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What's the French for 'schadenfreude'? (53)

• Tom Fordyce
• 17 Sep 07, 11:47 AM

Montpellier, Monday morning - You want to know what true happiness is? A man named finding out that the assistant venue manager at the is called Paul Bastard.

The weight off Ben鈥檚 shoulders since he arrived in a country where his name fails to raise a single snigger has been obvious to all concerned, but this was a moment of pure redemption. Only if he had discovered that 鈥淔ordyce鈥� translates as something obscene involving goats and PVC aprons could he have been any happier.

For the residents of , these past few days will forever be known as The Weekend When Nothing Went Wrong.

After the long and varied disasters of the previous 12 days (broken laptops, broken cookers, entire afternoons lost circling roundabouts, stale biscuits for dinner) our joy at making it to two matches without serious mishap was almost unconfined.

Little matter that the weekend had begun with at the Stade de France. The drunken Frenchmen in the bar we were in may have taunted us throughout, but we had the last laugh when French TV cut to a shot of legendary full-back seated high in the stands.

To say that Serge 鈥� always the most committed of smokers as a player 鈥� has put on a bit of weight since he retired is like saying that Oliver Reed was partial to the odd pint. So exponential has been the expansion of Serge鈥檚 girth that it was some time before we realised that we weren鈥檛 watching a surprise guest appearance from the .

Almost as shocking was the way that 15 determined Georgians managed to silence 10,000 hysterical Ireland fans .

At kick-off, the roars of 鈥淚reland, Ireland鈥� had been so loud that children several towns away were sobbing in the arms of their worried parents. By the end the volume was just the same 鈥� but this time with chants of 鈥淕eorgie! Georgie!鈥� echoing round the rafters.

During those momentous last 10 minutes, with camped on the Irish line and Eddie O鈥橲ullivan鈥檚 forwards panicking like a bunch of spinsters at a bull-fight, the pair of us thought we were about to bear witness to the biggest upset in rugby since .

Sadly, we couldn鈥檛 hang around to commiserate with our pals Ronan and Deidre, a top-notch pair of Irish fans we鈥檇 met in St Emilion earlier in the day when Degustation Dirs had been working his way though samples of .

With tickets secured for 鈥� or Toga, as they were referred to in one newspaper we saw 鈥� we had to jump back in The Bloggernaut for the 430km haul down to sunny Montpellier.

Time passes quickly on such trips. Conversations are varied, silences rare. Ben takes the opportunity to explain why he prefers kilometres to miles (鈥渢hey go by quicker on long journeys鈥�). I attempt to sing harmonies to the tunes playing on the van iPod, and sound like a goose being foie grassed. We both swear at a French driver who is hammering down the autoroute at 90mph while dangling one bare foot of the window (I鈥檓 not joking).

Montpellier is scorching. Like true Englishmen, we instantly expose more bare flesh than is appropriate and .

Sure, the game itself is poor 鈥� more fumbling sevens than the smashfest we鈥檇 expected 鈥� but once again the stands are packed with locals, screaming for both sides as if they were Les Bleus themselves.

Say what you like about the French 鈥� honk-heavy on the roads, unable to keep campsites open after 9pm, so bad at football they lose to Scotland 鈥� but they鈥檝e taken to this World Cup like .

Tom Fordyce is a 主播大秀 Sport journalist travelling around France in a camper van with Ben Dirs.

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