Buskers on Paris trains should be forced to sit exams. Guy with banjo singing the first words that pop into his head can make for a long trip. ‘No I will not be giving you a Euro for the headache!’

Game against Argentina was easy. Like Maradona in a doughnut shop. Bakkies pounded away at the Puma’s pack, the rest did…well, the rest! Nice work chaps!

A friend of mine (charging 500 euros for his friendship) spotted Zinzan at Rugby Town – nestled at the foot of the Eiffel tower. Our friend Mark thought the tower was a power station (he went to school in Pretoria!).

Transport strike. That sly b*stard slips out the back before I arrive.

Got England press conference in half an hour – can’t find the hotel. Arrive late. Get a dressing down from the Adolf the security guard for pushing the rotating door – it’s electric apparently. I show him the people’s elbow. He backs off.

Have to muscle Stuart Barnes and Jeremy Guscott to get close to Jonny Wilkinson. He’s talking about his bubble again – a strange metaphor for matchday pressure. He’s a strange dude in fact. Intense and strange. Tried to get him out of the game by making a hack at his shins – Adolf spots his opportunity and I’m tackled like that naked woman on the 18th at the US Open.

As the rotating door smacks against my head I see Simnikiwe Xabanisa from the Sunday Times get his own ‘alone’ time with Lawrence and Jamie. He may be their dealer!

Gareth is wearing shorts and slops and a jacket we call the sleeping bag. A disgusting brown coloured thing. Fair to say, we have blended into French society seamlessly.

No more baguettes, ever!

Thursday – Bok presser – who the hell are all these people? Thousands of camera’s (ok you got me, not quite thousands then…) They all laugh at Jake’s joke about not being able to say too much otherwise he’ll have to share the lineout calls. They’re new here! Jake speaks for half an hour, says nothing. I manage to get Butch for some quiet time out back. He reckons he’s going to eat Jonny for breakfast and celebrate for the rest of his life. I like the sound of that.

Off to Chez Papa for dinner. A franchise run by – you guessed it – Papa! He’s there in all his glory, chunks of food stuck in his enormous beard, blabbering away in Le French, feeding the lads free house wine. We smile. Sip. Smile some more. Gulp…gulp…smile…

Final day. Boys head up to Monte Marte again to grab some pate. Off to the game early. Few beers around the ground to soak up the vibe. Am seated early…tears down the cheek during the anthems. The Boks win! The Boks win! More tears – hey, isn’t that T-bone! What a hero. Nice work boss! Please don’t drop him.

Wild parties outside Le Stade. Lads head back to Oz Café before joining the Boks in their hotel room. Try to get a drink out of the trophy but it disappeared toward the back of the room. Get to bed on Sunday at midday…

No more playing ‘Spot Chester’ in the ‘95 photo, no more ‘Joel you beauty’, no more Kobus…maybe!

The Poms might call us Dutchmen, I prefer World Champs!