Olympic European Qualifiers, Bratisvlava

No Olympics - now what? First of all, some thanks...

I suppose to some extent the Olympic goal was possibly a bridge too far from a starting point of having begun the sport at the ripe age of 18 in a country without a recent international pedigree in fencing. Furthermore, this was not necessarily my explicit personal goal but instead it was rather to push myself to see what I could achieve. As an external watermark of achievement, in this brief lull of reflection, I'm proud that I was selected to participate and that I participated to the best of my ability.

Thanks for all your kind words of support over the last few days! More especially I'd like to thank all of you for your support, which took so many different forms, over the last ten years or so. Thanks especially to my family for their constant love and encouragement; to all the great friends I made through the sport in Ireland who helped foster this passion for the sport within me; to my club-mates and coaches at US Metro who've helped me achieve this level; to all the wonderful friends I've met in my time in France; and of course, Laura, who has been a constant support and has bore the brunt of the fencing-induced mood-swings, depressions and poverty over these last 3 years. I remember particularly today my number 1 fan - my grandmother - who died last year and those friends who were taken from us too young.

I'm happy with how I fenced today and I feel I reached my own personal goal of leaving content to have no regrets and achieving one of my best international performances. Somewhat analogous of my international career at certain moments key decisions and luck didn't always come my way but that is the flawed and masochistic sport I chose.

Today really reminded me of the brutal nature of this and to varying extents all sport. That such happiness/despair can rest on the trajectory of wildly-bending shards of metal, the interpretation of referees, a minute twitch of a muscle propelling the sabre towards it's target, the endemic corruption involved in any international sport governed by a poorly defined set of conventions... And yet I can't quite bring myself to hate it. I think I'm in an abusive relation with this sport and I, like 99% of the participants, am the battered spouse. I suppose then the only question becomes when to leave it and how...

But now as one arbitrary cycle comes to a close, it's a moment to reflect and to allow myself a moment of pride (if I may be so self-indulgent) and decide what to do next. Perhaps, I'll even start writing a blog.

Thanks,

Owen

Caracas Domestic Airport... ?Gateway to Madness¿

Arrived in South America about an hour ago and I´m still alive - That has to count as a result. All the stories I´ve heard in advance about this place have left me pretty much terrified to make eye-contact with anyone.

Already had a police officer offering to accompany me to the domestic terminal and had to tell him I had Venezuelan mates waiting for me before he'd leave me alone. Chances were he had no intentional of robbing or killing me but there was no chance I was going to go alone with him anywhere.

So my options at this point are to chill out or to lock myself in my hotel room. I´m sure I´m being a bit over precautious.

In other Venezuelan related news... it´s fricking hot here. 1000% humidity - it´s like walking through a Turkish bath for the brief 5 minute walk between the terminals.

The weather was cloudy and somewhat misty as we landed. As the plane banked we could not see past the first range of mountains that line the coast and seperate the Simon Bolivar Airport from Caracas. You have the impression that just beyond this mountain range and the curtain of clouds there is a huge continent to explore. This exploration however will have to wait for another trip as I am bound for the Isla de Margarita and this first encounter with mainland South-America will soon be over...

...Blogpost written - two more hours to kill.

Champions League Final in Madrid...

...But the world's media are all focused on the Villa de Madrid Fencing World Cup.

The only reason I've had any interest in the Champion's League final this year is that it's made it impossible to find accommodation in Madrid for the last three weeks. I eventually set off for Madrid this morning with only a rough plan of crashing on the floor of anybodies hotel room that would accept me. Planning ahead I brought a sleeping bag and ground mat. By chance the French team were on my flight and I attached myself like a tick and refused to go away until I'd found a bit of floor I could call my own for the evening.

So, there it is, the glamour of fencing for the Irish fencing team - a hard floor and a sleeping bag.

Looking like there is a strong field for tomorrows competition but that's hardly a surprise. At least I'm not sleeping on a park-bench - that's already a small victory.

Buenos Noches!

Down and Out... and soon to be blogging again... In Paris

This blog has suffered from severe neglect of late but perhaps no more. The French Domestic season is all but over but the international season for picks up again next weekend in Varsovie (Warsaw). I should hopefully have plenty to write about and in the mean time, I can complain about French banks...

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Goddammit HSBC! Every time I try to leave they pull me back in. After having enough of their policy of arbitrarily dipping into my current account whenever they felt like it to take 'convention d'avenir' that I never signed up for, or "FRAIS TENUE DE COMPTE" , I went an opened an account with an online bank and basically stopped using the account except to make deposits and then immediately transfer them to the online account.

I cancelled my credit card with them, I cancelled my any direct debits I had with them, I carry out no actions in their branches and I thought I'd removed any opportunity for them to charge me anything... But no! Now they want to charge €2.00 a month for a security service to send a code to my mobile in order to access my account online. Looks like a just can't escape them trying to rip me off!

...

I imagine a time where the internet will be full of blogs written by fencers expressing how poor they are (ála Tim Morehouse's - Flat Broke and a US Olympian, but Worth It or my own various rants against french institutions stealing my money). I'm thinking of writing my own "Trying to live, work and train in Paris on €5 a week" but I'm afraid the post would involve to much boredom and swearing as I got ever more hungry as the week went on.

...

Oh and by the by, if you happen to read this and enjoy occasional rants about fencing, sport, politics, France, food or whatever I feel like writing about why not click the little button that says follow up the top-right.

The year in Fencing so far...

A new year... a golden year (I get to use the lounges with Air France now)... going to finally update what has been happening at comps so far this year.

Copenhagen and Getting Out of the Rut

The Universiades, despite being a fantastic and unforgettable experience, had been a disappointment in terms of fencing. This had been mainly because of a lack of training in advance of the competition. It wasn't from lack of searching that I didn't have training but with my own club closed and the international teams which I approached not particularly bothered with allowing me into their squad training. Anyway, that's something I'll go into in more detail when I eventually get round to updating that whole chapter of last year.

This was the culmination of a tough season with a lot of world cups where, while I felt that my fencing was improving massively, I had failed to transfer that into results in competition. So between that and whatever was going on in my private life from August and the months following, I hadn't been in the best of form and was finding it very difficult to turn things on at competition time. Moreover I was beginning to be frustrated by this situation and really pushing things to much while on the piste, which was only making things worse.

As I'd mentioned in previous entries I was feeling pretty down after a great christmas to be heading back to Paris but I was determined to make it a good year. I arrived back on the Wednesday 2nd and had a training session on the 3rd before leaving for Copenhagen on the 4th.

The trip to Copenhagen was to be uneventful. Copenhagen is quite a strange airport - it's more like a giant shopping mall that plains happen to take off from. I got into Copenhagen central station reasonably late. Stephen made up the other 50% of the Irish team for this competition and I was sharing a hotel room with him very near the venue.

We got a reasonably early night before the individual comp the next day after failing to be able to hook up my Ipod to the TV.

...

The next morning, we met the Finnish team at breakfast, and made the short but nonetheless freezing journey across to the venue, which was a nice modern sport centre maybe 100 metres from the hotel.

The first round of poules went all right for me (practice round anyway) but I dropped one fight against an Austrian. Woke up in the second round and won all my matches and was seeded second going into the tournament proper.

This gave me a buy through the first round. As it happened I was to fence the winner between Stephen and the ex-Scottish international Stewart Watson, who now lives in Copenhagen. Stewart was at 14-7 or something like it before Stephen mounted a miraculous comeback... but only to 14-all. Stewart took the last point and I was to face him in the last 16.

I suppose it's only fair to mention he was a bit ill but I was able to beat him in the 16 without too much fuss and book my place in the last 8. In the last 8 I was against a young Turk and while the match started well, I went to pieces after the break - the problems of the last couple of months crept back in and I was snatching at attacks from way out of range and wasting my preparations.

So I finished 5th overall (got my 1 FIE point - woop) but I got some good advice from Stewart during my quarter final match which I've really taken to heart since. He seems to be becoming an excellent coach. We agreed to fence the team competition the next day together - not that I was to be much use to the team as it turned out...

...

Going with hair-gel rather than a hat that night turned out to be a mistake. I don't know where that wind was coming from but it was cold.

We all met up in... ugh... an Irish pub near the city centre (I vaguely remember spending a very drunken night there two years previously). There was a good crowd out with the Dutch, Islandic, Finnish and erm... the one Scot and two Irish that there were in attendance.

After a couple of drinks there we went next door to a nice indian place. More beers... and curry! Fantastic!

When we finally left the Indian it had been snowing but for some reason I was feeling the cold as much...

First half-hearted snowball fight of the night and on to a small rocker bar nearby. I remember declaring "sausage factory" upon it and we didn't stay there that long. Maybe only one or two drinks. Ugh...

Another walk to another Irish bar... a real Oirish Irish bar aswell... another snowball fight on the way, I think. Straw on the floor, long benches and tables... the worst cover band of all time at whom I became more and more incensed as the night went on. Lost track of drinks, of what I was talking about. Met some Irish people I think. More drink. Talking pure crap.

Talking to some Danish girls. I think. Inability to walk at this stage also ruled out dancing but Stephen was well on for it. God knows what he was dancing to with that terrible band.

Left at closing time and embarked on one of the longest and coldest journeys home of all time. There were snowball fights, but not sure of much past that.

...

Woke up the next morning at around 11ish with my alarm. For several minutes was very puzzled as to the location of Stephen... until I remembered he'd left for the airport several hours earlier. With the serious business of the individual competition out of the way, the friendly competition was today.

I managed to drag my carcass over to the venue. My reactions were unfortunately slightly dulled that day. We were generously donated a absolute muppet by the German team, who couldn't fence. Between these to factors and Stewarts sickness the righting was pretty much on the wall.

Less said about the team comp the better although the final result probably flattered us that day - I can't remember what it was.

...

So, in summary, a competition with perhaps a slightly lower standard than French domestics and certainly proper world cups gave me the chance to see that I was capable of beating people and also gave me an opportunity to let my hair down a bit.

Sitting eating a steak in Copenhagen International Airport/Mall I felt a thoroughly content with the weekend.

Copenhagen

Just back from the satellite competition in Copenhagen.

I finished 6th (seeded third after the poules) in the tournament and was reasonably pleased with my performance. It certainly was a boost to my confidence which I'll admit has been flagging somewhat lately.

Now though I'm absolutely shattered and need to go bed before I collapse on the computer.

A full report to follow shortly and don't think I haven't forgot about those missing months either...

Kremlin Bisset... And the Monsoon Season

I'm writing this so many months on, in November/December, but I wanted to go back and make sure I had a complete account of things.

Kremlin Bisset perhaps marked a peak in my form last year. I was settling in well in the club and my fencing was improving. The competition took place in Kremlin Bisset just South of Paris centre. I had a decent run in the poules, which I was pleased with and secured a relatively easy first round opponent who I dispatched without too much hassle in the 128. I had a difficult last 64 against a decent fencer, the brother of one of my team-mates.

After staying within touch during the first half of the match I failed to change my game in the second half when he did and lost out as a result. While my final ranking of #40 wasn't great, I was quite pleased with my performance on the day and considered the tournament somewhat of a turning point in becoming more familiar with the French set up.

...

After the tournament, I went for a bite to eat with Mo, one of the Scimitar fencers over from London. We'd dropped bags bag in my place before going for a bite to eat. On the way back to get the bags so he could leave for his flight in Charles de Gaulle the sky opened. I haven't seen rain like it since, even during the flood in Thailand. We pegged it back to my place for some shelter.

Reluctant to go out in the downpour, I was confident that if he left with around two hours before his flight he'd still make it without too much hassle. The rain didn't ease up but eventually it was time to go anyway. So, he set off to the RER station at Nation.

It wasn't till half an hour later that I got a call from him from the RER. The rain was so heavy that it had actually delayed the train and they were stuck at St. Denis. There was nothing much I could do except check various timetables or alternative travel arrangements. He seemed destined to miss the flight... and did.

So no miraculous escape this time, which would have made a better blog-entry perhaps. Ah well...

The Colours... Finally

I was up at a thoroughly ungodly hour to get back for the colours. I left my apartment at 6am in the morning to get my flight from CdeG.

In the end I suppose it was a bit of an anti-climax. The standard drubbing was handed down by the UCD squad to Trinity. The final scores were

MS - 5 : 0 - UCD
WS - 5 : 4 - UCD
ME - 5 : 3 - UCD
WE - 5 : 2 - UCD
MF - 4 : 5 - TCD
WF - 5 : 0 - UCD

UCD ran out 5-1 winners on weapons - fairly convincing, I think you'd agree. UCD could have probably managed to dispatch their men's sabre team which included two foilists without me but I was glad to be there for the club for my last colours and one which marked the 10th victory in a row for UCD. It gave me another chance to travel home and visit as well albeit very briefly.

I took charge of the reffing of the women's sabre match again, this time passed off without any outside interference. The Decade of Dominance was complete but what pleased me more than anything was the thought that 70's Porn Man was watching it all on his monitors in his underground layer and when that final hit landed he swivelled in his high-backed chair and clenching his fist, released a gutteral roar "Curse you UCD!"

Changing the colours...

It was sometime during that week that it was announced by the Trinity captain that he was not accepting that the colours were going to be held on the 17th April as had to everyone else's knowledge been discussed and agreed. Now because some of his key fencers were missing he claimed that there was not enough warning even though the date had been discussed back as far as the beginning of March. Rather than just approaching this in a straightforward manner which may well have more easily garnered a more reasonable response, said captain went all subterfuge cc-ing sports department officials etc. in a way that could only lead to aggravation between the two sides.

Anyway, all this was particular pain in the ass to me as it would involve the expense of another flight back to Dublin. The final date agreed upon was the 24th of April, the weekend after the colours. No matter what the expense was going to be now, I knew that I'd have to be there to ensure they got a serious thumping.

More Five Nations - Evening Meal

I have to say that the evening meal for the 5 Nations was a great success. It was held in the 1838 club in DCU.

I'd left the competition just before the end (missing the team photo, unfortunately) so that I could get home and get a change of clothes. My plan was to drive to the meal anyway so that I could drive back home for my brothers 21st which was happening in my house that evening.

When myself and Rachel arrived back out to DCU the drinks reception was already under way. After a spot of mingling we were lead upstairs to the tables. The setting was excellent, as was the food. I ended up having a vegetarian course bizarrely enough it looked so good.

It was a shame when it came to the presentation that the PA system wasn't quite up to dealing with the British teams who were already quite well oiled for their night in "Tempul Baa".

At around 11ish buses had been arranged to take the teams into town. I took this opportunity to leave and head back to my brother's party. I gave Siobhán a lift back to her hotel nearby as she was absolutely knackered and jet-lagged and then headed with Rachel back to my brother's.

We got there with plenty of cocktail sausages and cake still available. I managed to squeeze in a few cocktail sausages despite not being at all hungry.

It was a fairly packed night and a weekend in general but a very enjoyable one.

The Five Nations - Men's Sabre Team & Other Happenings

I got a lift from my dad out to DCU early on a Saturday morning. This is the biggest day of the Irish Fencing calendar and for some it would be the highest level they would compete. As an event it's something I've questioned it's roll in the progression of Irish fencing but it was never something I was going to give less than 100% for.

It was great for me to see my sabre team - Stephen, Hugh and Dan. We'd all started around the same time and all good friends at this stage, so there was a fantastic atmosphere on the team. Everyone knew they had a part to play and was determined to give their all. I had a suspicion it wasn't going to be easy and at best we would scrape a win on the back of an excellent performance with everything going right but we'd see...

When I walked into the sports hall it seemed to be trapped in twilight with none of the main lights on. This would delay the start of precedings and on top of that our first match wasn't till the second or third round so I probably could have afforded to stay out later with my class or sleep in the next morning.

...

Here's the bit on the actual performance of the Men's Sabre team...

Our first match was against England. Stephen tore out of the blocks against Chris Farren and picked up a good result against the whiley Jaffa who'd been around the top of the rankings longer than any of his team-mates. I was up next against Alex O'Connell but I was off to a much slower start. If my attacks fell short I needed to be immediately in his face so he couldn't build up his momentum. His bread and butter is a long marching attack. Unfortunately I didn't do this and he was able to claw the score back in England favour. From that point onwards England pulled away. While we all put in good performances against without-a-doubt the strongest team in the tournament the final result was never really in question.

The second match was against Northern Ireland. They'd managed to bring a team of 5 or 6, I think just for the sake of going on the piss but they were all decent fencers. I managed a win in my first match against Nicholls. Hugh Tobin, according to the RTE report however, "Couldn't keep up the pace" and lost us the match. Which provided us with the greatest joke ever but it was only that Hugh and Dan both fenced excellently for the match. Their group of fencers were just slightly stronger than our own and they ran out winners. I had the last laugh however with my shout of "Three cheers for Norn Iron" - taped for posterity on RTE cameras.

In our third match we faced Scottland. Aside from Harry Moncrieff they lacked outstanding international quality but were all solid and/or awkward fencers. Stephen again put in a strong performance on his 5 Nations Debut. He was really psyched-up on the day, screaming at every point from the very beginning, even just getting warmed up, even just travelling there on the bus. We kept it reasonably close in the match but Scotland were always just a tiny bit ahead. In the final match I had to catch up 15 points to the 5 Harry need to end the match. I was pretty please with my fencing in the match but couldn't managed more than 5-5 in the bout. Three cheers for Scotland and all that crap.

In our final match we were to face Wales. We'd been fencing strongly all day and I knew this was our best chance of a win. Unfortunately, in the end, the key factor was to be the terrible refereeing. We kept the match very tight and the lead pendulumed back and forward between the teams by a matter of 2 or 3 points throughout. As the match went on however, the calls of the referee got more and more eratic. His seperation of points in the centre of the piste made no sense and were completely inconsistant. Sometimes they seemed to be based on who cheered louder. Other times I could not see where the calls were coming from. At one point when one of the other fencers was fencing, on a point I was certain wasn't ours I cheered for it as loudly as possible - and the point went our way; ridiculous! The Welsh team were far more familiar with his absurd calls and played him better than ourselves. Bemused I would glance across at Juppy on the Welsh side after a terrible decision and we would both shrugg our shoulders and laugh.

Myself and Dan in particular both were frustrated repeated by his downright shoddy presiding. I left the piste shouting "Quelle Cont" except in English at one stage. Philip the team captain suggested that I should apologise to the ref for my language but when I did he didn't know what I was talking about (deaf in one ear). He'd actually been annoyed by something Dan said under his breath on the piste. So now he thought two of us were swearing at him rather than one. Last time I follow someone elses advice during a match like that.

As the final bout approach Wales had managed to build a three point lead. Against Alistar Juppy, their strongest fencer, I knew I'd have to be well psyched up. I knew I needed myself in a slightly aggitated state to get the adrenaline flowing. Unfortunately though, aided by some poor refereeing decisions I couldn't claw back the difference and Wales won out.

As I left the piste thoroughly pissed off with the ref. Another team captain came to me and said "That was your fault, you lost your cool!" I was stunned, if I hadn't been so stunned my first reaction would have been to take a swing at them! I managed to answer reasonably calmly "No, I needed to have myself worked up to get back the difference... I was in control and I was intentionally putting myself there." That was definitely the low-light of the day, wanted to knock-out another captain!
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I was really proud of the team and really happy with how they fenced. Stephen, as Dan had done the year before, on his five-nations debut, free from expectations, had fenced brilliantly. Dan himself also put in a very solid performance after a season that had been wracked with injury. Hugh when called upon put in some really top performances and was a massive adition to the team.

Myself, on reflextion, was reasonably pleased with how I fenced. Last year, I wasn't happy with how I handled the stress of having to anchor the team on what was my own debut in the competition. This year, I felt I put in some good performances and was pleased that I never let my team down. I also tried to take on a definite leader roll in the team as captain and tried my best to coach my fencers between and during matches.

I think, more than anything we realised on the team that there was definite potential the team as a unit to improve and work together over the next year. In the weeks that followed we were fairly boyant about the potential for the team to improve its results and hope to work together over the next year in going to competitions and training to improve our results for the next year.

...

There was a lot of other things going on around the tournament as well. Kerry Hardie the author who I met in the Centre Culturel Irlandais came down to say hello and to watch the fencing. Her book is well underway at this stage.

As well as this OB Sports were filming an extract for their programme. They focused on the Women's Sabre with Siobhán and the Men's Sabre team, I suppose because I'm training full-time abroad. They filmed quite a lot of the Men's Sabre matches, getting right into my face as I was preparing to go on the piste. I tried to ignore it as best I could. They also did an interview with me, during which I went on a 20 minute tirade about what a bastard Hugh was (that is a joke), but they didn't show that.

The piece can be viewed on the RTE website here

Leaving Behind Algers... As Quickly As Possible...

... And under Police Escort of course.

Leaving Algeria proved just a difficult as gaining entry. On Monday morning, I piled onto the bus with the French team and after the summary wait for the police escort we left for the airport.

As we approached the airport there was a checkpoint. A soldier or police officer, they seem to be much of a muchness there, checked under the cars in front of us with a tool that looked very much like a giant version of the mirror that dentists use for checking out-of-reach spots of the mouth. I can only presume he was looking underneath the cars for explosive devices.

When we got out of the bus and approached the door we had to go through our second check-point, which was a metal detector and x-raying of our bags. With 20-odd fencing bags in one group to go through this slowed us down significantly.

Upon arrival at the queue (yes, just the queue) for Air France our tickets were checked and we were handed departure cards. On these cards we had to fill in all the same information as the arrival cards and in the forms for our visas. We entered the queue for one of the few flights out of dodge that day. Once we had our tickets, which were hand-written (in this freshly Japanese built and designed hundred million dollar airport) and had our bags checked in, we had to go another desk in order to get those tickets stamped and validated.

Once that was done we made our way upstairs to the departure gates. Firstly we had to wait in-line for half-an-hour as, our visas were, exit cards and validated tickets were checked. Some of the French team had not realised they needed there tickets validated and so had to go back to the end of the line. The usual rigmarole of a lot of staring at the documents, then at the person, then back at the documents was followed for several moments before the endless series of stamping began for each person.

Eventually when that was done we went through the usual secutiry check which included a madatory frisking. I was able to bypass the next security desk which was just customs and made my way to the departure lounge for the short wait before we would be board.

When called to the departure gate we were loaded onto a bus for transportation to the plane. While it had been pleasently warm the whole time we had been there, this day was by far the hottest day. With the bus completely full and not many chairs on board... we sat there... and waited and waited. Half an hour to three quarters of an hour after getting on the bus we set off for the plane. After about a ten minute drive to what must have been the furthest runway away (were we still in the same airport) we arrived at the plane.

At this point our progress was once again halted... and we waited... and waited... Another half-hour must have passed. A Police 4X4 arrived, with a sniffer dog. At this stage the large luggage drums were all lined up in front of the bus. All of the drums were emptied and the luggage placed out on the tarmac. The dog was brought along all the rows of baggage. Eventually when that check was completed, the doors of the bus were finally opened. Our tickets and passport were checked and we were asked to put our luggage back into the drums.

As we finally approached the plane another of the same type of large buses was lined up in front of the stairs. Our tickets and passports were checked as we entered the bus again. The our carry on luggage was searched by police inside the bus as we moved through it before one final frisk and ticket and passport check before boarding the plane. I presented my boarding pass to the steward and finally took my seat.

Just as one final reminder of the mental nature of the country it is a apparently Algerian law that a Bug bomb be set off in the plane before take off. The steward set off the aerosol and then paraded up and down the cabin covering us all in lovely bug killing carcenogenic goodness... Bizarre!

That really some up the whole trip really...

All Kitted Up But No Where to Go in Algeria

With no fencing for me on the second day (again), I return to the venue to watch what turned out to be an eventful days fencing. Algeria marked the return to fencing, after a three month absence through injury, of Olympic champion Aldo Montano (he's standing six foot away from me as I write this in the bleachers at Warsaw). His return was certainly dramatic, if not necessarily for the right reasons...

He was going strong after the poules, I had picked him out to win the tournament in a pool with the Brits. In the last 16 he faced Nicolas Limbach in a match some thought could produce the eventual winner. He seemed pretty relaxed going into the match, having a smoke before he warmed-up. In fact he seemed pretty relaxed all day, walking on his hands, posing for photos with his adoring Algerian public.

When it was time to fence though, he was all business. Limbach had the edge for most of the match, which was fenced at a ferocious speed and intensity. With Limbach in the lead entering the final stages Montano launched a comeback. With the score at 14-all Montano caught a parry and launched himself at his opponent - one light. He had just about enough energy to salute his opponent before collapsing on the piste, coughing up his lungs. My money really didn't seem very secure.

His next match was to be against the Pole, Gorski, who had been in top form all day, in the quarter-final. The match again was fenced at a tremendous intensity but the real drama was yet to unfold. Gorski was leading throughout the match by three or four points but Montana once again launched a dramatic comeback and the momentum had definitely swung in his favour.

With the score at 14-13 to Gorski, Aldo made him fall short and launched a counter-attack. The French referee somehow saw a preparation in the attack and awarded the point to Gorski. To say that Montano "lost it" at that point doesn't do justice to the lunacy that followed. He had already returned te his line in anticipation of the final point. When the ref had awarded the point, he flung his mask down in front of him and charged up to the ref, screaming in his face "No, No, No!" The ref was obviously reaching for his black card at this stage but was restrained by another French ref. Montano stormed back to the piste throwing his weapon into the surrounds of the piste.

He'd just about returned to the piste when suddenly he turned and bolted for the president. Several members of the Italian team immediately restrained him and he wrestled against them to try and get to the referee. The ref, taken aback and obviously slightly shaken had not option at this stage but to give him a black card.

Eventually the Italian team seemed to have calmed him down somewhat. They lead him away over to the other side of the venue. He threw his jacket and lamé to the side and walked away.

Out of nowhere, he turned and once again charged for the referee from the other side side of the arena, maybe 30 metres away. I've never scene someone moves so fast. As quickly as his sprint began, however, it was brought to an abrupt end when the stocky Italian team physio intercepted his march and rugby tackled him to the ground. Immediately, he was joined by the rest of the Italian team who piled on top of him to restrain him while he reeled on the floor.

Finally, the excitement was over. A couple of minutes later I passed the French referee outside, his hands visibly shaking as he drew his cigarette to his mouth. No one could believe what they had just witnessed. Events were to take an even more strange twist however...

Shortly afterwards as I sat near the French team, they were approached by the head of the Italian delegation. He said that Aldo wanted to apologise. I joked with the French guys around me, that it was a trap and that he shouldn't go. Nonetheless though he met with Montano, who duly apologised. The most miraculous thing of all though was that the black card was taken back... it really helps to be Olympic champion sometimes, I suppose.

...

After that, the rest of the tournament paled into insignificance. Of most note, was the performance of Tim Morehouse, of the US team, who went all the way to the final against Pillet. He ended up losing by the narrowest of margins 14-15 after Pillet produced a one-light counter-attack on the final point. The result meant that the US team had a member in the finals for the previous 6 tournaments. They're truly now a force to be reckoned with on the international tour.

Oh yeah, that and Réné Roche, the president of the FIE, turned up for a bit to watch the finals. I think I passed him in the restaurant later as well. Pretty unimpressive really.

...

That evening back at the hotel I ate with the French team and packed my gear in preparation for an early departure on Monday.

Algerian Poules

After a reasonable nights sleep, even with the coffee table beds, I got up refreshed after eight hours and made my way to breakfast. I had a reasonably light breakfast of cereals and fruit and still had an hour or two before we left for the venue. I headed back to my room to relax and prepare my equipment.

When the time came to leave I got on the bus with the French team. We waited on the bus for the best part of half an hour for whatever reason I don't know. I guessed that we were perhaps waiting for a police escort which never arrived as this was the one trip we took without and armed escort. Ingeniously enough this was also the one trip we took with a driver that had no idea where he was going. This gave us ample oppurtunity to see the Algerian countryside from the motorway. Every junction we passed without fail had several policemen with Kalashnikovs doing absolutely nothing apparently.

We drove and drove. None of us had any idea where the venue was but we were begining to get quite frustrated given the entry forms claims that it was 5 minutes from the hotel. After 45 minutes we reached the back gate of what was we hoped the venue. The driver drove through a make-shift shickane and up to the security gate. A heated exchange followed where the driver, I presume was telling him that this was a team for the competition and the security guard was telling him he'd have to use another gate and beckoning in a large oval indicating where the gate was to this large complex.

In the end the security guard would not give in and the bus began to slowly reverse out through the shickanes to rapturous applause from the French team. It was now only 5 minutes before the scratch. Just as we had negotiated our way backwards through the shickane another car drove up, presumably someone from the organising comittee. He berratted the security guard and beckoned to the driver to come through the gate. A series of varying salutes were given to the security guard as we eventually passed.

...

There we were the entire French and Irish teams should have been disqualified from the competition because of the incompatence of our hosts, for arriving after the scratch. Standing at the entrance of the venue it was possible to see our hotel.

The venue itself was a bizarre circular arena, shaped somewhat like a giant short white mushroom on the outside. Inside seating sourounded a large circular floor. Where eight pistes were set up (four of which were to be used for the competition). Despite there being plenty of room on the competition floor that was only open to competitors it was insisted that we leave our bags in the bleechers that were completely open to the public. Many school kids had been brought in for the day for the event and it was hard not to feel that this was not the best place for our bags.

As it happened I was to be in the second batch of poules and so our late arrival didn't make that much difference. I headed to weapons check straight away nonetheless, where the great inefficiencies of Algerian society were further displayed to me. I waited in line with Alex Rouseau and Nourdin Marouf from the French team. We had arrived at the weapons check behind the large Italian contingent. Aldo Montano, the Olympic champion, was before us in the queue. His hair gelled back, his armani jeans almost around his knees barely held up by his sparkly D&G belt. This was his comeback tournament after 3 months of injury. Right at the minute he was changing the visor in his mask.

The Algerian, the one singular Algerian, who was running weapons check was in no hurry with dealing with the Italians. He laughed and joked with Aldo, saying something about knowing his father. After each, piece of equipment was given a cursory glance, his cigarette hanging precariously from the side of his mouth as he squinted at Lamés or masks. Several of the Italians body-wires actually failed but after a series of "EH!" and some convicing shrugging of shoulders they were given there weapons mark.

Eventually my gear was inspected and past, one of my body wires checked and tagged twice and I went about warming up for the competition.

...

I should have seen the warning signs. My poule was completely mixed up. While the other poules all had a smattering of African fencers two or three in all of them, mine had only one Senegalese and no Algerian. Instead we had a Algerian referee (i.e. a crap one!)

ROSE Julien (GBR), MAROUF Nourdin (FRA), AIBOUCHEV Dmitri (RUS), ANNIBALDI Daniele (ITA) and OUEDRAOGO Julien (BUR) made up my poule. By no means an easy one particularly when compared to some of the others in the tournament.

Rose was my first match. He's a very decent fencer and highly ranked in Britain. The match went to 4-4 all. At this point rather than attacking I drop back and made him fall short. My final attack was just milliseconds to slow though and he was able to get me with a counter attack. That was a match I could have one and I knew I'd be hard pressed among the other fencers to find one that I could beat.

The ref was refusing to call the next match up and expected everyone to constantly look at the poule sheet for the next match. After getting a wrap on the knuckle I'd taken my glove off to have a look. I was surprised then to hear my name being called to the piste. When I arrived on the piste without my glove the ref summarily gave me a yellow, despite the protests that this wasn't necessary from my opponent Nourdin. While this is in the rules it is very rarely enforced and I was somewhat taken aback by the pettiness of this ref who then went on to make a balls of every second call in the whole pool.

My match against Marouf was very different to my first. Marouf is quite a short but lightning fast fencer, who's very entertaining to watch. On the other end of the piste however, I hesitated to much in my attacks and let his speed dictate the match from the start. It was a somewhat dissappointing bout and over too quickly.

Aibouchev the Russian had been frustrated by some absolutely awful refereeing decisions from the terrible referee which had handed the Burkino Fassoan an unlikely victory. By the time he reached me though he was in full flight and against my stumbling form tore me to pieces.

Annibaldi the lanky Italian was always going to be a difficult prospect and with my chances of going through beocoming slimmer by the second my spirit was whaning. Faulty electrics which I was almost certain was the cause of dodgy Italian body-wires that were allowed to pass by the dodgy Algerian doing the weapons check were the cause of us eventually moving piste. Where the faults continued but the result was never really in question.

Ouedrago - a consolation match against the bunny in the poule is not a very pleasing place to find yourself but nonetheless I tore into him and proved that I could fence to anyone watching and salvaged some dignity. My single victory of the tournament.

...

One victory is rarely going to be enough to secure passage to day two of a world cup and this was to be no exception. For the second week in a row I was to miss out on indicators with some one win fencers going through. I think I was the first or second elimination again.

I was thuroughly depressed after the poules and for the rest of the day really. Lunch didn't particularly help, when I found that the 3 day old greasy chicken was raw in the inside and the potatoe was all but entirely butter. I drank the juice and ate the bannana, the rest wasn't fit for much except the bin.

The novelty of the women's sabre WC poules did not entice me to stay at the venue for the afternoon and I soon left for the hotel after the lunch.

...

Drowning myself in the swimming pool crossed my mind but when I arrived in the pool in my hotel I was informed this was only for women and that the mens pool was over in the other hotel building. Somewhat adgitated by the news I left for the other hotel to see if I was bothered having a swim. When eventually I found the other pool in the other hotel building (which was incedentally, far nicer and much more populated than our own) the pool was so crowded mustachioed men and boys that I really couldn't have brought myself to go for a swim.

I went back to my room for the evening, only to emerge for dinner from the buffet alone. I wrote about the tournament in my fencing journal, watched some French TV and then went to bed on the rock hard bed, wiching I was back in Ireland at the Nationals that I might have won.

Off to Algeria...

Not surprisingly there aren't too many airlines fly to the somewhat turbulent state of Algeria. Alitalia and Air France in fact are the only two European carriers who fly there.

Sitting in the Air France departure lounge, I stocked up on my newspapers once again (The FT, The Herald Tribune, Le Monde / Le Figarro, L'Equipe, USA Today and the Wall Street Journal). I generally don't buy the paper while I'm hear, so I use my frequent flights with Air France to stock up on a supply that will last me the whole of each trip. The one story that I've been following keenly through the FT is the Chinese Vs. European Global Positioning Systems (I don't know why there just seems to always be updates on the situation when I've been flying - maybe a topic for a post on its own).

As I've mentioned, this was one of very few flights to Algeria from Europe and the lounge soon began to fill with familiar faces. The German, Polish, French, Spanish and Russian team were all on my flight. I was also joined by Chris Buxton from the British team, who'd flown in from Hungary that morning. We talked for a bit, while through the window we could see the baggage handlers struggling to fit at least 40 fencing bags onto one plane. Sure enough the flight was delayed as a result and I prayed that my bag would not be one of those left on the tarmac.

...

During the flight, the man middle-aged man next to me, turned to me and asked me something. What he had said was unclear and I stared blankly back at him. He repeated what he had said in what I now realised and understood was a Geordie accent. It turned out he was a oil worker for Statoil going out on a six week rotation in Algeria. I could tell he wasn't particularly fond of the place, least of all because it kept him from his wife and children for a month and a half at a time.

We exchanged pleasantries and I spoke about why I was going to Algeria. The general theme of our discussion was 'why would you want to go to Algeria, if you didn't have to?'. Aside from the on-going terrorist threat and recent travel advisories given by many European states and the US, Brian also suggested that the recent earthquake in the last year which killed 30,000 people was another good reason not to go to Algeria. I paused and then asked -

"What do you do in the case of an earthquake?". I remembered from American shows talk of standing in doorways.
"No, you just get the hell out of the building"
"Oh, right", mentally patting myself on the back for choosing to go to Algeria.
"If you're stuck get under a table but mainly you want to get the hell out of there".
"Right, cheers..."

...

Talking to this friendly Geordie certainly passed the time quickly during the flight, if not also thoroughly terrifying me and we touched down, after what seemed like no time at all, in Algers International Airport. The Airport was very modern in fact and had apparently just been completed by Japanese contractors in the past year or two.

Before, we reached the carousels there was a huge queue to get through passport control. This was to be the first occasion where the farcical nature of Algerian society was to be revealed to me.

The process of clearing the passport and visa was of course a lengthy one and each person had to spend the best part of a minute standing in front of their little boxes as the passport police scrutinised them, their passport, their visa, their landing card (which contained all the same information as the passport and visa) and then them again. When this process was complete the was a lengthy series of stamping and more stamping and some more stamping for good measure before the person was allowed pass. The guard would then obviously take a few seconds to collect himself to collect before calling the next person.

As one could imagine then, the 5 queues that had formed went all the way to the back of the hall space available for them and were all maybe 50 people deep. All of sudden however, a random man with a suit, walkie-talkie and of course a powerful mustache came forward and started beckoning all the fencers to come forward to one line. He positioned us all in front of one of the boxes, at which point the guard at that box left his post, never to return while I was there. The Polish at this point tried to skip to the front of the queue to the left of us, to the muffled cry of "mfuff offff!" in countless languages.

I seized my chance while I could and while the Polish were being berated and turned to face their critics I nipped in ahead of them. I went through a quick (pointless) x-raying, metal detector and frisking (I couldn't understand having this at this point) and went on to the baggage reclaim. My bag was already waiting for me there and I wandered on through the exit expecting to see members of the Algerian fed to greet me... but no...

Walking out along the railings there was no sign of anyone official, least not someone fencing offical like. There were a group of inbred-looking football hooligans waiting to welcome back their team after some foreign triumph but that wasn't very comforting. I must have been the first fencer out the gates by easily half an hour. I went to the information desk and asked them in French to call members of the Algerian federation to the desk. I'd texted back to Dublin to check that there was to be a pick-up arranged for the airport but was soon texted back to be told that the Algerian federation weren't answering their phone.

Eventually, the various teams began to arrive out of the gate and I felt somewhat safer amongst there number. In hindsight I'm not particularly sure of the wisdom of standing in the middle of the French team given France's roll in Algerian history but wait I did. All the teams were already out and waiting before anyone came from the Algerian federation.

Finally, buses arrived and I was put in with the French with whom I was to share my hotel - "le Centre National de l'Armeé" [The National Headquarters]. We waited for our police escort and then set off through the suburbs of Algeria.

One of the most bizarre things about travelling around the roads of Algers is that at every possible junction between two and six policemen armed with Kalashnikov's will be standing around by all accounts doing nothing. I was told that Algers has something like 130,000 active policemen in active duty. We must have seen a fair portion of these just on our trip to the hotel.

...

Huge, dilapidated apartment blocks seem to be the stable of Algerian architecture. The towering blocks would be placed haphazardly over uneven ground, some would have bizarre extensions to them hanging precariously into mid-air or over other buildings. The vegetation which interspersed the blocks however was quite lush and green and not the arid waste land one might have seen in the likes of Greece. The vegetation and even grass had a very lush tropical sense to it. One got the impression that there was a country of great natural beauty out there even if it was covered in the excrement of hundreds of year of human hostility and unrest.

...

The five star hotel was quite nice. While it definitely wouldn't have been a five star hotel anywhere else in the world it was obviously the best that Algeria had to offer. Bizarrely enough it was divided into two entirely separate buildings. Myself the French and the Italians were staying in the slightly smaller of the two, which still possessed a lavish marble reception, swimming pool and saunas.

My room was very spacious with a remote control for the lights as well as the TV. I brought my bags in and then flopped down on the bed, tired from travelling. Crack! The bed was rock-solid. It was as if the bed-sheet were a table-cloth on a mahogany dining room table. This would probably prove a challenge, I thought to myself.

...

Jean-Philipe Daurelle (my coach from USMT and French National coach [name dropped]) had suggested that I eat with the French team that evening and with the alternative being eating alone, I gladly accepted. There was a buffet laid on for us and I carefully skirted the salads and anything else that may have been touched by local water and had some lasagne in the end. It was a good chance to get to know a few more of the guys from the French team and I made whatever small talk I could before calling it a night at a reasonable hour.

...

The problem of the rock-hard mattress was eventually solved by taking the two pillows off the second double bed in my room and draping myself across them. Miraculously, I got to sleep quite quickly and had a reasonable nights sleep. Still I have no plans on sleeping on my kitchen table when I get back home...

Tunisia Day 3: St. Patrick's Day and the Curse of the Irish!

The bus to the venue was early the next morning and having nothing better to do I went down to the venue to watch.

Keeth Smart's gear had never arrived in Tunis from the states so I lent him mine. It was all very amusing to see the Bronx-born former world number one warm-up in the Irish Track-suit and breeches on St. Patrick's day. We all had had a good laugh, that is, up until the Irish colours proved as unlucky for him as they had been for me as he lost out to a Russian in the Last 64.

Just as I had done, he promised he'd pretend he'd never been to Tunisia and particularly not to a fencing competition there.

The competition however went a lot better for some of his team-mates as Morhouse reached the Last-8 and Williams and Hagamen reaching the Last 16.

...

Before the finals there was a break of a few hours so I headed back to the hotel with the American team. There was no buses provided at this stage and we needed to get a taxi back. This proved to be trickier than at first it seemed given the large number of fencers who had the exact same idea and the enormous amoung of luggage in the form of fencing backs this also entailed transporting.

Eventually however I got a taxi with Tim and Jason and we were quite quickly back to the hotel. This was in no small part thanks to our driver, who drove like an absolute lunatic. We ended up arriving before some other members of their team who had left 10-15 minutes before us.

When we reached the hotel we headed for the pool. It was around this time that we got to witness the full fervour of Tunisian customer service. The US team wanted to take a sauna. So, they went through the seperate doors from the pool, downstairs to the sauna. They had already gone down to the sauna when I arrived to find that had got into a bit of trouble. Aparently the sauna was run by a seperate company and they were charging a ridiculous €15 for half an hour use. The US team had walked by the desk since there was no one there but the receptionist had soon arrived and started berrating them for going into the sauna.

One would think it reasonable enough in a supposed five-star hotel to have the sauna included in the price, but no and no she was laying in to them over there apparently "crazy" actions. She was even giving out to myself and Jason the last ones to arrive who were the only ones who spoke French. Even though they had only spent 5 minutes in the sauna and none had decided to stay when they heard the ridiculous price, they were insisting that they all payed. The general consensus however was that they could go make sweet-love to the nearest camel... and eventually nothing came of it. We enjoyed the free swimming pool and soon it was time for me to get back to the venue from where I was to get a lift to the airport.

I took the name of the venue from the poster in the foyer of the hotel and asked the hotel to call me a taxi. I assumed that the hotel would explain to the taxi where I was going, or even the doorman but no and it was a drawn out process which took several phones calls to explain to the driver where the venue but eventually I got there ok.

...

The French and the Russians however, had the strongest teams and they were bound to dominate the tournament. The semi-finals saw Yakimenko Vs. Pillet and Reshetnikov Vs. Anstett. Yakimenko eventually ran out the winner against Pillet and Anstett beat the other, previously unheard of, Russian. In the final, Yakimenko proved too strong for Anstett despite a very close fight and won 15-13.

I have the most part of those matches recorded and I'll post them up when I get a chance.

...

I my back to Paris was uneventful and why I returned from the most miserable St. Patrick's day ever the last thing I needed to hear was that Ireland had missed out on the 6 Nations because of the decision of one stupid Irish video ref and one stupid decision not to go for a penalty...

Ah well there is always next year for Tunisia, the Six Nations and St. Patrick's day...

Tunisia Day 2: Competition

Up early after a good nights sleep, I went to breakfast early enough that it would be well settled before the competition.

I had drawn my team-mate at Metro Alex Woog (FRA), Koniusz (POL), Tim Hagamen (USA), Thiam (SEN), Dekkiche (ALG) and Sarris (GRE).

First up was my match against Sarris. After some initial problems with the pistes we moved to another one with score 0-1 agsainst me. I found myself quickly 4-1 down, sleeping at the start of the competition. I clawed my way back to 4-4 and on the final point he rushed and missed and I counter-attacked and won the bout. Quite pleased with that how I fenced, I was content moving on to the next fight.

The next match was against Thiam from Senegal, a very athletic but straight forward fencer I had him tagged as one of my must win fights before the poule began. This was a foolish thing to do in hindsight and I put too much pressure on myself to beat him. A sloppy parry/clash of blades at 4-4 that he he some how got a one light from and I'd lost the bout.

The next match was against Hagamen of the US. A very tall fencer I was able to make him fall short easily enough and then patient began building my attacks. Two of my attacks however were cancelled by the ref for a white light before they landed (despite this white light making no difference to the attack). Instead of facing a match going to 4-4 I was 4-2 down and flustered from having to change my weapon twice and my body wire - I lost the last point.

Next against the Algerian Dekkiche (who was really pretty shit), I was really pushing myself to win (not holding out much hope of being able to be Woog or the Pole). I gave away stupid points to the midget and became frustrated. Despite trying to clear my head I somehow managed to lose the last point - I can't even remember how.

While I tried my best against Woog and Konsiuz they were by far the best fencers in my poule and I couldn't match them on the day - particularly with the wieght of inevitability weighing on my shoulder. Konsiuz I took to 5-3 but he proved to be too fast. Likewise against Woog I went tit-for-tat with him for a few points but he came out on top 5-3 and I ripped back the nail of my thumb for good measure after a clash of guards.

Thoroughly dejected I waited for confirmation of my elimination. Although from talking to the Americans it seemed as though there might have been enough 1 victory opponents to secure a place on day 2. Having my hopes raised slightly only made it sting more when I was the first to be eliminated (of 53 to qualify I was 54th).

So that was a pretty depressing day all round.

Tunisia Day 1: Travel

My journey to Tunisia was very straight forward. I travelled out to Roissy with my packed lunch and waited around Charles de Gaulle until it was time to depart. I'm really getting a accustomed to travelling Air France. I take the oppurtunity to take a copy of all the free papers, in French and English. I start with the FT, work my way through the Herald Tribune, breeze through the Wallstreet Journal and USA Today, then read through L'Equipe and Le Monde (or Figarro). It's the only time during the week I really get an oppurtunity to read the paper and I use the oppurtunity to catch up on world events as best I can.

A full strength Russian team (except for Pozdnyakov) were on my flight. My bag was already waiting for me when I reached the reclaim area and I strolled out to meat the waiting organisers. It was sometime again before all the Russians got there bags and came out, along with the Greeks and the Polish. I was in the same hotel as the Russian team and while the Greek and Polish team left for there hotel we waited for a delayed flight with more fencers for our hotel.

After about an hours delay at the airport and repeated apologies from the assembled Tunisian federation officials we left the airport for the hotel - the Irish team (me) and the 15 strong Russian team. We came to a fairly battered mini-bus and loaded all the fencing bags on through a window. With all of us slightly cramped but aboard, we set off... with Jennifer Lopez blaring... on tape. I chuckled to myself as we set off and laughed even harder when after the first song was over, "Get Right" I believe, there was some fumbling with the tape deck and then half a minute later it started playing it again. It was all too amusing to think that he might only have the single of this terrible song. The joke lost it's shine however as I soon realised that it was an entire album of J-Lo I was to be subjected to for the trip. 45 minutes of trundling along Tunis' motorways later we arrived at the hotel.

This was a 5-star Summer resort hotel, the Al Mouradi - Gammarth, albeit a North African five star hotel. The place was as if the shining was filmed in sunny north Africa rather than the Rockies - miles upon miles of empty corridors; the place was almost completely empty.

That evening I was pleasently surprised to see the US team arrive at the hotel. I was somewhat releaved that I wouldn't have to try and speak Russian for some company in the hotel. The Spanish team were also staying in the same hotel, so there was plenty of English speaking fencers around eventually.

That night I ate with the Americans and then went to bed reasonably early before the competition the next day.

The Other Charleville...

...The one where Cheddar is laughed at!

We left for the Circuit National in Charleville on Saturday afternoon as the competition was to start early on Sunday morning.

The trip to Charleville passed without incident much like the actual town of Charleville. We walked around Charleville on a Saturday night for almost 2 hours looking for somewhere to eat. Despite being somewhat picturesque, the place was an absolute ghost town. Those restaurants which were even open were full and laughed at us, at the suggestion that we might get a table without a reservation (there was 8 of us, so this was somewhat understandable).

Eventually, much to my discust we found an Welsh bar (apparently they do exist) and we ate there. Reasonably cheap pizzas were greatly appreciated after the long walk. Less appreciated was when I managed to pour my entire beer into my lap - absolutely soaking my trousers. Between that and stuffing my Calzone pizza with chips I amused my French team-mates at least.

...

The next morning we travelled to the venue which was over half-an-hour outside of Charleville. The setting was incredible - it was a lake-side sports/conference centre in the middle of an evergreen forest. All this on the warmest day of the year, with blaring sunshine twinkling off the lake.

The setting seemed to suit me and produced my best performance at a French competition so far. While the referee in my poule was absolutely blind (afterwards he went back to his actual job at the refreshments stand), I managed to rescue my poule with two victories (but that really should have been at least 4 were it not for the ref). I was ranked 41st and in the Last 64 managed to overturn my opponent who was seeded 24th after the poules.

In the last 32 I faced Lombolay (the junior world #1) who I had faced in Budapest a couple of weeks earlier. The first couple of points went against me but then I started to get on a roll. I was really in the zone and started picking him off with counter-attack after counter-attack and when I launched my own attacks they were landing perfectly. Eventually, I found myself 14-9 up. Needing only one more point to secure a very impressive victory.

I suppose I started thinking of the victory too much, I suppose that when he started getting points back I panicked somewhat. Anyway, somehow I let the match slip away from me and what could have been an awesome victory turned into a crushing defeat. Damn.

...

Anyway, like I was saying, this was still my best performance at a French Circuit competition so far and I know myself now that I can perform at that level and improve my future results.

The journey home to Paris was not too long. We listened to the England - France rugby match, which was completley incomprehensible for me because of the speed at which the commentators spoke. I ended up thinking that France one and it was till the next day that I realised otherwise.

As we approached Paris, Jacque Chirac was making his final official address to the nation. I wish all french people would speak as clearly as he did - I could understand him perfectly.