The 2007 Rugby World Cup - what next?
October 16th 2007 17:21
Apart from the newspapers and TV, which, depending on your language and nationalty, either mourned the sad French defeat or celebrated the happy English victory, Sunday Paris seemed untouched by the turn of events at the tournament that has been the talk of the town for weeks now; the galeries along Rue de Rivoli swarmed with the usual weekend tourists; the cafes around Palais Royal were crowded with the same old Sunday brunchers and lunchers and in the Jardin des Tuileries, Parisian families strolled the allees, old chaps in berets dozed in chairs by the bassins and lovers lay in the grass behind the hedges as they always do on any fine, sunny day off.
Only the plastic beakers in the gutters along the Rue de St Honore and the sagging banners welcoming "les assoiffees du Rugby" hinted at the fever that had surged through the city yesterday and at the sorrow drowned or victory toasted last evening. Gone were the Chabal wigs, the strange blue head-dresses and the Quinze de France jerseys, gone too, were the knights, the Doctor Livingstones, the bowler hats and most of the English jerseys A handful of optimistic Argentinians sambaed through the streets and only marginally more visibly South African figures swaggered by. The mood was subdued, the party, it appeared was over. Even, the metro crowd, though coloured by more green, yellow, blue and white and of course the contingents of Kiwis and Aussies here till the bitter end, was just a big crush of people going somewhere. It had no obvious flavour or purpose.
The lines of people selling tickets began outside the Railway Station at St Denis and continued all the way to the gates of Stade de France. There were hundreds of them - French, New Zealanders, Australians. It didn't look good for the game. Inside, for the first time in this tournament, as the crowd stood for the anthems, I looked down on rows of empty seats. As I had feared, the game lacked, well, everything - drama, excitement, fun. A few minutes into the second half, for the first time since my infancy, I fell asleep. Really! Perhaps it was the pre-match beer, perhaps it was the previous nuit blanche, perhaps it was the cumulated effect of weeks of anticipation and excitement, perhaps it was delayed jet-lag, or perhaps it was just the - yawn, zzzz, dead boring game.
We left fifteen minutes before the final whistle, something else I've never done before, and made our way back to the station, through more lines of people, French, New Zealanders, Australians and Argentines, this time selling tickets to the final. It doesn't look good for that game either.
Argentina flies the flag
Only the plastic beakers in the gutters along the Rue de St Honore and the sagging banners welcoming "les assoiffees du Rugby" hinted at the fever that had surged through the city yesterday and at the sorrow drowned or victory toasted last evening. Gone were the Chabal wigs, the strange blue head-dresses and the Quinze de France jerseys, gone too, were the knights, the Doctor Livingstones, the bowler hats and most of the English jerseys A handful of optimistic Argentinians sambaed through the streets and only marginally more visibly South African figures swaggered by. The mood was subdued, the party, it appeared was over. Even, the metro crowd, though coloured by more green, yellow, blue and white and of course the contingents of Kiwis and Aussies here till the bitter end, was just a big crush of people going somewhere. It had no obvious flavour or purpose.
The lines of people selling tickets began outside the Railway Station at St Denis and continued all the way to the gates of Stade de France. There were hundreds of them - French, New Zealanders, Australians. It didn't look good for the game. Inside, for the first time in this tournament, as the crowd stood for the anthems, I looked down on rows of empty seats. As I had feared, the game lacked, well, everything - drama, excitement, fun. A few minutes into the second half, for the first time since my infancy, I fell asleep. Really! Perhaps it was the pre-match beer, perhaps it was the previous nuit blanche, perhaps it was the cumulated effect of weeks of anticipation and excitement, perhaps it was delayed jet-lag, or perhaps it was just the - yawn, zzzz, dead boring game.
We left fifteen minutes before the final whistle, something else I've never done before, and made our way back to the station, through more lines of people, French, New Zealanders, Australians and Argentines, this time selling tickets to the final. It doesn't look good for that game either.
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