Monday 15 June 2015 16:54, UK
Clermont Auvergne weren't the only ones who found Saturday's Top 14 final a torment. Sky Sports reporter Graham Simmons was pitchside and having troubles of his own.
Ah, Paris. Has France ever had a better idea? And you want me to do what exactly? Round off the season by heading to the magisterial Stade de France to cover the Top 14 Final - the most vibrant rugby occasion in the entire world - and pop some pitchside links and interviews into Sky’s live coverage of the game alongside the venerable Ieuan Evans and the lyrical Mark Robson? Would I fancy that? Are you serious? The only thing I’d fancy more than that would be Halle Berry.
And what a weekend it was. Indeed, pull up a chair, make yourself comfortable and let me tell you how we reveled in the vivid atmosphere – the screaming yellow hordes from Clermont Auvergne, the shocking pink battalions of Stade Francais Paris – how we thrilled to the pomp and the pageantry, sat spellbound as a mighty match played out to a Shakespearian denouement and then, entranced by it all, spent the smaller hours of a warm Parisian night enjoying a beer and a bite in a Left Bank brasserie before adjourning to a plump pillow in our bijou, Seine-side hotel. Or, alternatively, let me tell you the truth.
The flight out was two hours late and the flight back smelled of regurgitated rusks. The hotel was not on the Boulevard St Michel but – God forbid – in Terminal Two at Charles de Gaulle Airport where Room 259 offered an uninterrupted view of the runway.
There was no food at the stadium and when we finally got back to the hotel at one in the morning the chef and the bar-staff were nothing but a rumour, which meant dinner was a warm can of beer and a sawn-off packet of ‘Pringles’ from Mark Robson’s mini-bar. Since he’d chosen the place, it seemed only fair that we should dine out at his expense.
Oblivious to the fug of Gitanes and, by now, quite tearful, I kissed him on both cheeks. Credit to him, he didn’t even flinch.
Of course, none of this would have been an issue had the game not kicked off in the middle of the night, nine o’clock being when I’m generally starting to think about a mug of cocoa and the Shipping Forecast. I suspect we were nudging past Ieuan Evans’ bedtime too but stoically the two of us waded through the swelling scene on the stadium concourse to record a colourful ‘as-live’ link for Sky Sports News. Be careful what you wish for.
Assailed on all sides by inebriated Auvergnistas and raucous Parisians, we somehow nailed an audible take only to get back to the satellite truck to discover that one of the raucous Parisians had been shouting something in French about his cat’s genitals. I’m not sure why people feel the need to share such intimacies so loudly and so publicly but since OFCOM are busy enough as it is, we took the considerate option of saving on the paperwork and scraping the piece straight into the bin.
Things weren’t much better in the stadium where, in the currency of accreditation, we appeared to be holding drachma. I couldn’t get into the tunnel nor could I loiter near the mouth of it; I couldn’t stand here, I couldn’t walk there and, as a consequence of all of this, I couldn’t find anyone to interview.
So instead Ieuan and I re-formed for a live ‘stand-upper’ into the top of the show in which we, finally, put some runs on the board. The boy Evans, by the way, was on fire; passionate, articulate and insightful. It was like being on stage with Olivier.
But then heading back to the satellite truck through the bowels of the stadium, I opened the wrong door and went down the wrong stairwell only to turn back and discover there was no handle on the inside of the door. Frantically, I pummeled on the paneling. Nothing.
I pummeled harder and, for good measure, threw in a desperate scream in my best French. Still nothing. Damn it, the game was due to kick off in twenty minutes and I was going to miss it. In fact sod the game, I was going to be here all night, perhaps even for all eternity.
My wife, my children, the builders doing the loft conversion – they’ve been up there so bloody long, it feels as though they’re family - I might never see any of them again. But then suddenly, mercifully, the door flew open and a security man with biceps the size of Bournemouth and no obvious neck frowned at me. ‘Oui?’ he said. Oblivious to the fug of Gitanes and, by now, almost tearful, I kissed him on both cheeks. Credit to him, he didn’t even flinch.
I tried to gather myself. I wasn’t exactly playing a blinder here but, hopefully, Mark Robson’s wondrous tapestry of words up in the commentary box would redeem us all, with a little help from the dashing Clermont Auvergne and the strapping Stade Francais Paris - musketeers to a man - who would surely serve up a fitting finale of free-wheeling rugby. Instead we got two mammoths wrestling in a pit of tar.
Stade kicked aimlessly, ran down blind alleys, dropped passes, botched lineouts and lost much of their discipline: the fact that they nonetheless won telling you everything you needed to know about Clermont Auvergne who, in the bigger games, are the enigma with no variation. Witless doesn’t even begin to sum it up.
The final whistle may have been a mercy but the aftermath was an acute frustration. Last and least in a rigid queue for interviews, we ended up chasing the cavorting Parisians across the pitch where we finally snatched a quick word with a – disappointingly – sanguine Julien Dupuy. I was hoping for a quiet tear and a trembling jaw but spent as he was, bless him, he sounded like a man trying to recall last week’s shopping list.
Not surprisingly, the raw emotion was to be found at the other end of the pitch. The heft of any competition is always best measured not by the delight of the winners but by the desolation of the losers and there were several Jaunards in tears. Nick Abendanon – understandably - was a tumble of words and a jumble of emotions. Regretfully by the time he’d offered us his last, glazed shrug, we were already off air.
The last RER to the airport had long since gone. Traipsing the streets with a heavy heart and a hundredweight of kit, we carjacked a taxi and headed back to the hotel where, exhausted, defeated, we gathered - chez Robson - to share some rueful laughter and the contents of his aforementioned mini-bar. Next year, apparently, the Top 14 final is heading to Spain and to the Nou Camp Stadium. We already have three rooms on hold at Barcelona Airport.
