Sunday, March 13, 2005
The Welsh Are Here
- It's length. It was written as I recall it - and it was a long, long weekend.
- The graphic descriptions used to portray a day drinking at the rugby.
- The photographs of my compatriots and I in action. Mostly the ones of me though.
And so to the post.
There was no point in writing an entry for yesterday. The weekend started at 10am on Saturday and never finished until the early hours of Monday morning. With nothing but a brief eight hours break in between, the whole weekend is now, nothing but a blur. Thankfully though, I have photographs!
I was up early and donned my kilt - Royal Stewart for this occasion complete with Scotland top and my Glengarry with Black Watch flash - its first time on 'official duty'. I got the call from the Group Captain (GC) about 9am to say he and Craig (HRH) were leaving Glasgow by train and would be into Edinburgh for about 10'ish. I called a taxi, and waited not too long before it arrived.
"I thought the match was tomorrow," said the taxi driver when I climbed aboard.
"Aye, it is," I said.
"Whit ye all dressed like that for, like?" he said.
"Because the weekend starts here," said I.
"Didn't I pick you up last year?" the driver said suspiciously. "Ye were all kilted up then for the full weekend shift as well. Dropped you next to Filthy McNasty's in Rose Street didn't I?"
I laughed. "Quite possibly," I said. "It's Filthy's I want dropped off at today as well."
Amazing. Unlikely, even. But true.
I arrived at Filthy McNasty's and discovered it empty except for the half a dozen Welsh fans at the table against the far wall. It's a simple pub. Two small doors at either side with a small bar along the other, and a large screen on the wall next to it. The floor is old and made of hard wood and it is as simple a drinking bar you will get.
Filty McNasty's
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I ordered a pint of Tennent's Lager and waited for GC and HRH to show up. After almost an hour and well into my second pint, not only had I lost the table I reserved for us, but I was surrounded by 50 Welshmen all with hangovers and trying to shake the pervious nights drinking. One Scotsman in a kilt amongst a sea of red and green - I wasn't without conversation for long.
HRH finally arrived and we had our first drink together in a couple of months. GC had gone to his digs to dump his overnight bag and would join us in about an hour, which gave me and HRH time to catch up.
We left Filthy's to the growing numbers of Welsh and over to the Hogshead Bar, also on Rose Street.
The Hogshead
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More beer was partaken and we got a table at the back so food could be ordered. HRH enjoyed his first feed of the day - ham, eggs and chips while I sat and watched (having already eaten earlier).
Ham and eggs - HRH style (click to enlarge)
He ate all he could to "form a base" for the beer, then proceeded to belch the loudest and most vile-smelling burp I have ever had the misfortune to experience. I looked down our area of the bar to see a man and wife with their daughter (presumably) doing their best to stifle their laughter. Meanwhile, the smell of minging ham and eggs was playing havoc with my nasal passage, so I used the menu to waft it away.
"Don't send it this way!" the family man shouted, and they all laughed.
"He's just had ham and eggs as well!" I shouted.
"It was him that did it," lied HRH, pointing at me. "Cannae take him anywhere!"
Shocked by this attempt to pass the buck, I took hold of HRH's hand and summoned up the campest, most gay voice I could and said, "Surely you don't mean that, darling?"
The people in the vicinity spluttered on their food and drink and there wasn't a dry eye in the house.
The Kenilworth
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GC sent a text message to say he was in the Kenilworth Bar, so we made our over the road to meet him. I bumped into Tom, his mate and his father who was over from Ireland for the weekend and drinking in the bar as well. It was so busy and hard to move, even getting served was nigh on impossible. We cut our losses and went back to the Hogshead.
A nonchalant HRH (click to enlarge)
Inside, we found a place beside the bar where we could see the big screens and got more beers in. We teamed up with a bunch of Welsh fans and formed a raucous group, drinks and piss-taking all round in generous quantities. The pub was now packed to the rafters with people waiting to watch the first game of the weekend - Ireland versus France.
The Group Captain and me fearing the worst for Scotland v Wales (click to enlarge)
The Group Captain resurrected his tour tradition of sticking an old dart in his ear and walking up to strangers asking, "Did you throw something there?" It gets a great reaction every time.
The game kicked off with little fuss and the frolics continued. The drinks flowed well and by half time, I realised I had still to go to an ATM for money to last me the day. Everyone decided they would come as well and off we all trooped for money and to watch the second half of the match in another bar.
The GC and his tiny prick - note presence of dart in his ear (click to enlarge)
GC attempts to order a drink from the bar by text message (click to enlarge)
Wearing a kilt in Edinburgh isn't normally a risky thing to do. The cold is about as bad is gets, but ask anyone who was sitting in Starbucks while we all trooped past on the way to the next pub, and they might disagree. The wind took it upon itself to gust merrily up my kilt. Being a 'drinking kilt' (ie. Only intended for parties, stag or rugby weekends), it is made of a much lighter and cheaper material and you can pick one up for about £40. The wind blew and my kilt flew - up over my head.
The looks on some of the people in the coffee shop were priceless. If anyone still had any doubts as to the authenticity of the "what do Scotsmen wear underneath their kilt" question, there was no doubt in their minds now. Had it not been for the rugby, I would quite possibly have found myself on an obscenity charge.
We arrived at another bar back on Rose Street - the Gordon Arms.
The Gordon Arms
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Small and light, it wasn't too crowded and had a good crowd of Welsh, Scots and English in. The drinks were coming faster and furious and before long we were onto Vodka and Red Bulls.
Is there a game on? (click to enlarge)
The second hand kicked off with Ireland needing to win against France to keep alive their hopes of winning the Championship, in what is the penultimate weekend. They were good, but not quite good enough and the final score ended up Ireland 19, France 26.
The Irish started singing in glorious defeat and The Welsh in the bar responded with their own songs. The Scots kept pretty quiet because it was expected we not stand a chance against Wales the following day.
More drinks followed as did another game of rugby. The commentators switched from Lansdowne Road in Dublin to Twickenham in London for the England versus Italy game. England, with an issue of pride to re-establish started the game easily and never looked like they were troubled as they came in winners by 39 points to 7.
HHR and his rapidly diminishing hairstyle - unlike his belly (click to enlarge)
The game finished and the singing started again. The England fans in the bar rose up with their song, Sweet Chariots. Orchestrated by 4 Welsh fans sitting in the bay of the bar window, the Scots and the Welsh fans sung back with their famous little ditty, "You Can stick Yer F***ing Chariots Up Yer Arse!" song.
GC uses HRH as a bar stool (click to enlarge)
HRH starts to enjoy being used as a bar stool (click to enlarge)
Time was getting on and a new bar beckoned. As we all trooped, staggered and jumped out the bar into Rose Street, it became apparent the four lads in the window seats were getting the last laugh after all.
The Welsh get the last laugh (click to enlarge)
On the way to the next bar, HRH decided to accost some Welsh ladies in his usual, inimitable way.
How not to charm the ladies (click to enlarge)
We decided on Breck's Bar and joined the hundreds of rugby fans already inside and found a corner near the bar to get on with the party.
Breck's Bar
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GC discovers he might be quite drunk (click to enlarge)
With the time fast approaching nosh-time (dinner-time), there was some discussion as to the best way to proceed.
GC had decided he was going to head back to his overnight lodgings and get freshened up, and after much discussion, me and HRH settled on the Rose Street Chippy for dinner before heading back into Breck's Bar. Tom joined us at this point and started buying bottles of Champagne. Not the best of moves but it certainly went down well amongst the female Welsh supporters.
We drank vodka for a couple of hours before getting the call from GC to meet him in the Hopetoun Inn near the top of Leith Walk. HRH left to catch his train to Glasgow and left me, Tom and GC to keep the party going in the Hopetoun.
The Hopetoun Inn
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I stayed for a while, but whether it was the late hour or the awful karaoke in the corner of the room I still haven't worked out, but I started to long for my bed.
By 11'ish I felt I had done enough for the cause. I said my goodbyes and jumped into a cab for home, presuming I would be able to jump straight into bed. Not to be. I arrived back to find Gail entertaining some of her pals. What could I do? I ended up havnig a wee snack and cracking open a coupld of cans of beer and joining them in a drink.
I got to bed at 2am.
8 hours later I woke to the sound of my mobile phone ringing. It was the Group Captain himself, asking if I would be gracing his presence on the day of the big match.
I got up - slowly - and got dressed. Since everyone else had tickets for the match itself, I elected not to wear my kilt. The plan was for me to go out and have a couple of beers with everyone then go home and watch the rugby on the television when they all departed for Murrayfield.
I jumped into a taxi and made my way to Filthy McNasty's yet again. It was mobbed with Welsh fans. In fact, Edinburgh was swarming with them. The papers reported 45,000 Wales supporters had made the journey to Edinburgh for the game. If they win it, they are on target to win the Grand Slam.
I couldn't see GC or anyone else, but at the far end of the bar I spotted two old comrades dressed in kilts and battle gear - Donnie and Stevie. I haven't seen either since last April in Milan when we flew over to celebrate the GC's 50th birthday.
We moved from Filthy's to Bad Ass (don't ask)
The Bad Ass
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and then to Dirty Dick's (please continue not to ask)
Dirty Dick's
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before popping into Breck's Bar (again) to meet up with the GC. I had a couple of pints with the lads before seeing them off to the game. Just as I was about to find a taxi to take me home, I struck upon an idea.
I called my mate Zander to see if he was in town for the game. He was, and suddenly I wished I had worn my kilt again. We agreed to meet him in Sportster's Bar as soon as possible.
I got there first and had a beer while I waited. The Sportster's is a relatively new, modern bar in contrast to the bars spent in on Saturday. It cost several million pounds to install hi-tech audio-visual equipment throughout. Slowly, it started to fill up with a mix of Scottish and Welsh fans. The atmosphere was electric as we waited for the big game.
Inside The Sportster's Bar (click to enlarge)
Scotland needed a miracle. They have been a poor team for several years now and this year nothing short of diabolical. Most people expected Wales to win comfortably, and the Scots fans just wanted not to be embarrassed too much.
It wasn't to be. After 10 minutes Scotland had given away three tries. By the end of the first half we were being royally shafted. Our worst fears had come true and to say it was an embarrassment was an understatement of mega-proportions.
During half time we were treated to some tunes from a Tartan Army pipe band and a Welsh Choir. I sent a text message to Donnie five minutes into the second half. I wanted to know how he was enjoying the game (heh) but as I looked up saw a familiar face working towards me through the assembled crowd. It was Donnie - back from the game already.
Donnie arrives back early from Scotland's mauling by Wales (click to enlarge)
"Whit you daein' here?" I asked in astonishment.
"It's too cold out there. Besides - we're getting humped so we thought we weer better off watching the rest of the game in the warmth of the bar!"
Donnie and Stevie had only jumped into a taxi at half time!
Scotland played better second half and actually managed to score a couple of tries, so by the end we ended up getting hammered with al lost some small amount of dignity remaining. The final score was Scotland 22, Wales 46.
The pipe band returned when the game was finished and played for the bar, as did the Welsh choir. It provided a fantastic atmosphere and proved two nations can compete with fervour and passion and still share a drink after the game.
The pipe band in full skirl (click to enlarge)
The band dance round the bar (click to enlarge)
Stevie and Donnie headed off to another bar early leaving myself and Zander to keep things moving. We were waiting for the GC but he never showed, having left no time to get a quick final pint or two before heading off to get his train.
We had one more stop before the weekend was complete - Bar Kohl. Trendy and full of posh people, all smoking Marlborough Lights lit be silver flashy Zippos.
Bar Kohl
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There was a bloke at the next table who I thought was Julian Clary. Turned out he wasn't because Zander - in his infinite wisdom - asked him. He left shortly after.
We met up with some of Zander's pals and joined them at the table. My will was drooping though, and when they headed off to a nightclub, I decided enough was enough. I left to try and get a taxi, but as is always the case when the rugby weekend comes round, getting a taxi is never easy.
I walked from the North Bridge down to the Balmoral Hotel in the freezing cold. When I eventually flagged a taxi the driver informed me the temperature outside had dropped to minus 3 degrees.
I got home at about 1 am, freezing, starving and a just a tad drunk. Gail had left me out some food - what a darling - so I topped the night off with a slice of re-heated pizza and a cup of hot tea.
Then I hit the sack, and feared the worst for the next morning.