiosity, and I’ll be interested to see the New Rules. I’ve got no idea what they’re about. It’s going to be a shambles. Nah, it IS far too early to be watching Rugby, isn’t it?

Here’s one I prepared earlier at The Aucklandista…

Cricket’s a summer bat and ball game invented by England but perfected by the West Indies, India, Pakistan and Australia (boo!). Being English, there’s a whole bunch of complicated rules, but they won’t concern you when you’re deciding if you can still eat a hot dog dropped in a beer. Keen to get involved? There’s an FAQ after the jump…

Read the rest of this entry »

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PICT0017, originally uploaded by richirvine73.

 

Waikato’s playing jersies hang in the window of their dressing room behind the South Stand at Eden Park.

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- Bluestone Room it was for England v Sweden at 7am. After negociating Auckland’s parking spots, we were in for 6.50am to order a ‘Beckham Big Breakfast’, an ‘Ericsson 4-4-2 omelet’, and a bottomless cup of warm brown liquid proffered under the description ‘coffee’. It was halftime before I saw my food, but otherwise they did an OK job, and no dodgy DJs at this hour. It’s fascinating to see people’s approach for these early games, from important looking guys in suits drinking pints, to backpacker types drinking pints like it was 7 in the evening. It’s hardly the town square in Hamburg, but it’s nice to watch with a crowd.
- This morning I got a text at 2.30am from a dodgy England fan in The Paddington, telling me he was tucking into his first Stella. Apparently there were 150 people there drinking piss at 3.00am of a Monday, and the atmosphere was electric. That is good action, and looks to be the nominated venue for England v Portugal – but I’ve got my own football to play the next day! Our forefathers died in the war so we can have these dilemmas.