Day 1.

04.15 hrs, an unearthly hour, and Churchwarden is first to rise and assumes the rest of the tour is as conscientious. Muttered dim-lit conversations in the Moorefield’s car-park, Tanky – effervescent and excitable in his shitetrousers.

Sages subdued – this is a thinking game. Tanky takes parade and first casualty – Posh Yorky is shiteshirtless – a poor and inauspicious start, he’ll need to up his game.

Players subdued – not a thinking game. More about missing sleep. Even the rap (with a silent C) is strangely muted. Not sure about the unicorn slippers, but we are diverse; accepting of numpty’s.

Old acquaintances reunited – Boing-Boing-Baggies-Ray is in the driver’s seat – a veteran of the Dublin Tour and hand picked for this latest foray into Europe (just don’t talk togger).

The coach slips subdued into the gloom of night.

The Saturday-planning-sub-committee is sitting; these things don’t happen by chance, Tanky and his meticulous detailed planning team, what could go wrong?

Meanwhile, our charges turn thoughts to GCSE study and/ or sleep. Someone wants the definition of ‘diligent’ – apparently Google has been superseded by our Flying Finn, a glimmer of hope for our post-Govian apocalyptic education system, probably the Scandi influence.

Dawn breaks and breakfast at Biggin Hill (well, somewhere near it) and renewed vigour – time for some mixed fruits, a balanced diet is key, as Quartermaster has done his homework.

The white cliffs of Dover and we’re are not the only touring rugby team making a dash for the continent. A veritable riot of colourful rugby shirts with assorted water wings and pirate garb apparently obligatory. Inevitably, an odd shaped ball emerges and fun and frolics in the car park allows cooped up athletes to stretch their legs.

All aboard and BOO established – apparently this stands for ‘base of operations’ I could explain more but it would involve pulling up a sand bag and wearing camo cream. 20 mins in and the bar has run dry: no Guinness; no Spitfire; and, Bass is an abomination. Choo-Choo is in shock, ripping up his CAMRA gold card, I think he’ll be writing to his MP.

Our Flying Finn, the intellectual diva, is oddly struggling with the concept of wearing a dress in public (not that his struggle is ill founded, necessarily) but Killer shows him how to carry it off – and absolutely rocks it – a little too well.

A short Channel hop (drinking the bar dry was all too easy) and France it is. The pre-Brexit express is cooking on gas – the mood is rising – Tanky now with a swagger befitting an international man of sophistamacation.

Port cleared and Quartermaster, has a brain squeak, before breaking out the port infused Stilton pate (a bit like grey peas on a biscuit). A rare and delicious treat – it’s been brewing in his sock draw for the last three months, with no complaints, from the so-called adults. Tanky with a knock-on, but the 5 second rule applies, and a school boy error. Quartermaster now improvising with spicy Doritos and he’s on fire – tour MVP – that Michelin star well earned. Finished off with cherry brandy cherries - simply sublime.

Into Belgium and a hooker in a dress – taking it to new levels with modifications added – it must be a rugby thing. Service station stop for a tacho-break and an impromptu training session. Out comes a ball and Tanky and Churchy coaching from the front – a sprint session. The Sages watch on from a safe distance, and libation, as Tanky is tackled by a fence which seemingly jump out and tackled him (the way that inanimate objects are prone to) which doesn’t end well for the Commander. Hey ho, sympathy is slow coming.

Antwerp and rush hour is in full swing. A bit like a mundane traffic jam in Blighty – only more cider and no driving – let Boing-boing take the strain. The boys are getting excited, or coach bound, and the music is getting worse even Chunk has a hankering for some Classic FM.

Netherlands is flat. Progress is fast. Hostel found. Tired and in need of kip the weary travellers eat, sustenance of a sort, but welcome relief all the same. Bobos for our athletes after a long journey.

Oddly, Posh Yorky is loitering in the bar. Unusual to be the first, I guess, but it turns out that he would like more scatter cushions for his room. A few low-country beers tasted, rather strong sipping beers tested – the Mid-Warwickshire contingent will need to adjust their pace. Choo-choo on cloud nine.

Phattcatt, strangely affected by low altitude, insistent that fishes don’t exist. It’s a position that he’s happy to defend ad nauseum and does; a guppy sharing more DNA with him than with a trout. He also has an irrational hatred of road signs indicating the names of rivers – simply not needed – it’s an aberration that needs to end. A slightly surreal world that a normal person wouldn’t have bargained for, but well argued by a half-oiled cretin.

Always amuses the locals. I think they like us. Those local beers really were for sipping – bore-sight realignment required. All done and time for bed as day one draws to a close. Elmer Fudd missing in action has taken a sneaky three-hour head start on the rest of us. All that fruit I guess – he now looks like a Mafia hit, but without the claret.

Day 2.

Morning has broken… and Elmer Duvet is off to a flyer. A trek to the beach and shooting the wildlife – with a camera means less blood spatter. The jet-lagged rise for their hearty breakfast. Tanky, leading from the front, ‘what no toast and marmite’ not warming to this continental approach to nourishment. Meanwhile, Quartermaster is pulling fish out of nowhere. A half hundredweight of freshly smoked fish – of not necessarily similar DNA: smoked eels; kippers; and, a dead thing with a trout pout. Superb fayre, maybe not appreciated by the younger palate (except Chunk) but going down a treat with the Sages. Only another 6 kilos to go. Tanky strangely betraying his Cockarney heritage and avoiding the eels – Pearly King he ain’t.

Match-day without a match. Our hosts, R.C. Tilburg, have had a hastily arranged league fixture take priority. So, without conceding a point, or a try, we retain our 100% match stats.

So, beach rugby it is then. A yomp to the sea and a splendid day – shorts, shades and sun cream the order of the day. Like a scene from Baywatch, but with odd shaped balls, a marvellous sight of youthful exuberance and festival rugby. Sages getting into the mood with ball twirling at risk of straining all manner of connective tissue. All a bit ‘Chariots of Fire’ but without the music – I hope ZZ Bailey’s photos do it justice. Not a day, maybe, for paddling in the bracing Noordzee except for punishment (corrective learning interventions).

Time for a game of Lads v Dads! Possibly a poor idea but somehow proving popular with the players. It’s certainly put a spring in their step. With renewed gusto the game starts. Tag rugby was the game but within 30 seconds it had descended into full contact with no holds barred. What followed remains undocumented as the official recorders were too busy face-planted into the beach. A shame as the parents gave the youngsters a jolly sound thrashing (the pen never lies). Abridged highlights: ZZ try of the game; Phattcatt a hat-trick; Churchy, less frock more whirling dervish. Surprisingly, as there were no rules (yes, laws, I get it) Tanky was the go-to oracle – a novel idea. With children stalking dads awaiting impatiently for a chance for ABH, Seemingly, with scores to settle the beach descends to a battle field: Tanky calling in tactical air support. The Bard taken out by Mini-Exocet, disappointingly late, you’d best sleep with one eye open…

Back to the hostel for a regroup – hobbling the order of the day. Battered and bruised the valiant fathers limping back to BOO. Preparation for the afternoons activity – Ten Pin Bowling – another chance to reinforce the point that youth is no substitute for experience.

Pre-bowling talk is cheap and laden with hyperbole – and that’s just the adults. Phattcatt spanks Tanky (Mr 200 points without fail). Churchwarden with a swagger unbecoming of a man of the cloth. Holby, about to be hauled in by the Bard, pulls the plug on the computers and brings a close to proceedings. All getting very competitive, just surprised that it remained non-contact.

Back to BOO and another round of thinking juice to alleviate the aching limbs, and possible remove some unwanted sand from crevices.

A forward planning committee in session. Serendipitous; Man City v Man United, for the Premiership title, is on in the bar. Holby, looking pensive as… [This content has been deliberately blocked as the Tanky Firewall doesn’t allow kiss-chase on a rugby tour] Planning sub-committee resumes in earnest.

How do you get 20 teenagers into a square yard? Order a pizza. It’s an exact science and a thing of beauty – 20 focused adolescents problem solving. If there was a GCSE in logistics I think that Tanky has just given a masterclass. Players now satiated with Domino's pizza the forward planning sub-committee can resume its more serious sipping business.

Talk of launching a new political party is helped by the local sipping beer as soap boxes are brought out. In an attempt to steer Phattcatt away from his fish cousins we dwell on 1001 ways to relieve cuddly animals of their fur. To be fair, the depth of knowledge of certain members – ZZ Brock and Elmer 12 Gauge – is impressive and well beyond a towny. Furry creatures of Blighty breathe easy – for the next couple of days. Dorm capers at the expense of the early to retire ensues. Apologies to Tanky, the naughtier dorm just want to share the love. Oh well, Kate Adie had it rougher. Did you know that the guppy fish has more DNA in common with Kate Adie than a perch?

Day 3.

Match day. Our young lions with a steely eye, determination and fixed stare look mean moody and magnificent (or, possibly, just sleep deprived). Apparently only Paavo Nurmi getting the requisite 9 hours 27 minutes of kip. Choo-Choo and Chunk coming in for criticism as Chunk hasn’t packed a white shirt and club tie, but alas all is well, it was Chunkski that had made the oversight – good luck with that one. Meanwhile, Tom D has a freshly ironed shirt on a hanger – a round of applause and a standing ovation – Tanky pulling up a sandbag and swinging the lamp of times gone by. White shirt envy breaking out at sycophant’s attempt to curry favour with the Commander. Tanky responds in his own inimitable way ‘too much testerosterone [sic]’ – GCSE alert – this is a made-up word.

Haarlemmermeer Hawks – the Bard struggles with double letters and this is gratuitous usage – double Dutch I guess. A gorgeous morning as the sun breaks through the morning mist. A billiard table pitch and the scene is set. Phattcatt’s good looks can only be improved by splashes of orange paint on his grid. Churchwarden taking the pre-match drills – less Scary but the squad in fine voice and enjoying themselves. Tanky out smarted by the home club Chairman who sports a club tie and blazer – what would the regiment say? The opposition sporting a girl which will be a novelty for Leam – not convinced by the photo opportunity #metoo. The referee must be ReferLee’s Dutch cousin as he’s in shocking orange. Tanky on parade saluting our host – snapping up to Ma’am.

Prelims complete and it’s time for a game.

There off and it’s Leam that are keen to force an advantage and forcing Hawks to defend. Beezo. With a neat, close quarter interception and a trot in from the 22. An early try and a good start. 0 v 7.

The fray restarts and Leam with a spring in their step. Lively fast phases and Kleem from short range, without teddy, getting the final touch.
0 v 14.

Leam now pinned back from the restart and running the ball. Ginja with a trademark step and the field opens up and he coasts home from the half-way. 0 v 21.

Three quick tries and Tanky looking to make changes – to the opposition. The home team now bolstered by Raging and Ginja – this could get fruity, scores to settle. It seems to have worked as Hawks press forward from the kick-off and force a scrum. Sir, not happy – penalty awarded. A sharp sprint breaking the line and only PhatKitten can stop with a brave tackle, but to no avail.
7 v 21.

Game on. Ginja tearing into his own team but Flowerpot having the last word. Scrum in our 22 and our forwards looking strong. ‘Look over your eyebrows’ says a Sage. A crucial piece of advice but Bard has no idea what information is being conveyed – the vagaries of rugby-speak is beyond the verbose Bard. Frantic phases and Leam pressurising but scrappy. Shakehands taking advantage and forcing his way over despite being surrounded by tacklers. A first club try – Bravo (worth a fiver) 7 v 26.

The game settles down and passages or play without advantages being gained. More phases and Leam string it together. Recycling the ball well and Harvey pops up to finish it off. 7 v 31.

Leam unusually with a size advantage and using their forwards well. Using power to dent the defensive line out wide and Chunk forces over from short range. He looks pleased with that. 7 v 36.

The tackling is keen and, seemingly, points to score. Tankette with a laser guided kick and a 5-metre lineout. Leam are in familiar territory and know what to do from here. Harvey, again, pinching it from short range and gets over the line. 7 v 41.

Last play of the half.

A strong performance from Leam – although they do have size and age advantage over some home players. Tanky has been thinking – he has a masterplan. The Leam forwards swap with the opposition and pitch the Leam forwards and backs on opposing sides. Shirts swapped/ changed/ reversed, and a make shift line-up are readied for the second half. Not sure about the scoring continuity with regard to the game, but we’ll persevere.

An odd array of shirts but Sir is happy. The second half starts with an unusual look but good communication emerging. Raging at fullback – he’s keen for a wave, never knowingly a shrinking violet.

The backs are first into their routine with good hands and line work. Aaron with pace to spare is the cherry on top finishing off a nice flowing move.

The backs again resume with nice flowing rugby. Working out wide to the left, that dodgy fullback is enjoying the space, and runs in a spacious try.

The forwards now suitably wound-up and return with their usual blunt approach – power and direct. Sporadic bouts of play as scores are settled. Shakehands marauding and breaking the line, now with 50 yards of space to run into, what could possibly go wrong? Like a fish out of water he turns looking for someone to tackle – a true forward – advantage surrendered. Forward power and Phattkitten reacts quickest to puncture the defence – Phattcatt spraying waffle as he nearly chokes.

The backs feeling the urge to respond and do so with pace. Raging with space around the outside and runs in behind the posts. He sportingly passes to Aaron to ground it, but it’s adjudged to have been a forward pass. No try. Much to the mirth of the crowd.

Ginja, now at fullback, catches a deep kick and returns it with a full-length solo try – team work notably absent.

The forwards again step up to the test. With the odd shaped people making progress it’s Tank with white line fever and determined to get over. Lethal from a .91 metre - a pass was never a consideration. Later he would swing the lamp with his ‘number 8 pick up from the half way line’ and seems to think that it was elegant – I’m just surprised he new such a word.

Another 5-yard (4.57 metres) scrum and bragging rights to be had – this is rugby and these guys naturally competitive.

The final whistle sounds. The Bard, who struggles with such a complex scoring system, makes it 21 v 17 in favour of the backs.

All done bar the talking – let the drivelling fools begin.

Firstly, formalities to perform. Following a speech from our host Captain, in perfect English, Beezo responds. In English, because he’s English. Beezo, your spoken Dutch is a disgrace – what do they teach you at that elite school? Too much Latin!

All in all, a good workout and much enjoyed by all. As if rugby wasn’t enough, you can’t beat impromptu miscellaneous sporting challenges. Arm-wrestling is a good start. The players are first up with mixed results. The mini-Exocet is up against the opposition’s young lady. A contest with a crowd baying for only one result. And when it happened it was followed by possibly the loudest cheer of the day. Karma.

Next up the coaches. Now, Tanky doesn’t like to mention it, but his shrapnel has moved, and he couldn’t possibly do an arm-wrestle justice. So, deputising is the Churchwarden, Mr Competitive. The papa of the tour but never known to disappoint. The hand of God works in mysterious ways – and with some table dancing – 1 v 0 to God. Much amusement and cultural exchanges – there are no barriers when having fun. Now onto the dizzy relays – I never realised that it was an adult activity – but if it’s good enough for the Hawks Chairman it would be rude not too. ZZ Bailey’s pictures is possibly the only way to understand such an absurd and farcical competition – that was keenly fought. Bragging rights to Tanky’s team.

For a relatively new Club they certainly know how to entertain and welcome guests; their hospitality was gratefully received. Approached in the right spirit and with the teams mingling well. Rugby is a universal language and transcends all cultural boundaries – the ethos is well embedded and is a credit to our hosts. Bravo, Haarlemmermeer Hawks, it was a true pleasure to have been hosted by you.

Time for the road, Boing Boing, appears as if by magic, and it’s time to board the coach. From Dutch perfect diction to a yam-yam ay-eye. You can take the bloke out of the black country…

Reflections on a fine day of rugby and now to return to base. Thoughts of a long day but, not wishing to be too positive, performance issues have been raised. The Sages miss nothing. You can only learn by facing the brutal truths, and so, a Court (of the marsupial variety) has been arranged for the future development of our charges.

The British criminal justice system is our gift to the world. It put the Great before the Britain, a proud achievement based on justice, fairness and the right to be heard. We gave the world fair play. Sitting here next door to The Hague, International Court of Justice, it’s only fitting that we show them how it’s done.

A court session is arranged with Quartermaster providing the kebabs (in case punishments are necessary). Made from fresh ingredients: chilli; smoked mackerel; pineapple; salami; and, pickled gherkin.

· A learned panel of judges – true and fair: Posh Yorky; Holby; and Bees.

· Prosecution by Tanky

· Defence by the Churchwarden

Accused: Raging Bull.

Offence: Dick of the Day.

Self-evident in wasting a try by making a forward pass – and you never argue with Sir. In fact, it was the Defence Counsel that had brought it to the attention of Sir. Clearly guilty. A kebab to be consumed.

Accused: Phatkitten.

Offence: Fixing the odds and being so cunning that you could pin a tail to him and call him a weasel.

A technical crime of insider trading and a bit too technical for the Panel. Knowing Phattcat he’s clearly capable. Guilty. Kebab it is.

Accused: Zahir.

Offence: Being a plastic vege – vegetarianism is a selfless and stupid act, but you can’t go ordering a meat feast pizza.

The prosecution actually ordered it. Guilty. No need for any defence.

Accused: Beezo.

Offence: International diplomacy fail. For listening to a foreign counterpart make a speech in English and responding in English, because you are English. Should have learnt Dutch at that posh school.

No defence offered. Guilty. Kebab.

Accused: Shakehands.

Offence: Wannabe back but lacking the moral fibre. When breaking the line found 50 metres of space and bottled it.

He looked guilty. We all saw it and he doesn’t look like a back – look at those hands. Guilty. Kebab.

Accused: A tricky one this and an I.D. parade required. Zahir, Tank and Drew are called before the bench.

Offence: being the only ginger on tour. It’s actually quite difficult for the Panel, not sure either way, probably best to punish them all. Guilty. Kebabs all round.

Accused: Mini-Exocet.

Offence: Duties to gender equality. He either threw an arm-wrestle with a girl or was soundly beaten. Either way the crowd loved it.

Well the audience were quite clear on his guilt, and so, he must be guilty. Kebab.

Accused: Pauli.

Offence: Too clever to pass and for giving word definitions faster than Google – namely ‘diligent’. Also, not comfortable wearing a dress.

After being given a perfectly useless Defence Counsel he decided to argue his own case. Hardly helping his ‘too clever’ label – a bit of an own goal. Guilty.

Accused: Sam.

Offence: leading by example and rocking that dress.

Self-evident – his dad took the photographic evidence. Guilty. Kebab.

Accused: Aaron.

Offence: A blagguard. Bigging up his bowling abilities whilst feigning injury to avoid starting at rugby.

Simply not acceptable. We could go through the evidence, but the Panel felt it was a sufficiently footballish thing, no further evidence required. Guilty. Kebab.

Accused: Charlie.

Offence: Being too nice by far and failing to cause offence on tour.

This was an easy one for the Panel as no one had been offended by Charlie and none were offered in his defence by his dad. Guilty. Kebab.

Accused: Tom Davis.

Offence: for failing to attend the tour.

He stood before the Panel, but this wasn’t necessarily convincing evidence. The Panel weren’t swayed by his ‘apparent’ appearance in front of them. Guilty. Kebab.

Accused: Gorgeous.

Offence: The most inconsistent player.

He plays, then he has weeks off, for no apparent reason. Hard to deny and his Defence Counsel is a waste of space. Feigning a limp was just poor acting. Guilty. Kebab.

Accused: Flowerpot.

Offence: worst shave on tour and being tackled by a girl. Also, disputing the facts.

This was a tricky case and had the Panel struggling. Right up to the time he denied being tackled – disputing the facts. Guilty. Kebab.

Accused: Killer.

Offence: crab of the tour.

Continually running sideways with the ball. Not to mention the attempted smuggling of ill-gotten gains.

His play was self-evident, and no defence was offered. Smuggling – he was caught by Tanky after being shopped by Holby. Guilty. Kebab.

Accused: Tankette.

Offence: Light-weight – lack of poncing off Dad. Also, donating his kit to the Dutch – inadvertently.

Tricky one as his Dad was the prosecution. You may have considered restraint in spending a virtue but not in this court. Typical limp defence from his Counsel. Guilty. No kebab – but a Fanta… with mayonnaise and a tomato jus. He seemed to enjoy it.

Accused: Wine Lodge.

Offence: Sycophant of the tour. Pauli needed for a definition – but nowhere to be seen.

Simply too helpful and amenable. Repeated volunteering and general all-round good egg. Not good enough. This is a tour – brought up too well. Guilty Kebab.

Accused: I.D. parade needed. Sam, Pauli, Phatkitten.

Offence: Speccy twits. Someone has informed Ray (Boing Boing Driver) that he’s much better than the miserable git that we had last tour. Ray was our driver last tour. Ray, not knowing the names, placed a steely eye over the miscreants. Not sure – so all guilty. Phatkitten, the actual miscreant, could have owned up at this point, but hey ho. Guilty. Kebab.

Accused: Chunk.

Offence: Bromance of the tour. Furtling poor Leamy all tour – rather enthusiastically.

Just guilty – still had him in court. Kebab.

Accused: Harvey, Tank and Tanky.

Offence: possession of facial hair that serves no purpose. Either scruffy bum-fluff of shaped like a baboon’s backside – the offending facial scruff was put on parade. Guilty. Shaving foam introduced to said areas.

A special hearing had to be rapidly convened for a couple of late offences – involving court officials.

Accused: Posh Yorky.

Offence: Bitten by the tsetse fly and has been asleep at every opportunity, and some inopportune. Also, not having a tour shirt is beyond redemption. This is not tour etiquette and a poor example to set for young minds.

Defence crumbled. There’s no point defending the indefensible. Guilty. Kebab.

Accused: Tanky.

Offence: a complaint has been received from another NATO country. The Netherlands have formally complained about a blue on blue incident whilst firing blanks. A log has been found concealed in the coastal defences and disturbing an area of outstanding natural beauty. And the Chairman wasn’t impressed with Tanky’s dress code.

Looking suitably abashed he had guilt written all over his face. The court was seething at causing such an international incident – if we had an Eastern front he’d be sent there. Alas, a kebab will have to do.

The court has decided. In the finest traditions of British justice, despite years of austerity, we can still hold our head’s up high in the full knowledge that our fair and transparent legal system is still Great.

Day 4.

Noordwijk and time to depart.

A cunning plan to leave early and catch an earlier ferry. A cunning plan. The rain has settled in and a typical Blighty weather has descended to escort us home. A subdued atmosphere on the coach as a link to the Hawks match photos have been published. The coaches looking for the technical detail and points to note.

Phattcatt amusing himself by licking the window, then pointing to river signs before then calming himself with more window licking, as a form of therapy. As, our youthful intelligentsias debate the major religions – keen as mustard it must be RE GCSE revision. Bowdewijnkanaal, Nieuwege, Yser; those windows will need wiping down.

Churchwarden passing around the granola bars – seemingly made from the sweepings of our dormitory floor – he really is a fit freak. All that fibre and Tanky will need to remember to avoid a diplomatic incident.

Belgium, and an opportunity to buy loved ones a token gesture of how they’ve been missed. An opportunity that would have been missed if parents had exercised a substantial nudge, and so, Dads claiming kudos on this one!

France, brings Calais, via an unnecessary Tanky deviation up a toll road, and miles of high security fencing; a rather sobering sight. An ominous line of coaches stretches out before us. Still, our young diplomats have the chance to communicate with the German coach behind – using snip-chit, or sumit [sic]. 4 hours down and not moving far in a hurry. 6 lanes of coaches and cabin fever setting in and Johnny Cash’s burning rings of fire now bent out of shape more times than can be counted. Food and water running low – thoughts of Lord of the Flies come to mind, and these boys can eat. A sure sign of our parlous state is Churchwarden handing out the hymn sheets a rousing rendition of ‘kick Nelly in the belly’ and our descent into oblivion is complete: where is Papa when you need him? He’d be proud.

15 to 20 minutes says Tanky. Calais Port Authority says realign your bore-sight. Hakuna matata says ZZ and he’s probably right. 3 hours later we’re moving. Having aimed for an early ferry, we have missed it, and our own ferry too, now for the later one.

A Guinness, or two, always helps. A post-tour debrief and some welcome sustenance.

Arrival in Blighty and the home-leg. Tanky has a brain wave – a sweepstake on our TOA. I’d like to be more specific, but Bees has placed a high court injunction on all organisers. Choo-Choo wants clarification that makes Brexit negotiations look piffle – many ‘what ifs’ and Bees barrister wants a written contract of engagement. The Hague has been informed. Tanky head in hands. So: the front bumper will define arrival; the barrier on the gate is the finish line; Tanky’s phone is the only timing device; the nearest minute after the time, and not before, even though it may not be nearest. I’m about to stick my pen in my eye. Anyway, Chunk played a blinder and scooped the winnings; pending Bees’ high court appeal. I think he has guppy DNA.

Done and dusted. Tanky has pulled off another raid on Europe – filled with rugby, hi-jinks, and stories to tell. These things don’t happen by chance they are built on many hours of toil and research – by the few. You know who you are and the tourists, particularly our young charges, will remember for a long time to come. Bravo to all involved and for Tanky for bringing it all together.

Spek Dichter.