Munster Fan’s Weekend in Cardiff
written by Whyohwhy
Dublin airport on Friday morning was busy, but not as busy as the last time I flew from there. There were 3 spare seats on the Aer Arran flying cigar tube with propellers, but the other 70 odd seats were occupied by Munster fans of all ages, all wearing something with red.
Reached Cardiff on time and headed straight to the city centre, it seemed to be a normal Friday morning in the city except that the pubs seemed quite full for midday. First we headed to the Prince of Wales pub near the bus station for a few bevies. The Dregs of English society were there, young mothers with prams drinking Smirnoff Ice, old men with fuck all else to do and tracksuit & Burberry baseball wearing teenagers, all of this at about 12:30. We would have left except for the 40 odd Munster fans there. No singing as of yet, probably too early. We met four Ulster fans over for their match that night and the final nice people; wishing us all the best. We started to get in the mood: pints were going down well (except for the Fursty Ferret, which smelt like a wet dog and tasted like it was fermented with mouldy socks), mood was good, everybody was cheery and the banter was flying.
We decided to head up Mary Street for a few more, went to The Cottage pub, place was jammers with rugby fans, majority were Munster fans, a few from Tullamore and other Leinster clubs and an odd couple of miscellaneous others (no Biarritz fans). Mood was massive in there, met a bunch of lads from the Kerry/Limerick border skulling pints like it was their first time away from the wives in years. A table full of lads from Limerick who drove down to Bristol on the Thursday started singing, when an old fella from Cork who was in exile in Tullamore came up to us to ask us to gather around the table of Leinster fans from Tullamore and sing at them, we duly did, it made the old fellas day, he said hed being putting up with banter from them since the quarter finals!! By the time we left Cardiff, I reckon I had seen about 5 Biarritz fans.
Friday finished up with a 40 mile train journey north to our hotel in Blackwoods (which is some shithole). More pints were had in various pubs with the locals; the first thing they said to us was What the fuck are ye doing in Blackwoods? Its shit! and I hate the English, me. After getting soaked waiting for a cab, it was bed.
Saturday will live long in the memory, it was a great day. Firstly, I awoke with pounding headache which was soon forgotten with the greasy full English breakfast and two prematch pints in the Cardiff blues rugby club. Songs were coming out thick and fast as people lubricated their vocal cords with beer. As half one approached we decided to head to the stadium to catch the prematch entertainment and the team warm up.
We made it to stadium (which is absolutely fantastic - better than Croke Park, in my opinion) for two o’clock. It was about three quarters full when Munster ran out for their warm-up at quarter past, massive cheers greeted them. The warm up drills were fast and looked snappy, saw one dropped pass. Jim Williams was there having a few words with the players. OGara was going through his kicking routine seemingly oblivious to the cacophony of noise which was gradually rising, partly due to the prematch entertainment and partly from the fans singing The Fields and roaring Munster, Munster.
Murty the mascot was walking around, throwing shapes. Conversation at this stage had disappeared amongst the 3 lads and me. My stomach was doing somersaults; the hairs were standing up on the back of my neck every time the singing started getting louder. The prematch entertainment itself was poor, it was hard to hear the singers; however, the Why Why Delilah karaoke and Mexican wave helped break the building tension and ease the fraught nerves.
The few pockets of Biarritz fans dotted around the stadium tried to start a few songs but were generally out sung by the masses of Munster fans. I didnt get to see much of the Biarritz warm up as I was down the Munster end. The roar of the crowd as the team ran back to the changing rooms was immense, the hairs on the back of my neck again shot up. The pitch was cleared, the music stopped, the tension reached an unbelievable level. How long more did we have to wait?
Then the fireworks at the tunnel entrance started as the team ran out, the noise again was unbelievable, there was no rhythm to it, no single unifying song, no chant, I was just roaring, not shouting but roaring, any noise would do, make them hear, make Biarritz think about where they are, make Munster know were here. I was hoarse by then, but didnt care. The Munster, Munster chant started, it was loud but died quickly as the game began. Finally, 80 minutes away from glory or 80 minutes from forever being called bottlers.
The start was a disaster, a knock on from the kick-off, the scum going up and backwards was greeted by a groan from everyone. Then Bobos try really knocked the wind out of the fans sails. It seemed like Bobos foot just grazed the whitewash on the replays, but its hard to blame the touch judge as we did have the benefit of replays and were biased. But that didnt stop the booing and abuse being hurled at him as the replays seemed to show that we had been robbed. Surely it wasnt going to be Lille all over again.
It felt like Biarritz had arrived with their try-scoring game of the French league and not the defensive lacklustre game they had used against Sale and Bath. Yachvili’s conversion showed he was on his game (I was very impressed with his all-round game, some of his kicks from the base of the scrums and back of rucks was beautiful to behold, he gave Payne a torrid afternoon).
After that Munster owned the rest of the half, the lineout was secure, the maul working relatively ok, Stringer passing well, OGara place kicking perfect, out of hand was ok. Halstead solid as ever and containing Traille, Kelly seemed to have Bidabe contained; Horgan and Dowling were eager and showing for the ball. The pack looked menacing as Munster took control and nullified the threat of Betsen attacking OGara.
The Halstead try was the reward we needed for our dominance, the pack set up the quick ball and OGara sent it wide, Halstead crashed. I couldnt see any touchdown but the refs arm shooting was the cue for the first burst of group hugging and for the first Heineken shower.
The rest of the half is a jumble in my mind (I havent seen any replays of the match yet), except for Stringers try. I was sitting in that corner on the top level near the front. The scrum set. Everything went in slow motion; we could see Bobo moving to behind the scrum. But Stringer never breaks and when he does he get screwed by a lot lesser men than Serge Betsen. Bobo moved again. Stringer picked and ran. It was like slow motion; Betsen struck out a hand and moved left. Stringer was gone past him, I was waiting for someone to tackle him, they never came, one superman dive later and pandemonium; more group hugging, this time with people from rows behind and in front of us. The second shower of Heineken was sweeter than the first.
Half-time; roared them off and took a deep breath. I tried to read the programme but it had been soaked in the Heineken showers. So I sat down and took pause. We discussed the issues; Had we been leading against Northhampton? Against Leicester? Stringer was playing well, Harinordoquy is class, Traille has been quiet, Gobelet is a fucking monster, 1st score will be crucial. 40 to go, it was getting closer (glory or bottling). Cara OSullivan came on and sang Stand Up and Fight savage.
A few texts come through, the sisters - have you got good seats? Atmosphere seems electric (theyre not wrong). Another one comes in, one of the lads from work Its Munsters day!!! Jeez, its only half time, dont tempt fate.
Out they came, more roaring and shouting, no changes. Biarritz was attacking my end. 40 to go. Break in play, whistle, penalty Munster, straightforward kick, OGara slots it, sweet. 20-10; they need at least 2 scores. The second half was Biarritzs, they had way more possession, but I dont remember them ever being camped on our line, with us having to throw bodies on the line, time after time. We were more subdued, Gobelet, Bobo and Harinordoquy were hitting the line with menace more regularly, Yachvili was probing with more effect, the clock seemed to be fucking stuck, oh it was, a break in play.
Yachvili was hitting penalties like he was at practice, lead down to seven, down some more to four, down to one. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. Then the subs started coming on, Lievremont goes off;
Thats good, thats good
Whos coming on? Dont know, couldnt hear.
The programme is stuck together with beer, cant match the number with a name. Horan off,
Not fit for eighty anyway, wasnt his day in open play, Le Puc is a better scrummager.
Foley off, shit thats bad
ODriscoll! What!
Wait wait, hes a good lineout option.
ODriscoll’s first touch; a fine catch from a bad clearance and charges straight back at them, huge roars from the crowd, ball retained and recycled, bigger roars. Hardly anyone sitting anymore, more like crouching to sit and then jumping up again, roaring and shouting.
OConnell off:
Fuck, fuck, is he injured? Whos on?
Quinlan
Hes a hard cunt and handy in the lineout.
…continues…