On an overcast late August day in 2009, one could have stood on Limekilns Road, closed their eyes and been swept back in time 800 years as the sound of that hearty Viking war cry “AROOOOGA!” carried on the breeze across the Firth of Forth. The men (and Uncle Johnny) of Dunfermline RFCs 3rd XV, a.k.a The Greyhounds, gathered at McKane mid-afternoon to embark upon their annual raid of Newcastle and Gateshead. With a few notable exceptions (The Dixons, The Brights and any form of decorum), we gathered in our warrior garb and prepared to set sail.
The array of clobber on show was excellent and something to behold. Robbo Robertson appeared to have mugged a road sweeper, having appeared in a high-vis vest with some bits of carpet stuck to it, Dannio appeared to have been shot out of a cannon through a branch of Oxfam and Vidler left an old lady somewhere bereft of her fur coat for the winter. The ale was flowing as was the banter and time to depart was soon upon us, but not before our appointed tour captain, Brer McKenzie or “El Capitano” as he is known in the fjords, laid down the laws. With all the usual rules applied, we were introduced to a new tour member, Topper. Topper was to stay with us at all times through thick and thin and as it turns out, is a monster tourist, so we’ll be seeing him again…
Scunner then decided to turn up just before the bus was about to leave, and dressed suspiciously as a normal bystander too which made him look completely out of place and ridiculous compared to the rest of the assembled company…! Last thing to do before we departed was to baptise our tour Virgins. Our priest/shaman Fat Jesus duly anointed the heads of the Virgins with his mark. In most cases these were pretty impressive but in Stevie Browns case was nothing short of a major political incident waiting to happen. So the anointing went well. It’s not so bad if the marker pen wasn’t permanent but our druid had spoken and his word is infallible in almost 4% of cases.
We took to the road and tour DJ Stonesy with the ’80s ghetto blaster rocked the boat all the way down to Newcastle. During the voyage, our tour druid decided that as warriors, we needed warrior symbols on our arms, backs, chests and arses. Uncle Johnny made the mistake of letting Fat Jesus ink his back, bearing a message not dissimilar to the one Bruce Willis had on him at the start of Die Hard 3. Our DJ then took over with one or two of us ended up as walking adverts for his band, and Niall Campbell displaying the fact that he was “open all hours” so to speak. Lucky he didn’t go to Manchester that weekend…
Having arrived safe and well in Newcastle.. Sorry, ok. Having arrived safe in Newcastle we took to our digs, which were close and convenient to the toon centre, and kilted up. We stotted down to the quayside and tipped ourselves into the Lloyds No.1 bar for a few refreshing ales before crossing the wee bridge to Buffalo Joes. It was here that it came to light that El Presidente, who was to be joining us with Brighty Jnr and Pistol Pete the following night, had somehow caught wind that the bus had been wrecked, the driver violated and the coach had barely limped into Newcastle before falling to bits and bursting into flames in the car park. Inaccurate as Chinese whispers are, it’s still not entirely clear how this had all sprung from Haystacks farting and opening the air vents. With the night drawing to a close and our party fragmenting, thosw who were left standing made their way to several of the fine fast-food take-away restaurants in the neighbourhood. Ever had the feeling that someone really unexpected was about to appear at your shoulder? Weird isn’t it…? FACTOID: Did you know that Indian people put yoghurt on their kebabs?
Saturday. Game day. And not one single person who was out the night before was suffering. Ok, that’s a huge lie, we were all walking about like a half-shut knife. Speaking of knives, we’re still not sure how Niall managed to escape imprisonment. Not sure we want to either. In saying that though, one of our party was conspicuous by his absence. This man, whom we shall address as Vanish, or Spook, committed the crime of going to bed early. Cue heinous finage for being sensible and mature. Off we went to Gateshead RFC (via the Angel of the North and the M1 to London). Our team captain Stonesy brings us the match report:
Dunfermline’s Greyhounds returned to Gateshead Rugby Club this year on their now legendary pre-season tour. The tourists fielded an experienced team with representation from across the decades. Indeed, the youngest players to take the pitch were some 30 plus years the junior of at least one of their elder team-mates.
On arrival, it was clear that this team were perhaps suffering after a lengthy tactical meeting the night before. Undaunted, the decision was taken to play 20 minute quarters and to allow rolling subs. By rolling subs we mean that we needed time to roll the dead carcasses off the pitch… This allowed everyone to take to the field for a decent spell and also allow ample rest time for those most involved in the tactical preparations on the eve of the game.
Dunfermline quickly realised that the Gateshead team were a well-drilled outfit and were particularly strong in the rucks and scrums. This was countered by some excellent defence which allowed Dunfermline to run in their first score from a spilled Gateshead ball in the tackle. Woose, who had waved the diplomatic card to gain access to the tour, ran in to score a try which took him almost the length of the field. It’s safe to say that had anyone else caught that ball, there would have been no score, and possibly a small pool of sick nearby soon after.
Due to Scilacci using the one part of his torso not well padded to tackle someone and Brer McKenzie “blawin’ oot his erse” scrums in the last quarter were uncontested. One particular incident led to Normski playing a bit of keepy-uppy in the tunnel as the ball bounced in and almost gifted it to the opposition. But he didn’t. So shut it. “Hur hur hur ya wee f*nny”, one anonymous tighthead prop was quoted as saying. “Porky Pig!” said another, inexplicably. Scotty Mormon, who played an outstanding game, got sconed on the napper just before the end of the game, but we weren’t too sure if he was concussed or not due to him being still pissed and also being a bit glaikit anyway.
The final score was ??-?? to the mighty tourists and with a big green tick next to our task for the weekend, the touring started in earnest. The highlight of the day for a few of the more morally ambiguous tour members was the team bath. Big Roy in particular enjoyed the sights, sounds and smells of the bath, but this appeared to be too much for one senior tourist who shunned his teammates’ bonding session in the human soup and had a shower instead. In hindsight, I suppose we can only hope that there were no water-borne infections present. After getting changed we adjourned to the clubhouse for the excellent Gateshead hospitality. On a serious note for one tiny moment, it has to be stated that they are an extremely friendly bunch, and we were made most welcome. However getting back to the matter in hand, the apprentice fine-master and indeed our very own Topper were discarded and left in the changing room. I’m sure you’re all sitting at home, reading this, and shaking your heads with dismay. Topper and the role of fine-master were reassigned after due punishment was doled out be El Capitano (It only hurts the first time lads…) and we then headed back to Newcastle to meet up with two generations of the Bright clan and Mum-ra. After a brief and fairly nerve-wracking encounter with several members of a paramilitary group known as M.I.L F. (Male Impotence Liberation Front) all dressed in camouflage gear (it was our military lads who noticed them, the rest of us only heard the screaming and whistling) we headed back to Lloyds. Whilst there we saw what can only be described as a riot of pink high-vis gear and nicknames on the back too medically accurate to print here. The beers and craic flowed like it usually does when The Greyhounds are on tour and we went from there to our old stomping ground, Buffalo Joes.
This time the place was hoaching, and the patter was flowing thick and fast. Fat Jesus had cast off all artistic inhibitions and was drawing on anyone who sat still long enough. Scotty Mormon is still traumatised by his little piece of art. He’ll never look at his left nipple in the same way again. And neither will we. Stonesy too was doing some shameless band promotion using Normski as a small walking billboard, and Vidler when not biting his teammates on the nose, made us all laugh so hard that Bertie pissed himself.