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CPR's new recruit Stuart Kuczynski, gives us his take on the final days of the 2003 Tour.
Friday night finished along with the last drop of Vino Rosso at 6am. Saturday afternoon started with a sore head. The insatiable alcoholic pairing of Fulton and Kuczynski were last seen voluntarily lying on the hotel landing with the dregs of some 5Euro plonk, reminiscing about bonnie Scotland and desperately trying to be the last man standing. After a night of heavy drinking following on from a fiercely contested game fought in Milan's second finest stadium, the two Scots had decided to take part in an act of finishing they were good at, sneaking past the sleeping 'Show Pony' Jason Johnson in their room and taking the last bottle of plonk out into the hotel lobby. After waking up the ageing (by the hour) landlord and playing charades for a corkscrew to calm his suddenly conscious rage, the pair ended up banished from the hallways and were coaxed into a seemingly soundproof hotel cleaning cupboard. It was at that point that enough, which was usually never enough, became enough.
Earlier that Friday night the rest of the team had retired after drinking beer & cocktails in the trendy Milan Square, celebrating Paul Dawson's 30th birthday and ogling the vast variety of stunning women that are to Milan what John Andrews is to CPR (an age-old feature I hear you say?). Dawson defied anyone who mentioned he was 30 at midnight, clinging onto the extra hour of being 29 by working from Greenwich Mean Time and coming out with boring old comments like 'I feel really tired' and 'I wish I was young again'.
Luca, Mike and Amir ('The Axis of Evil') went off to a fancy club to meet Luca's girlfriend and search for more Italian eye candy, or if you believed Evans & Newman - they were off to join some terror network, grow their beards and start a Jihad! The smut-riding terror network of Evans and Newman, believe it or not, went to their unholy beds!
After listening to Jason making noise at the crack of dawn on his way to visit the big stadium and do the tourist thing, Andi and I woke up missing both the morning and the Gucci girlfriend trip, saving plenty of money in the process. Reflecting on the night before, we had lost, got eaten by mosquitos that were attracted by flesh and floodlight, and left with the ironic discomforting thought that the man in black would probably use his bribery money to buy some insect repellent, a 6 pack of 40W bulbs and a Man United kit.
Nicknames were also prevalent during the trip and the best of them had to be the previously mentioned: 'Axis of Evil' for his harshly suggested facial similarities to a member of Al Queda. Amir was also allotted sleeping quarters in the Playboy Mansion with Steve and Simon, where the three 'Smut Riders' were hoping for a 'Spitroast' and to find the best selection of 'Rorn' that Milan would later know would not be a privilege
Other nicknames allotted to the unfortunately accused, were:
'Sloth': Andi Fulton for looking like the monster from the Goonies 1st thing in the morning.
'Foetus': Me for being the youngest or youngest looking.
'Oak': Danny for being solid as a tree at the back, or Steve's personal shower nickname.
'Budgie': John for showing his age, remembering a hero from a bygone era.
'Show Pony': Jason's for the obvious over-the-top football camaraderie.
'Brooks': Luca's lifelong nickname, apparently.
'Smut Riders': Steve and Simon obviously, although maybe they should have bought some polo mints and given one to Jason, as they found no other way to 'feed the pony'.
When the day of the big tournament arrived there were a few tired legs running around the scenic Milan hills, exhausted both by the amount of football in the past few days and by the dizzy climb up to the amazing 6-a-side pitch. It was truly quite a spectacular view. With a backdrop that looked like one of Da Vinci's best,, the CPR squad were ready to compete with the cream of Milan. It was only upon a showering reflection of the afternoon and an ice-chilled swim from 'Budgie' (joined by a random dog) that we realised we had been curdled, rather than fresh out the bottle: closer to custard than the cream of Milan.
When our first game kicked off we certainly made up for in numbers what we lacked in ability, losing quite badly after a decent start, but certainly winning in the substitute count. Rino's boys, who we had drawn with the previous night, were our opposition once again and unfortunately they seemed much the fitter of the two teams, coasting to the 3 points and a lead at the top of the 4 team league. I felt cramp in my legs on a short while into the game and had to come off, much to the displeasure of Steve Newman and his 'Dropping Anchor' tagline. It didn't seem to matter that his own anchor had been down for so long that it was getting rusty.
In our remaining two games we didn't seem to gel as a team and create any sense of consistency, largely because we had so many players and not much luck in front of goal. The most exciting thing for us, apart from playing on such a wonderful arena and soaking up the sun / rain / sun / rain, was the golden boot competition. We knew we were finishing up with the wooden spoon (soon to be called the prize for the 4th best tits in a Milan club) although we didn't know who was going to get a pass from Chris during any of the games, with both Andi and Amir tied on the same 8 goal tally that he had amassed.
The goal that was disallowed the previous night would have taken me to 8 goals as well, so I was doubly annoyed at the referee stopping it from being a 4-way-tie. With a succession of bad misses from each of the three competitors, Chris emerged victorious and took the prize magnanimously at our evening party, thanking both Amir and Andi (I think), also flashing a bit of leg for Rino's Boys during his speech - explaining that he had came back from a broken leg and fought his mental demons, returning to full fitness and precision in-front of goal. I think Andi was booing in jest at this point, ever the gracious loser, with Paul Dawson joining in 'the boos/ze' because it was his birthday and he could.
Before we arrived at the party, keen to forget about our shocking last place performance during the day, we went back to our hotel and were invited down to a cheese and wine celebration, where we toasted both the management and the host for a quality weekend. We also reminded ourselves that there were ex-professionals playing against us (well one) and that 4th place wasn't that bad considering Rino's Boys had the misfortune of winning the biggest (but still really small trophy) and having to dive into the freezing swimming pool to celebrate their achievement. We suddenly realised 4th place, dryness, cheese, wine and a great night to come was much the better option.
When we arrived at the restaurant on the hill we were all feeling quite merry and chose our seats in relation to where the most vats of wine were situated (ok I did then). After tucking into vast quantities of the red stuff and punching fists in the air for more, the never-ending-course-meal came and went, and then the prize giving began. Dawson was about the only person drinking white wine, which was a stroke of genius considering there was gallons of it and the red drinkers were guzzling fast. I was very jealous when I discovered his plan, as eh…well…. white goes much better with the fish we had! Everyone soon caught up with Dawson though and the party was well underway.
The prize giving ceremony went quite slowly as I recall, fated by the singing of ill tuned songs and the worship of John Andrews by both sides of the room - 'There's only one Johnny Andrew's' was a favourite with the singing minions I seem to recall. After the introductions were eventually made when the singing subsided, t-shirts swapped hands, bribery was aplenty and the votes we counted. There were three prizes to present, where Jason won Player of the Year (after a nail-biting draw with him, Paul and Danny, where the re-vote decided the tie-break), Paul won goal of the season, Chris won Golden Boot and Mike won tickets to the cup final for his outstanding support over the years and through injury for CPR. Everyone was happy, the birthday boy got a prize and Jason was grinning from ear to ear. He was well made up! After the prizes were given out the singing broke out in full swing once again, the Grappa was going down like it was a cure for dropping anchor and it was time to hit the club.
I remember the panic of waiting in the queue and hearing the clever suggestion of trying to blend in so the bouncers would mistake us for Italians. It was a great idea in hindsight, all 20 of us, un-tanned, drunk, unwittingly loud and trying to squeeze through the sober people- we might as well have had bulldogs tattooed to our foreheads! However, we all managed to get past the bouncers and found a busy maze of rooms and bars and entertainment inside, loud music and expensive prices, every bottle full and the dance floor awaiting. I believe it was the mighty pairing of Jon and John who took to the music first, the golden oldies finding some funky stuff and putting the youngsters to shame with their 70s moves and shaven heads. Ok, they didn't put anyone bar themselves to shame really, but the 'budgie' was very impressive with his podium spinning number, where he kicked his foot off the ground and spun round for ages - I dread to think at what east-end club he picked that one up.
It was that point we lost Paul for a while, as the white wine had obviously kicked in. He could have been in any RAF boozer if you had asked, happily content to wander the happy house with a beer in his hand. When we all finally met up as a whole team again I think I screwed the order up for drinks and got everyone whisky's, much to Steve's whisky hating displeasure, but then again I did drop anchor earlier didn't I. After drinking the house dry and sweating it wet again on the floor, we all linked arm-in-arm while the music was tailing off singing. 'We love CPR' in perfect harmonic voice. Steve grabbed onto something he shouldn't have, we all started to sway, everyone fell off the podium and the lights came on. What a night!!!
Another great part and excellent story from the night was hearing about our drunken exploits from the walk home after the club, which most of us had forgotten about, recited the next morning from Andi (surprisingly being one of the more sober ones). Apparently we had liberated a giant black and while 'No War' flag (Niet Guerra - or something) from an Italian villa on the way home from the club. It was so big that it could be forced down by pulling the cotton sheet from the bottom, so we yanked it down and carried it home by all accounts (well, by Andi's account). The genius of it lay in the fact that Mike had invited Alex to the Cup final after winning the tickets from the prize giving and took the flag with him. In the corner of the Millennium Stadium in Cardiff, while Southampton were losing to Arsenal on the final game of the season - two CPR players were re-living the Milan trip and confusing an entire nation of English speaking football fans as they tried in vain to decipher a sign that would mean more, to more people, than they could ever possibly imagine. Well done guys!
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