Many years ago, I embarked on an unforgettable journey to Spain. It was the summer of ’82, and I was part of a boisterous group of 23 chaps, all set for a rugby tour to the vibrant city of Barcelona. As we landed in the sunny paradise, we were brimming with excitement, ready for a blend of sport and adventure.
Our accommodation was a charming, albeit austere, monastery just outside the city. The monks welcomed us with open arms, their serene smiles hiding any trepidation they might have had about hosting a squad of rowdy rugby players. The days were filled with rigorous training sessions and spirited matches against local teams, but our evenings…well, they were quite the contrast.
You see, we had initially envisioned nights of raucous revelry. However, much to our chagrin, the monastery offered limited evening entertainment. Our attempts to pass the time involved playing scrabble and knitting, activities far removed from the typical nightlife we had imagined. The irony of 23 rugged rugby players hunched over knitting needles and scrabble boards was not lost on us.
One particularly sunny afternoon, after a long day on the pitch, one of our teammates, Billy—always the instigator—proposed a daring idea. “Why don’t we head to that local hostelry across the road?” he suggested, pointing to a quaint little tavern nestled next to the monastery. “I hear they sell beer.”
Now, I should mention, none of us had ever set foot in a bar selling alcohol before. We were a rather naive bunch, more accustomed to post-match orange slices than pints of lager. But the idea of sampling the local brew was too tempting to resist. We pooled our money—thankfully, we had done a kitty whip round earlier—and managed to scrape together enough for one large glass of beer to share among us.
The tavern was a cosy, dimly lit establishment with a welcoming atmosphere. As we entered, the locals eyed us with curiosity. We ordered our solitary glass of beer, and as it arrived, we huddled around it like eager schoolboys. It was a golden ale, glistening in the afternoon sun, and as we took turns sipping it, we found it surprisingly refreshing. The camaraderie and the novelty of the experience made it feel like a feast.
Just as we were about to leave and head back for our evening bible class—yes, we were expected to attend those—we encountered a dilemma. One of our front row players, Pete, realised he had misplaced something important. “Have you got one?” he asked, his voice tinged with panic.
We all looked at each other, confused. “Got what?” someone replied.
“The key to the monastery gate,” Pete explained, his face turning pale. “I had it when we left, but now it’s gone!”
A frantic search ensued, with 23 rugby players scouring the tavern and the surrounding area for the elusive key. Time was ticking, and we knew we were going to be late for bible class. The monks were kind, but they did not appreciate tardiness.
Eventually, in a stroke of luck, the key was found in the most unlikely place—inside Pete’s rugby jock strap. How it got there, we never figured out, but we hurried back to the monastery, out of breath and slightly tipsy from our shared beer.
We arrived just in time, our faces flushed with the exertion and excitement of the afternoon’s adventure. As we settled into our seats for bible class, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Here we were, a group of burly rugby players, knitting by day, sipping beer by afternoon, and studying the scriptures by night.
Looking back, that trip to Spain was more than just a rugby tour. It was a journey of camaraderie, laughter, and unexpected adventures. It taught us the value of friendship, the joy of simple pleasures, and the importance of not taking life too seriously.
So, dear reader, if you’ve made it to the end of this tale, I applaud your patience. And while this story might not be the most profound, it’s a reminder that sometimes, the best memories come from the most unexpected experiences.
And if you’re in the market for marbles—or just looking for a good laugh—you’re in the right place. Life’s too short to pass up on the little joys, whether they come in the form of a cold beer, a silly story, or the beautifully crafted marbles.
Lets forget that crap and read the Real Story of Our Boys’ Trip to Barcelona
The adventure began in the early hours of the morning at the Beccehamian Rugby Football Club on Corkscrew Hill, West Wickham, Kent. We gathered there, 23 strong, buzzing with excitement and perhaps a bit too much pre-flight enthusiasm. Our destination was Barcelona, flying out from Gatwick Airport, and we were ready for whatever the trip had in store.
Before we left, back in those days, you could travel with a simple one-piece cardboard passport. One of our teammates, perhaps overly confident in the resilience of this travel document, showed it to the group. Mischief was afoot, and soon a cigarette was pressed to the passport, burning a hole in it. This act sparked a chain reaction, and the passport was passed around, each person contributing to its destruction. By the end, all that was left was a quarter-sized photo and a few charred edges. We laughed it off and headed to Gatwick, not giving the passport situation much thought.
At immigration, it reality hit. The immigration officer’s look of horror was unforgettable. After some convincing and a lot of pleading, he finally let us through, on the grounds that we were all travelling together. Relieved, we made our way to the tarmac leading to the plane. In a spontaneous burst of camaraderie and humour, we all got down on our knees and did an inline conga up to the aircraft. It was a sight to behold and set the tone for the trip.
The flight was uneventful, thankfully. We arrived in Barcelona and made our way to the hotel, where we immediately piled into the bar, bags still in hand. At the bar, we met three fellow British tourists, and as it often goes with groups of men and alcohol, a competition was soon proposed. One of our chaps and one of the British tourists decided to see who could fit the most bottles of San Miguel beer up their rear end. Disaster was inevitable. Eight bottles hit the ground with a crash, shattering and creating chaos. The manager stormed in, furious, and demanded that we leave the hotel immediately.
One quick-thinking teammate pulled the manager aside and pointed out that none of us had paid for our rooms yet. This bit of leverage worked in our favour. The manager begrudgingly allowed us to stay but banned us from using the bar. Undeterred, we ventured out and found another bar across the road. We all agreed not to cause any trouble there, and this bar quickly became our new meeting point.
The owners of the new bar were incredibly accommodating. They must have seen the potential for a profitable week, and indeed, it was. We spent so much money there that week that I wouldn’t be surprised if the owners took a luxurious 5 star vacation in Tunisia with their earnings. Their hospitality extended to an unusual courtesy: if any of us left the bar with beer still in our glasses, those glasses would be waiting for us upon our return. Needless to say, more than one of our team took advantage of this generous offer.
This wasn’t just any trip; it was a week-long adventure filled with rugby, camaraderie, and unforgettable memories. We had three matches lined up at three different venues, and we were ready to leave our mark on the Catalonian rugby scene.
Our first game was scheduled for the day after our arrival. The atmosphere was electric as we stepped onto the field, each of us eager to showcase our skills. The match took a surprising turn when our star player, Dave, who had spent the previous night celebrating a little too enthusiastically, played phenomenally. He was everywhere on the field, making tackles, scoring tries, and leading us to a hard-fought victory. The following morning, however, Dave woke up with no recollection of the match. It turned out that he had been so drunk that the entire game was a blur.
Seeing the unintended success of Dave’s inebriation, we hatched a plan for the next game. We pooled our resources and ensured that Dave was thoroughly drunk before each match. Remarkably, this strategy worked. Dave continued to play like a man possessed, delivering stellar performances that kept our spirits high.
By the time we reached our third game, the toll of back-to-back matches was evident. Injuries had decimated our team, leaving us with a skeleton crew. With just 23 players at the start, I, as the last reserve, was finally called into action. Nervous but determined, I took to the field. My stint lasted all of ten minutes before a brutal tackle forced me out of the game. With no replacements left, we faced a dilemma.
In a twist of fate, an opposing team member offered to join our ranks. The catch? He was Argentinian, and given the fact that our countries were at war at the time over the Falklands, this was a controversial decision. Desperate and out of options, we accepted his offer, choosing to turn a blind eye to the politics. Surprisingly, he played with integrity and skill, helping us to maintain a respectable performance on the field.
Despite the physical toll of the matches, our spirits were lifted when we were invited to a bar owned by one of the Spanish team members. It was a quaint, rustic place, exuding an old-world charm. As we settled in, I struck up a conversation with the owner and mentioned, somewhat boastfully, that we were all connoisseurs of fine wine.
His eyes lit up with excitement, and he quickly disappeared, returning moments later with 23 gleaming glasses filled with his finest wine. This was no ordinary wine; it was his most prized vintage in Spain, reserved for the most special of occasions. Unaware of its significance, our team downed the glasses with gusto, treating it no differently than any other drink. The owner watched, his expression a mix of pride and horror. Shortly after, he vanished, leaving us to speculate that he had gone upstairs to lament the loss of his treasured wine.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of laughter, shared stories, and a growing camaraderie with our opponents. Despite the physical pain and the odd turns our games had taken, this trip was shaping up to be one for the ages.
The final whistle had blown, not just for our last game, but for the ending of our tour. After a week of camaraderie, competition, and chaos, it was time to unwind in a way only we could. We had heard tales of a town called Sitges, a vibrant seaside retreat often hailed as the gay capital of Europe. With its picturesque beaches and lively nightlife, it promised the perfect setting for our team’s last hurrah.
We arrived in Sitges with the sun dipping low on the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and gold. Spirits high and eager for adventure, we gravitated towards a bar with a restaurant, seeking a few pleasant beers to kickstart the day. The place buzzed with an eclectic mix of locals and tourists, all united in their pursuit of a good time.
Before leaving the UK, we had established a set of playful rules to keep our tour interesting. Each of us had a turn to blow a whistle, signalling commands that everyone had to obey or face a fine. These fines went into a communal kitty that would fund our beer supply for the tour’s end. One of the more humorous commands was the “left-hand rule,” which required everyone to drink using only their left hand. Another was “no sniffing,” a cheeky directive prohibiting any attempts at chatting up women.
The afternoon was in full swing when the whistle pierced the air. The command was “no sniffing,” and we all knew the stakes. Laughter and groans echoed as we complied, but one of our teammates, ever the Casanova, got caught in the act. His flirtation with a local beauty did not go unnoticed, and we swiftly sprang into action.
A kangaroo court was promptly assembled outside the bar, transforming the terrace into a makeshift courtroom. A judge, jury, and arresting officer were appointed from among us, and the culprit was brought forth to the dock—a structure creatively constructed from bar furniture. The charges were read with exaggerated seriousness, and in a moment of defiance, the accused dropped his shorts and pants, mooning the crowd.
This impromptu spectacle, meant to be light-hearted, inadvertently offended some of the nearby diners. Their displeasure escalated quickly, and before we knew it, the Spanish police were on the scene. The arrival of two officers, including perhaps the most attractive woman in Spain, caused quite a stir. With a professional air that did little to hide her amusement, she cuffed our friend, leading him away to the local cells, his grin as wide as ever.
As the day wore on, we continued our revelry, albeit with a more subdued tone. Responsibility finally caught up with us after a few more beers, and we decided it was only right to bail out our fallen comrade. Some of us stumbled into the police station, still buoyed by our antics, only to face a sobering revelation.
During his booking, the officers had discovered our friend’s British police warrant card. The potential ramifications of this discovery back home were not lost on us. The gravity of the situation dawned, replacing our laughter with a quiet determination to resolve the matter discreetly.
We managed to negotiate his release, a mix of charm and genuine contrition smoothing the way. Our friend emerged from the cells, somewhat chastened but still sporting that irrepressible grin. We returned to the bar, more beers in hand, and toasted to a night that would surely become the stuff of legends.
Back in the UK, the incident became a closely guarded secret, a testament to the unspoken bond between us. The tour had been about more than just the games; it was about the experiences that would bind us together long after the final whistle. And Sitges, with its sun-soaked beaches and unforgettable night, had given us a story that epitomised the wild, wonderful spirit of our journey.
Our boys’ trip to Barcelona had already become the stuff of legend. The chaos with the passport and the shenanigans at the hotel bar were just the beginning. But there was one more episode that we often laughed about, though we could never quite figure out how we managed to pull it off: the Fuxarda sign.
After the infamous beer bottle incident and the subsequent bar ban, we spent the rest of the week playing rugby, exploring the city, and creating memories that would last a lifetime. One of our games was held at a field near the old Fuxarda stadium, a place steeped in local sports history. The match was tough, but we played with heart, fueled by the camaraderie and spirit of the tour.
As we left the field, one of our more mischievous teammates, Dave, noticed an old, rusted sign that read “Fuxarda.” It was mounted on a post near the entrance, probably there for decades. Dave, always one for a keepsake, decided that this sign would make the perfect souvenir of our trip. “It’s just a little piece of history,” he said, grinning.
We all laughed, thinking it was a joke. But Dave was serious. With the help of a couple of others, he yanked the sign out of the ground. It wasn’t easy, and it certainly wasn’t quiet. But somehow, amidst the laughter and grunts of effort, the sign came free. We were now the proud, albeit slightly confused, owners of a piece of Fuxarda.
The next morning, our trip was nearing its end, and we were heading back to the UK. We made our way to the airport, bleary-eyed and slightly hungover from the previous night’s celebrations. As we approached security, someone finally questioned the wisdom of bringing the sign with us. “Are we really going to try and take that on the plane?” I asked, looking at the large, unwieldy piece of metal.
But Dave was undeterred. “It’s a souvenir. We played there, and it’s coming home with us,” he declared.
We all held our breath as we approached the security checkpoint. The sign was wrapped in a makeshift bundle of clothing to make it look less conspicuous, though I doubted it was fooling anyone. As we passed through the metal detectors and placed our bags on the conveyor belt, the security officers’ eyes widened when they saw the sign.
“What’s this?” one officer asked, her eyebrow raised.
Dave, with a straight face that belied the absurdity of the situation, replied, “It’s a souvenir from a rugby match. We just wanted a little piece of Fuxarda to remember the trip.”
The officer stared at us for a long moment. I half-expected her to confiscate the sign and escort us out of the airport. But instead, she burst out laughing. “Only a bunch of rugby players,” she muttered, shaking her head. With a wave of her hand, she let us through.
We couldn’t believe our luck. As we boarded the plane, still chuckling about the incident, we carried the sign with us, tucking it into the overhead compartment. The flight attendants gave us puzzled looks, but by then, we were used to it. The sign had become part of our story.
Back home, the Fuxarda sign took pride of place at the Beccehamian Rugby Football Club. It hung on the wall, a testament to our unforgettable trip and the ridiculous, wonderful adventures we had. Whenever we gathered at the club, someone would inevitably point to the sign and recount the tale of how we smuggled it home, a little piece of Barcelona forever etched in our memories.
We still laugh about it to this day, and while we never quite understood why we weren’t stopped from boarding the plane with a ripped-out-of-the-pavement sign, it didn’t matter. What mattered was the bond we shared and the incredible stories that came from our time together. The Fuxarda sign was more than just a souvenir; it was a symbol of our friendship and the unforgettable journey we took together.
Reflecting on that week now, I realise how unique and surreal those days were. The combination of intense rugby, unexpected alliances, and cultural mishaps created a tapestry of memories that we still recount with fondness and laughter. As for the wine? Most of our team never realised the significance of what we had drunk that night, and the tale of the crying bar owner remains one of our favourite stories from the trip to Barcelona.
The trip was a whirlwind of rugby, laughter, and the kind of antics that only a group of friends can truly appreciate. While the initial mishap with the passport and the hotel bar incident could have spelled disaster, they became part of the legend of our boys’ trip to Barcelona. It was a journey filled with memories that would be recounted for years to come, each story growing a little more outrageous with each retelling. And in the end, it wasn’t just about the rugby; it was about the bonds we strengthened and the stories we created together.