So, we arrived back in France, where the scenery was less fantastic and the men all stared at us in funny ways. It was an absolutely scorching day at 25 degrees with a clear blue sky and the warm mistral blowing from across the deserts of Africa. We sweated our way to the tourist office, where we received the attention of a young lady who's main objective was not to help people, preferring instead to answer the phone.
Eventually we were helped by a frumpy snail eating old woman who found us the last two beds in an extraordinarily full Montpellier. Again, we found our hotel, dumped our crap (in more ways than one - I thought you'd like to know that), and made our way back out to the launderette. It wasn't pleasant, but it had to be done. Pretty much all of our stuff had to be washed, so we sauntered to 'la lavarie' in shorts, cricball shirts and trainers, and frantically wrestled all of our laundry into the machines.
An hour or so later (smelling sweetly of rose petals), we walked around town, trying to ascertain reasons to why the town was so packed (we thought that maybe there was an influx of inspectors, making sure the town's poo levels were up to scratch). A quick laze in the park later, and I had found a direct link to childhood holidays in France: a can of Oasis.
No, not the diluted essence of a popular Rock band, but a refreshing fruit-based drink, which I used to buy with regularity as a young pup. However, this drink does have an influence in the history of one of Britain's greatest bands. The very name 'Oasis' was invented when the 15-year-old Liam Gallagher mistook it for a can of soda pop. Even to this day, the very utterance of the word 'Oasis' makes Liam dive into his Puma sports bag and mercilessly guzzle a 2-litre bottle of the 'nectar of t'gods', as he likes to call it. Noel is a Sprite man. This rift in taste has seen many a bust-up in the Gallagher household. I digress.
Yet again, that evening we watched football in an Irish pub, Man Utd 2 - Bayer Leverkusen 2. Although we realised our Guinness was expensive (at just under £4 a bloody pint!), we decided they were necessary. We were also joined by Devon Malcolm (80s English Cricket icon).
"Can I watch the game with you guys?"
"Sure"
"I got a lot of wickets against West Indies, once" he told us.
"Shut up Malcolm you cock, I'm trying to watch the football!" Ted told him.
"I'm sorry man, I love you, but I hate that Graham Gooch, he always call me 'coloured boy'" under breath "'coloured boy'! I'll show him..." Thus endeth the conversation.
The Arsenal game was unwatchable and as time ticked away, Pinochet called us with score updates. On the verge of a Teddy tantrum, and with me praying to the God of ice cream and jelly, Freddie Ljungberg and Kanu scored to rap up the points! Woohoo!
So we said goodbye to Devon and got a good night's sleep. 2 more wins and we would be champions.
Beautiful blue skies greeted us in the morning. The town of Montpellier, full as ever, was absolutely beautiful, and basking in the sunshine. We explored the historic parts of town, including the aqueduct and their very own Arc de Triomphe. Another queue for tickets at the train station, and it was time for a very pricey (but much appreciated) lunch of gallettes - with runny egg on it - hmmmm. About an hour or so lounging in the sun later, and I felt something in my stomach protesting in its strongest possible terms about the egg. We quickly decided to head back to the hotel, where I was repulsively ill for about 40 minutes. So here's a lesson for you, when having a crepe with an egg on it, ask for it to be well cooked first. Then make sure you are within running distance of a toilet and a pack of Imodium.
Shakily we headed out to buy Pringles and coke for consumption on the train the next day. Unfortunately, we ran into a full-scale anti-Le Pen political demonstration. When asked some blurb in French about what we should do about the Le Pen situation, I simply replied:
"No thank you, I'm English. All clear? Jolly good!" The rather strange French hippy person left us alone after that. A quick session of worship at Monsieur Le Mac's mysteriously magnificent meat monolith (which incidentally was full of Euro tuffs), and we once again were in need of rest before the next day's traveling.
We woke up amidst a barrage of incessant wailing from next-door's baby. Having shoved our stuff back into the backpacks from whence it came, we decided to go 'tuff' as we had to change trains at Marseilles - which as every travel book will tell you - is not a welcoming place (i.e. full of tuffs and crack-whore-bitches).
What a pile of wank. I've felt more threatened in Westbury! However, having boarded the train, a small French boy dressed in a Spanish football shirt was trying his best to suffocate us with his 'super B.O' smell. His insistence on running past us every five minutes screaming
"Je suis tres odeureaux!" meant that our tolerance levels began to fail. We survived though. Smelly French bastard.