Patriotism & Punishment

Yes guys, that's right! I know the pain you had to endure without a post for nearly four weeks, so I have graciously decided to give you two for one! I know, aren't I kind to my non-existant fans!

Now, as you should know (and if you don't, you've been missing out!) the Rugby World Cup has been happening these past few weeks in New Zealand. Obviously this isn't very student friendly, with kick-offs being as early as 5:30am! So it is a true test of one's patriotism. And what a tournament it has been! I have always preferred watching rugby to football, unlike what seems to be an overwhelming majority of the British population, and the TV in my room, mostly used for the Xbox, has found a second function.

Now let me firstly say that watching rugby in France is SO much fun! The commentators are not exactly impartial! With the excited cries of 'Wheeeeey penalité!' and 'Aie aie aie' at poor drop goal attempts, it adds an extra dimension of fun to the games themselves. The English games really needed some fun commentary, so thanks France! It's also really fun to hear the French pronounciation of the Welsh rugby players ('James Ook', 'Shaymee Roober', 'Woh- button'). Your TV and music sucks, but with rugby broadcasting you deliver!

Obviously, my main concern in this tournament was that of my little home nation, Wales, who have had a rather unimpressive period since their last Grand Slam in 2008. Watching the first game against South Africa, I wasn't very optimistic. But then Wales turned it up, and only lost by one point to the defending World champions, with a kick by James Ook that was discounted for no apparent reason! So, a one-point loss - a fantastic achievement against the defending champions, but also really frustrating, as we were so close!

Now I don't know about you, but I find you become more patriotic the further away from home you are. In Wales, I thought to myself 'Shit, I'm Welsh. I have to learn this useless language, and there's nothing to do there'. While studying in England I conveyed the attitude 'Yep I'm the Welsh guy. We have a fair few things to do in Casnewydd. And no, we don't shag sheep - they've taken a vow of celibacy'. In France, I'm wearing Welsh tops, speaking about the amazing places to go and things to do in Wales and reciting llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch to near perfection.

And from this point on, the night I decided to stay up til 5:30am (I can't get up in the mornings you see) to watch the all-important clash against Samoa, I was ready to sing 'Mae hen wlad fen nhadau' at the top of my voice on the streets of Rennes. Of course, I was knackered during the match, and when Samoa scored that 40th minute try, I decided to get some sleep. No, I wasn't bailing on my team. I had faith that they would win, okay!

And of course, I was right.

Next came our rape of Namibia. Unfortunately I was stuck in International HRM class with my idiot of a teacher, so I had to rely on a BBC News Feed, and confused expressions from my classmates as I pumped my fists every time we scored a try (12 times in all). Then my favourite match of them all - Fiji, the bastards who knocked us out of the last World Cup. I watched in my room and relished every single point we scored, and every time our rock-solid defence denied them from scoring a single point. And Jonathan Davies' last try giving us the bad-ass final result of 66-0  made sure we qualified for the quarter finals. I wore my Welsh jersey all day, proud of such a powerful performance!

Now I knew what was going to happen. Ireland had beaten Australia in a shock victory, but if Italy beat Ireland, they would still not qualify, so I made sure to watch the match, hoping that Ireland would win so Wales would face them in the quarter finals and not Australia. Of course Ireland won, which was great, and convincingly, which was a bit vexing. But later that day I knew what I needed to do. I know a couple of Irish girls here, Katie and Michelle, who I like to chat with about the rugby, as they too are rightfully proud of their national team, and it's nice to discuss our shared hatred of the English team. They have watched some Ireland games at an Irish bar in Rennes, called the Westport, who serve a nice 'Irish' breakfast (which is a French version of the Irish version of the English breakfast) and I had agreed that if it was Wales v Ireland, I would watch it with them there. So I went to the bar later that day to book the breakfast.

That following saturday was the best morning of my time in Rennes so far.

You should know what happened, and if you don't - start watching some rugby! I was the sole happy man in the bar early saturday morning as Wales had a comfortable victory over the Irish. Of course I felt sorry for the irish people there, including Michelle (Katie had a class that she couldn't bail out on), and plus there was a slightly drunken Irish guy who looked like he wanted to maim me, so I didn't rub it in. Obviously, I was extremely happy. Never in my lifetime has Wales got to a semi final! (The last time was the inaugural cup in 1987). But the poor Irish have never even had that achievement, and I was shocked to find that out, with their incontrivertible talent.

And so after the heartbroken Irish fans left, I stayed to watch the second half of my great morning: England getting beaten by a weak French side! I cheered with the French at every opportunity France seized and England squandered. At half time, the French were 16-0. I'm sorry to say this. I feel ashamed to say this. Like a prisoner confessing his deepest sins, like a guy telling his best friend he is in love with him, like a paedophile revealing himself to the school board, I will now reveal the disgusting thought that went through my head at this stage.

I wanted England to score a try.

There, I said it! I'm ashamed to have had such a dirty mind, but I couldn't help thinking it. My English friends (including Matt) were sat with me, really depressed, and with a bar full of cheering French fans who were outnumbering them, I didn't want my friends to be humiliated. It just wasn't fair, plus France weren't playing anything like as well as Ireland did against us, and the fans were getting a little complacent. They needed a wake up call. One try, just to put the English on the board.

The try came in the second-half, and I was pleased to see the excitement on the English guys' faces. There was hope in their eyes once again, that maybe their shitty overhyped team could actually beat the other shitty overhyped team. But then, like a bump on the head, I reverted back to my Welshness. That's it England, you've got your try. Now France, kill them.

They didn't. England continued to attack and scored a second. This was getting stupid now. I had confidence that if France didn't beat England, then Wales would in the semi, but I wanted Wales to progress further than England. Much further. If Wales were the only home nation to make the semis, perhaps the BBC would start taking notice of us. Perhaps the French would take notice of us. Perhaps other countries around the world would now know of my little nation.

And thank God, the clumsy French side held their own, and I cheered with them as the final whistle was blown. Still in my Welsh jersey, I turned to the small French throng and yelled 'LE SAMEDI PROCHAIN!' and they all cheered - I felt like Aragorn or something!

So Wales had won and England had lost - it was a perfect morning! Now people were hearing of le Pays de Galles, the team that have trimphed and progressed beyond last cup's finalists England and South Africa. With our defensive performances and fluid attacks against Fiji and Ireland, and the last surviving team of the Pool of Death, I felt we could beat anybody, and the French would need to play a lot better against us. I was waiting for the semi, waiting to hear the final whistle blow and a superior Welsh side be sent to the final for the first time ever. I was preparing to deal with a lot of abuse from jealous French fans, and even to go online and book a flight back home to watch the final with my family, with 50000 Welsh fans in the iconic Millennium Stadium. I was well and truly excited that maybe, just maybe - Wales could lift the Webb Ellis trophy.

And then my hopes, and the dreams of my nation, were shattered in the worst possible way.

Getting up on Saturday morning to watch the game, I made the last minute decision not to return to the Irish bar, for fear of not being able to see the TV screen, but to watch it at Frieddie's instead. With a French boyfriend, Frieddie's allegiance was with les bleus, but she just did not understand what the match meant to me. How nervous I was that Wales succeed.

It started off well, with three easy points for Wales. I joked that I was happy for the match to end like this, while Frieddie, in her own sceptically curious way, asked questions not on the rules of rugby, but on why the rugby players had tape on their legs, which I admit, was a bit annoying. But she continued this throughout the match, and it soon became almost infuriating.

20 minutes into the game, the tragedy occured, and I stared at the screen evaluating the replay of the tackle by our captain and national hero, Sam Warburton, seeing it as a clear yellow card offense, having seen worse tackles get sin bins.

When Warburton sat down on the side, and the display said Carte Rouge I had thought maybe my French was wrong. Maybe rouge meant yellow, not red, because that couldn't happen. It couldn't be. I had never seen a straight red card before, but I had seen worse tackles!

My head fell into my hands. We had lost the game after 20 minutes. It was over. The French had an extra man for a whole hour of play. They would now destroy us, and it was just a matter of how many tries Wales could prevent.

But that was not the case. Although the French then seemingly dominated possession and territory, they could only get three penalties - not a single try! Usually the ten minute sin bin is a turning point in the game, and France had an hour with an extra man (sorry, TWO extra men with that bastard half-French, half-Irish ref - why the fuck was he in charge of  Wales v France!) and France still couldn't get past our defence, even when we were missing our captain!

Then I saw Mike Phillips break away and score a Welsh try and jumped up in the air. I could not believe it. There was just over 10 minutes left, and if Steven Jones could only convert this try, we would be in the lead! As the ball hit the post, I was annoyed (that was the 4th missed kick that could have sent us through) but still hopeful. We had the momentum. Just one more try. We could STILL do this. Screw the try, just a penalty. We could actually beat the French with a 14 man team, a historic victory. Screw the penalty, just a drop-goa-PENALTY!!! PENALTY!!! A straight long-distance kick, the very kick Leigh Halfpenny successfully put between the posts against Ireland last week. Yes! This was it! God the pressure he would have been under! I saw the ball go towards the posts and jumped in the air, smashing the glass of water I forgot I had left near me. We had done it! Just defend Wales, defend!

And then kick-off started, and to my horror, the number next to Wales was not 11, but 8. I yelled a curse - he had missed it! The ball had fallen centimetres short of the posts. We were still behind, and had one more chance. 22 phases. Come on Wales, get that drop goal! We need this! The French commentator was repeating 'pas de faute, pas de faute', to which I replied 'plein de fautes, plein de fautes'.

But the ball was lost. I could not look as the French kicked the ball away to seal their 'victory'.

Now I'm not going to lie to you guys, I was almost in tears. I was devastated! Of course, I do not believe it was a red card offence, as it was clearly momentum. He lifted Saint-Clair off the ground, which deserved a yellow, but he did not force him to the ground, so it was not a red-card offence. And if we had Warburton for that hour, oh what we could have done!

But it was too late for 'what ifs' and 'buts'. It was over. Our dream was killed by injustice and poor kicking accuracy (it was perfect against Fiji, why couldn't we have borrowed just one of those penalties?) It would have been easier if the French had thrashed us, if they had demonstrated that they were the better team. But they clearly weren't. I'm sorry to be a bad loser, but they weren't. Wales was undeniably the better team, and it was the undeserving French team, the team whose players don't trust each other or their mocha-moustached coach, who have made it to the final.

And then I was punished. Punished for my patriotism. Frieddie and Cam, who had arrived just after the final whistle, were totally unsympathetic. They just didn't understand what it would have meant to me. I tried to compare this to Germany in the football world cup, but Frieddie didn't care enough about them either. She was just bewildered at my upset, laughing and telling me 'it's only a game'. This was 10 minutes after the final whistle. How dare she be so patronising!

And then a French classmate of mine texted me saying 'Now you have to kiss the French flag as you promised!' Kiss it?! More like piss on it! How fucking dare she - like the French deserve this?! The French had beaten us by one point with an extra man! And now, they were acting like they had beaten Wales outright, rubbing it in my face. I didn't do that to Michelle and Katie, and I didn't even do it to the English guys, so why was I getting this treatment? I had to be alone for a while, gather my thoughts and relax. As I told Frieddie, she laughed. That girl really didn't get it! Maybe I was being melodramatic, but I was genuinely devastated.

All I can say is - I'm glad I wasn't at the irish bar.

So yeah, as I meet more French people this week and they ask me where I'm from that match always comes up. And the heartbreak returns. I'm still not really over the shock, but I know Wales will have to be tomorrow to face Australia for the 3rd place. But yeah, I still think of the match that should have been. Wales v the All Blacks. How incredible would that have been?

But despite all that, I have never been so proud to be Welsh. There is a SHIT load to do in my country, and loads of beautiful valleys to see. Despite the high teenage pregnancy rate, the low intelligence, and the hatred for anyone who has it, Wales is still my home. The rugby team has done us all so proud in this competition, and Shane Williams will be missed, as our greatest-ever try scorer and a phenomenal talent. But with the likes of Sam Warburton, George North, Rhys Priestland, Jonathan Davies, Toby Faletau, Scott Williams and Luke Charteris at the fore of our young talent, France had better watch out.

So despite the smug looks that were fired in my direction that day, I wore my Welsh jersey through the streets of Rennes, proud of my little nation and their conduct in this Rugby World Cup.

Good luck tomorrow, boys! Cymru am byth!

Rant over

Ollie