There’s no Bitter for a start, no Stout, and certainly no Mild.
You can have anything you want so long as it’s yellow, fizzy and with a head the size of the funny-shaped glass it arrives in.
The consistency of the beer is just one of the differences you notice when you take your rugby passion on to the Continent.
The crisps are different too. There’s plain or paprika. And that’s it. There’s no Monster Munch, no Discos, no Space Invaders, and Kettle Chips haven’t made the journey yet.
Perhaps these are among the reasons why the Euro sceptics feared the worst. A common market, a common currency (almost) and a common bond and all that. Then there was the Chunnel and many worried, as Jasper Carrott said, ‘I’ve never lived in a cul-de-sac before and I’m not going to start now’.
European rugby contrasts as vividly as lager and Tiger Bitter. The garish playing kits, the legions of sponsors, the exotic names, they all add to a sense of being different to us.
But rugby is the common language in the Heineken Cup and there isn’t a Tigers supporters who doesn’t look forward to the trips into mainland Europe, whether on missionary work in extolling the virtues of driving on the proper side of the road, using indicators before manoeuvring and actually stopping at pedestrian crossings, or “going native” and stopping for coffee in market squares, taking two hours over a two-course lunch or going out to dinner in the evening at a time normally associated with bed.
Heineken Cup rugby is different. Yes it is yellow and fizzy, and it ‘tastes’ of Europe, of going into the lions den, of drummers, of flags and flares, of whistling at goal-kickers, of tickertape and strange toilets.
It is, though, undeniably exciting to see your Tigers run out into that environment and for the supporters to share in it.
I’ll drink to that. Allez les Tigres.
