Memories – James Morton
My most vivid memory of my early years at Ventnor was my first (and only) trip to Bollene in March 1979. I had been playing for Ventnor for a couple of years having been conned into it by Piete Boudwijn with whom I worked with at Britten-Norman. I started in the newly formed 2nd XV. Dave Sedgewick was our skipper and the team was completely new and unproven but we did alright with some great backs like Paul Barker and Jeff Hose prominent. To start with I played openside wing forward since I was quick and fit in those days, but, gradually – as people cottoned onto the fact that I couldn’t pass, tackle, catch or kick – I gravitated to my natural, God-given position. Second row.
I’d started getting pretty regular run-outs in the first team during the ’78 / 79 season so, having sold a number of my few worldly possessions, I put my name down for the Bollene adventure.
Of course the drinking could start straightaway because the Isle of Wight ferry took thirty minutes to steam across to Pompey and was equipped with a decent sized bar. (This late lamented arrangement would often cost us a few points early in away games). The trip down through France was the usual combination of hilarity and boredom. I ended up in a card school with Al Fresle, Adrian Southcott, Paul Kennet and Jeff Hose. When Al got warmed up he dragged out the largest wad of notes that I’ve ever seen and started betting blind on hands of three card brag. This was pretty scary since my finances were strictly limited but Jeff was up for it and got a serious caning. He’s done alright since though . .
Arriving in Bollene was like a homecoming with people in the streets outside the Cafe le Paris. Because this was Ventnor’s second visit there were already strong friendships in place and the atmosphere was fantastic. There were to be two games, the seconds preceding the firsts. At this point the teams hadn’t been announced so when Len Down pinned the team sheets onto the cafe wall, I was well chuffed to see myself in the firsts – at no 8!
I took this news to the bar where I was approached by a little Frenchie. After the niceties – conducted in stilted O Level French – we had a conversation that went something like this
Frenchie “Etes vous dans the premiere equipe?”
JM “Oui monsewer”
Frenchie “Quel position?”
JM “Numero huit”
Frenchie “Formidable. Moi aussi. Premiere equipe, numero huit. Un celebration mon ami. Voulez vous un pastis?”
JM “Non merci, mon ami old mate. I’ve just eaten.”
Not deterred, my new best friend whistles up mon patron and orders deux pastis. But instead of slapping two Ginsters in the microwave, the chap gets out a bottle and fills two glasses and off we go. If this little chap can handle it, I am bloody sure I can, thinks I. However Len Down (our skipper) was already giving me the evils. Len was absolutely determined to win this game and was keeping a firm check on the more stupid of his flock – which included me of course. But of course there was no let up.
Jeff Hose and I were billeted with a couple called Patrick and Marie-Claire. Patrick was an ex-paratrooper who was not playing in either team since he had been banned for the season for whacking the ref. True. Marie-Claire bore a passing resemblance to Debbie Harry – causing Bob Freer to sing ‘Denie, Denie’ every time he saw her. She was charming but he was as miserable as an Irishman when the Guinness has run out. Because he wasn’t playing, his plan was to make sure Jeff and I were in no fit state to play as well – which, in my case at least, wouldn’t have made much difference.
We were an excellent singing party. Someone had come up with a song sheet which we worked our way through at every opportunity. The big number was ‘A Frenchman went to the Lavatory’ sung to the tune of the Marseilleuse and contained the most wonderful opening lines.
A Frenchman went to the lavatory
To have a jolly good sh*t.
He took his shoes and trousers off
So that he could revel in it.
They don’t write them like that anymore. It still makes me smile to remember the sheer enthusiasm with which we blasted it out while our hosts stood around with bemused expressions.
I think the match was on the Sunday and, as we had arrived on the Friday, Saturday was a day of exploration and for Len to try and keep us in a fit state. However the trip to some co-operative vineyard put him at a disadvantage since we worked our way along a line of wines. As you know you’re meant to spit the wine out when you go tasting, but I’m sure not many of us did. I think we then went to Orange to view some Roman ruins (it wasn’t us, honest).
One common-held ambition – as always – was to put a VRFC tour sticker on anything – whether it moved or not. That night in some bus-depot of a disco, we made a human pyramid to get one on the ceiling which almost counted for both teams when it collapsed. However my fondest memory is of Nick Sprackling standing in the middle of the road which was being used by mad locals as if it was the Mulsanne Straight trying to put stickers on every Renault and 2CV. Len almost had palpitations: Nick was his star open side!
The disco closed at about midnight and the only other incident was that Chris ‘Twid’ Attrill was bitten by a guard dog and ended up in hospital for a rabies test – the dog that is – not Twid!
However our host Patrick had no intention of heading home and Jeff and I were taken from one party to another with Len’s words of warning ringing in our years. Luckily we were drinking that bottled piss that the French purport to be beer, many of which we were pouring into plant pots and the like. We got home at about 6am and were allowed to sleep until 9. Bastard!
Because there were two games, we got to the ground early and watched the 2nds. I can’t remember whether they won or not but the atmosphere was terrific with a big crowd complete with cockerels and wine bottles. They kept chanting how the hated roast beef. Strange that. They even had a grandstand! We got changed and I went out to greet my new best friend and rival no 8. Of course he was nowhere near the changing rooms. He was among the spectators looking pasty-faced (or should that be pastis-faces) grinning at me like a bookie when the favourite falls at the first. And giving me the finger. Another bastard! I looked around at the emerging Bollene team and checked out the no 8. He was the biggest, ugliest bugger I have ever seen sporting a Martin Johnson brow strapped up in a headband with froth forming round his toothless gums. Why me?
We were then asked to form up and march onto the pitch where the brass band played the anthems (the Ventnor followers banging out their very special version of the Marseilleuse – shoes and trousers and all). Len gave us a last exhortation and then it was kick off.
Like most games I played in, I don’t remember much of the games apart from snippets (usually ‘cos the action was so far away!)
The first one was of going down on a ball and having their whole eight stamp straight across me. The ground was like concrete with a coating of emery paper and I felt every stud. It was probably the best thing that could have happened to me because it woke me up big time. I was privileged to be playing no 8 flanked by Nick Sprackling (remarkably almost recovered) on the open-side and Emile Rouby on the blind – which is rather like having a pedalo between the Tirpitz and the Bismark. They were utterly formidable and they raised my game no end. I also remember the first scrum with a crashing engagement from about five metres out and a smell of garlic to make Transylvania shut up shop!
The pitch was one of those multi-use affairs so it had all sorts of redundant lines on it. We had checked this out before the game and Len had drummed it into us not to get confused by them all. So who goes and scores ‘a try’ over the wrong line? Len of course – with me right next to him shouting, ‘No Len, wrong line. Wrong line!’ Len was certainly the best all-round player that I ever played with. He was really quick over the ground and had a booming boot – both out of hand and from a place kick. Within three or so years of Ventnor reforming, he had already passed the thousand point mark! Incredible! He was a great captain too and he was exceptional that day.
The teams slogged it out with the forwards knocking lumps out of each other at every occasion. But we also had a secret weapon. Our full-back that day was Marcus Evans. Marcus had just left Bembridge School and was obviously a star in the making. He was like lightening and kept making breaks that we forwards had to support. Selfish git. He ended up being rewarded with man-of-the match, which he celebrated with a glass of coke. He also ended up playing for Blackheath.
We traded a couple of penalties until mid way through the second half when we won a lineout just their side of halfway. Bob Freer threw, I caught it (honest) and got it out to Barry Pike like it was a hot coal. From then on it was just great hands. Pyke, Down, Biz Burrows, Marcus coming in from full back, Malcolm Rann and then out to Jeff out on the left wing. Jeff arced round his man and touched down under the posts. Dave Ball would have purred. Because the ground was so hard, Len couldn’t even dig himself a kicking tee so John Whitehouse held the ball for him and bang – over it went.
Now they went bloody berserk. We were under such pressure that we started giving away penalties and we witnessed that French speciality for the first time – the flying wedge (since banned). It was like being a Welsh guardsman on the walls of Rourkes Drift! But it gave me an opportunity to try something that Derek Harvey had taught me in training. “The only way to stop a flying wedge”, says the wise Derek, “is to get to it before it gets going”. His trick was to rush to meet it and throw himself sideways like a flying log and take them out at the ankles. I tried it that day and I can report that it works. They went down like one of those chariot crashes in Ben Hur. I can also report that it hurts like buggery and that I never did it again. It also confirmed a long-held belief: Harvey is a bloody nutter.
Somehow we held them out and the final whistle went with the score 12 – 6 to Ventnor. Len rustled up a bottle of beer from somewhere and I just poured it over my head. I was just so knackered and super-heated. Celebrations all round. Back in the changing room we began to compare wounds. Malcolm Rann won since his back looked like it had been thrashed by Captain Bligh. On a day when the good Captain’s piles were playing up!
We had a few beers in the changing room but things weren’t so rosy for Jeff and me when we set off to the mayoral reception with our hosts. Simply put, Patrick refused to talk to us – and wouldn’t let Marie Claire talk to us either. It was hilarious and Jeff and I sat in the back giggling like school kids in church. The reception took the form of the mayor handing out cases of unspeakable wine to each player called out in turn. I made the mistake of keeping one of my bottles for a ‘special occasion’ When the occasion eventually arrived – about a year later – it stripped the lining off by throat and took my voice away for a week! French revenge.
We finished the evening with a dinner and it all gets rather hazy.
The next day we headed for home and the only memorable thing was when we got close to customs in Portsmouth. The panniers of the coach were absolutely groaning with booze – supermarket beer and endless wine picked up at the co-operative etc and anyone who was still conscious began to worry about the reception we were going to get once me hit dock. Now in those days the coaches were pretty primitive. There was no loo so we made use of a barrel so that we didn’t have to keep stopping! This odious item plus the general debris of a returning rugby tour were on full display when the customs man came on board. He surveyed the wreckage, turned on his heel and actually ran out of the coach. No duty to pay!
Ventnor 1st XV v Bollene – Sunday 12th March 1979
Micky Buttle, Bob Freer, Joey Valvona, John Whitehouse, Piete Boudwijn, Emile Rouby, Nick Sprackling, James Morton, Barry Pyke, Len Down (capt), Mike Burrows, Malcolm Rann, Roger Bayliss, Jeff Hose, Marcus Evans. Subs Steve Hall and Nigel Harris.
Postscript. When Bollene came to Ventnor the next year (1980), friend Patrick was playing again and lined up for their 1st XV in the second row. He played an ugly form of the game. His favourite trick was to loosen his bind n the scrum and punch through the front row into the face of the defenceless hooker: Chris Bartlett looked like a panda after the game! He got away with it until Greg Jones decided that enough was enough. During a particularly busy maul there was a loud Gallic scream and when it broke up, friend Patrick was left writhing on the ground. “We won’t be hearing from that boyo again”, says Greg as he wandered away, wringing his right hand. I don’t know what he did but it sure worked and Patrick was taken off – much to the relief of both teams.
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