“Can I pinch one of your fags?” We wouldn’t have minded if she was fit, or even close to being fit. But like throwing a bone to keep a potentially dangerous dog from getting too close to us, Mark nodded and let her help herself to one of his tailor-made. We waited for her to make for one of the exits before we dived back into our SA Gold ales, but she didn’t leave. She just stood there, and we didn’t want to be seen with her. “My best friend died today” she said, “she was 33 – can you believe it?” As it happens, we could, but it was neither the time nor the place to be telling her. “They found her in the shower”. Just how she died, or how she came to be in the shower is something we didn’t hang around to find out, not after the day we’d just had (although admittedly, neither of us had just had our best friend die in the shower that evening to be fair). How apt and ironic that the pub should be named, The Retreat.

If hard cheese was sold in supermarkets, I’d be having the ‘Buy One Get One Free’ deal; the buy one -organised trip to the fabulous Millennium Stadium to watch sheep shearers battle against sheep shaggers, boys’ weekend away and have a picnic on the way – get a disaster free deal.
Picnics are great and I love a varied spread from a hamper, preferably on a blanket, in a wide open space, under a hot sun, as the sound of Gypsy Kings echoes from across the lake in Kenwood Park. But a picnic -without the Pimms- on a train with a beer-guzzling barfly from Brisbane is two stops up from Upton Park on the District line. And here’s the piquant twist: a picnic (without the Pimms with an ale-thirsty Aussie) on the wrong bleeding train.
Try buying two tickets -First Class- to Cardiff and subsequently missing that train. These would have been the first class seats upon which the picnic would have been a blast, perhaps whilst flicking over pages of Country Living as one decides whether to pop in a green olive (with garlic) slip in a black olive (on its own) or crunch on a mini bell pepper (stuffed with cream cheese). If only I had looked at the Paddington to Cardiff tickets to see how much bar time we could afford before departure. Frankly speaking I’d rather choke on a cracker, but that would never have happened as we also had Brie to spread over them – oh how the other passengers in coach D loved it when we ripped open that packet of pungent President.

After strolling into Paddington thinking we’ve got a leisurely hour to bury a tasty beverage before embarking on a four hour journey to watch the All Blacks whoop some Welsh backside, only to realise that the 1315 departure time was the return ticket from Cardiff Central. It was time to panic. But only for another 10 minutes or so (and an additional 70 English Pounds). Sheila said there’s another train in 15 minutes which she can get us on so we can get back to being on on our merry way without too much ado. Bang went the comfy seat in first class though, but at least we were still on time to see the Haka (from two near-the-front seats on the halfway line, right?). We had just averted a disaster and we were back on course. Or at least, so it seemed. The muffled voice of our train driver announced, ‘This train terminates at Swansea’ (funny how they can switch accents immediately after Bristol Parkway. Cardiff was the penultimate stop; we’d bought ourselves a few tinnies and our station was three hours away. Enough said.

As we approached the city of Cardiff, the people in our carriage resurrected themselves from their lazy slumber to reach for their coats, hats and scarves. We followed suit too, and to make sure I had the game tickets in my hand as we head for the stadium, I rested them in the seat pocket in front of me, neatly in an envelope. Gotta get myself together – we’ve got valuable time to make up! Coat on, hat on and rucksack down from the compartment. The train stopped and there was a cheer of excitement as everybody deftly made for the exit doors. This was going to be the first time I would be seeing the mighty All Blacks play, and to witness the Haka so close -almost within touching distance- was making me do my own version of the Maori war dance (only without the aggression). Getting out of the station took seconds and we had about 15 minutes to get ourselves into the stadium -preferably seated with a beer- before the national anthems started. Time to check which gate we should be looking for…
It was at that precise moment, my heart started to make its way up towards my mouth. Just as it passed where my tonsils used to be, it did a sharp U-turn to head towards my backside.
“You haven’t have you?” Mark didn’t need to ask me the most rhetorical question, ever.
Two near-the-front seats, on the halfway line… to see the All Blacks; the Haka, never mind the 70 quid each. I’d left the pair of them on the train. The train that was now well on it’s way to Swansea. I weighed up the chances of getting to Swansea in a cab, meeting the train, grabbing the tickets and making it back in time for kick-off. But unless the cab was a DeLorean DMC-12 driven by Marty ‘Nigel Mansell’ McFly, there was no way I’d even get past the cab stand in time. By now, Mark was blue in the face. Partly from the cold, but mainly from not breathing enough as he laughed himself to near death (I’m just thankful there were no showers close-by). With ten minutes ’til kickoff, we needed to think and act fast: “Ticket office – where’s the ticket office?” A mounted policeman pointed out where we would learn of our fate, “Sorry mate, we can’t re-issue those tickets. You’ll have to buy two new ones if you want to get in”.
If I had time to spare, I would have taken the taffy ticket tosser to task over his profiteering ways. Onwards and upwards into the concrete bowl to witness the Haka. So much for the ringside seats: we ended up behind one of the goals as the New Zealanders huddled together.. with their backs to us. It’s a good job there were screens in the stadium.
Next time, I’m watching it on the telly.