Nantes, France, Saturday at lunchtime. Cold beer, warm sunshine, and hot food have formed a glorious union to thaw those gathered in the picturesque Place Bouffay. As a particularly dishevelled band of England rugby fans lumber into view, loud cheers greet their colorful, if ridiculous, Hawaiian costumes.
The youngest of their number, in a shirt with "Tour Slave" emblazoned across the full girth of his quarter-aged spread, then plants a kiss on Austin Healey — a former rugby professional turned media analyst — who is wearing rollerskates. The collective are connected.
Over the next two hours, to a soundtrack of The Beatles and a backdrop of 17th century architecture, rugby pilgrims from Taunton to Toronto launched themselves into World Cup festivities with the vigour of Sébastien Chabal attacking a ruck. Despite the heady atmosphere, a less savory form of ruck was far from their minds. Even the ever-hilarious English take on La Marseillaise was received warmly by French fans, and all and sundry join for a rousing rendition of Flower of Scotland accompanied by a bagpiper.
As the throngs gradually dispersed towards trams for the Beaujoire Stadium, a huge screen began coverage of South Africa versus Tonga. Those without tickets settled in for the afternoon, safe in the knowledge that watching rugby upon Nantes' cobbled streets, drenched in the afternoon sun, would be a significant experience. We knew we would find them in the same spot, decidedly less coherent, about four hours later.
Getting to and from the stadium was devilishly simple. Those who have stood in tube queues for hours at Twickenham or Wembley felt spoilt rotten. This was how it should be done. The French police were not only civil and rational, but at times tried to be funny — most notably when teasing the well-organized lines with dummy whistle blows to signal their forward progress. This was subtlety and guile beyond that which our England backline could muster.
After the match, we returned to Place Bouffay and revelry took flight. "Urban rugby" was inevitable and soon huge up-and-unders were raining down upon the square. Street line-outs were forming as quickly as friendships and anything close to rugby ball size was being thrown backwards. Restaurants were buzzing with excited conversation and wine was being consumed in prolific proportions.
What was abundantly clear is how well France does debauchery. The police emphasis was on freedom and mutual respect. Few, if any, crossed the line, and when they did, their friends were on hand to right to situation. Scores of students dressed in Barbarians shirts worked as World Cup guides to ensure even the most debilitated reached their desired destinations. There was much here for the 2012 London Olympic committee to appreciate.
As the day drew to a close, we could reflect on a trip which would stay long in the memory. Bathing in the heady atmosphere, the man next to me raised his glass to the sporting utopia upon which we had stumbled. Content with his world and everything in it, he turned to his friends and raised his match ticket alongside his beer. "Remind me again why we did his," he said.
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