School rugby trip

In 1978 I was a skinny 16 years old and like my peers, had an umbilical like affinity to beer. Infact anything alcohol related. I suppose it was the fact that we shouldn't yet be drinking that gave it the mystique that surrounded it. We also thought we had the capacity for enormous quantities, despite falling over after a couple of pint shandies. Nothing has changed and I still lack that capacity. Thankfully, I also lack the beer belly that nomally accompanies such volumous drinking. Back then, I went on a school trip to Murryfield to see Scotland play France. I'd been there before on previous trips. Only this one turned out to be a bit of a headache. Literally. In the days leading up to the trip, we were all called into the assembly room where the headmaster left no doubt what the rules were: NO DRINKING:- Any boy caught trying to board the bus with alcohol would have it confiscated and he wouldn't be allowed on the bus. He would be required to present himself at the headmaster's office first thing Monday morning. Any boy subsequently caught in possession of alcohol would be left at Murryfield and not allowed on the bus back to Dundee. His parents would be notified and expected to collect him from the stadium. He too would be required to present himself at the headmaster's office first thing Monday morning. Any boy returning to the bus after the game, having consumed alcohol, would not be allowed on the bus and his parents notified and asked to collect him from the stadium. Oh, and no smoking. So there you have it. Alcohol was clearly their biggest concern, but don't smoke either. The trip through was unmemorable. So much so, that I can't remember it. I can't remember the trip back either, but that we'll come to in a bit. Arriving in Edinburgh, we seperated from the teachers who had accompanied us. No doubt they were quite happy with that arrangement and headed straight to the nearest bar. Joined up thinking prevailed and we passed by the first pub and headed for the second where we managed to purchase a few beers and enjoy the hospitality of some enthusiastic (if not very drunk) French supporters. Inside the ground, the beer continued to flow, and thanks to the hospitality of the Frenchmen, so did the brandy. The last I remember, was a 10 minutes into the first half. I was standing on one of the supports for the crowd barrier, feeling a little tipsy. Apprently my fall was not only from grace, but onto the crowd in a very drunken mess and drunkenly unconscious. Thankfully my friends made sure I was okay and managed to prop me up against the barrier where I would remain until one of them managed to find a teacher. Thankfully, the teacher he found was one of the good guys and he carried me to the bus. Unfortunately (and I can't blame him), the driver refused to let me on the bus and left me in the care of (lets call him) Mr Bisset. He then carried me from the stadium to the train station where he phoned my father and waited with me until he arrived. I suppose in those days, the drive to Murryfield from Dundee would have been at least 90 mins, and obviously the same going back again. Well I wakened on the floor of my dad's car as we turned into the driveway at home about 4 hours later. Panic suddenly set in as I realised where I was. Surely I was in for absolute hell. With a calm voice that scared the shit out of me I was told to climb out and slowly I staggered my way into the house and into bed. Obviously dad knew the hangover I would suffer would be worse than any punishment he could hand out. He was right. Sunday was a living hell. The point at which you realise things can get worse and move from - oh my god I'm dying, to oh my god - I'm not getting out of this that easily. 

Mum's soup helped, but just gave me ammunition to projectile vomit until sleep helped ease the explosions going off in my head.

By Monday morning, I was no longer hungover, but still felt like shit. A sort of combination of general illness, shame and fear of the unknown that lay ahead as I faced the wrath of the headmaster. Would I be expelled and bring shame on my family? Or would I be writing lines for the next 6 weeks? Sure as a cat's a hairy beast I would be grounded for the next 10 years.

As I walked into the school grounds, people looked at me differently. Word had spread and everyone already knew I was the one who had been drunk to the point of unconsciousness at the rugby. 

The first class lasted about 2 minutes before I was summoned to the headmasters office. Oh shit. I walked there as slowly as I dared, putting off the inevitable for as long as possible.  

The headmasters office had one of those traffic light systems outside, with the red light showing he was busy. As I approached I feared the worst, especially when I heard the raised voices within. One of the other teachers who had been on the trip was having a shouting match with the headmaster. 

The 5 minutes I was told to stand there felt like a life time. Finally the door opened and a very red faced teacher stormed out, staring daggers at me. Turned out he had been caught with beer on the return bus trip and was in deeper shit than me. I was told what a disgrace I was and dismissed with little more than a dented pride. 

I never did find out what the final score was until I researched it for writing this tale of woe. 

France won 19 - 16