Rarely have I obtained tickets for international rugby matches by what could be called normal channels. I have scarcely ever applied for them in advance and have never presented myself in person at the office of whatever union was issuing them, writes Denis Tuohy
This is not said with any condescension towards other enthusiasts, including many of my own friends, who rise earlier in the morning than I do and can better organise their lives. However, I have found through many years' experience that the game of trying to get tickets can be as enjoyable as the eventual game itself, though of course the result of my efforts, like those of the 15 green shirts who will carry my hopes for an hour and a half, cannot be guaranteed.
When success is achieved, the later and the more unexpectedly it happens, the greater the thrill. In the 1970s, when I was anchorman of a BBC Television current affairs programme, I was once approached in a west London pub by a police superintendent from Wales. We discussed, quite amicably, some investigative stories that had recently been featured on the programme. Then, knowing where I came from, he asked if I would be in Cardiff in a few days' time for the Ireland-Wales game.
"If I could get a ticket," I said.
He smiled. "You just did. I'm on the board of the Welsh Rugby Union."
Admittedly, when the ticket duly arrived the accompanying note offered his "premature commiserations" which turned out, alas, to be justified.
Cardiff was to be the setting for two further ticket episodes, both of them more eccentric than that chance encounter, and both taking place during the tense countdown to kick-off. There was the year that Rob and Dai, two lecturers in a Welsh art college, invited me as their guest. "Don't worry about a thing. Everything's taken care of," they told me. With less than an hour to go we were still sinking pints in the Angel, a short walk from the Holy of Holies. I wasn't sure whether I was supposed to be paying for my ticket, which hadn't yet materialised, but felt it was time to inquire.
"Oh, there's no ticket," said Dai, adding, as he saw my bewilderment, "but that's not a problem. Let's have one for the road." Fifteen minutes before kick-off we joined the throng outside the stadium. From his shoulder-bag Rob produced three cameras and three press passes which he distributed among us. "Didn't we tell you we're photographers?"
"No," I said, "and what am I going to do?"
"Stay close." Sure enough, the man at the turnstile greeted Rob by name and waved us through. We made our way to a room beneath the stand, next to the tunnel from which the players would shortly emerge. The room was full of other photographers, checking their equipment. As we arrived they left.
"We'd better get going too," said Rob. "Billy will sort you out." Off they went, leaving only Billy and myself. He was small, sixty-ish, with twinkling eyes. On the pitch the band was playing Men of Harlech.
"Right then. Leave your camera and your pass behind and come with me," Billy said. Stupefied, I was led down the tunnel and on to the pitch. At the touchline Billy waved to one of the stewards, who helped me over the barrier and into a front row seat as the crowd welcomed the Irish team and, with much greater enthusiasm, the Welsh.
On a later trip to Cardiff I discovered, to my amazement, that giving away match tickets could be as difficult as obtaining them. At a pre-match party one of my Welsh friends had two spares which he offered me. I thanked him but had my own.
"Take them anyway," he said. "Many of your fellow countrymen have come a long way and they're stuck. And as I got them free, please give them away free. But to Irish supporters, mind." With half an hour to go I stood outside the stadium, attempting to offload free tickets. Try it sometime. You quickly learn how well we've all been programmed.
"What do you mean, free? Do you mean face value?"
"No. I mean free."
"Free?"
"That's right, free."
"Like, you don't want money?"
"I don't want money. They're free."
People would back off. I was joking, I was having them on. Less politely, I was advised to go and four-letter myself. I was warned that police were on the lookout for forged tickets and forgers. I had almost decided to throw them up in the air and see what happened when two bleary-eyed lads in tall green hats stumbled by. I wasn't at all sure they would be capable of following events on the pitch, or anywhere else, but that wasn't my problem. Overwhelmed by the offer, they flung their arms around each other and around me, praising the providence of God.
"Didn't I say he'd see us right?"
"You did, but doesn't he move in mysterious ways?" Indeed he does. And perhaps he'll move my way before that historic match against England at Croke Park.