Biarritz, Bayonne, banter and the boys. Tour de France unticketed.

We are pretty half hearted Harlequins supporters. Season ticket holders prepared to bet on a draw every week to cheer ourselves up.

Last year, using our winnings from the success of this outrageous infidelity, we spent a wine soaked weekend in Bordeaux. A tradition had been established. (I've been reliably told that a tradition can't be established as a result of one experience. I'm not so certain.)

This year we plan to catch Bayonne v Montpellier. Except, as we prepared for departure the match tickets sold out in seconds. Before we could even translate the message: "soyez très rapide ou vous n'aurez aucune chance"

We are off to France on the day our team steps up at Twickenham to defend its hard fought reputation as deserving "also rans" in the Premiership, Ticketless and downcast.

Even Quins v Bath was shown only on BT Sport, unavailable to us in France.

A classic boys trip.

No one will be shocked to find out that a bunch of men, all of whom have apparently responsible jobs, can cock up so very royally when organising a trip for themselves. Why is this? Those of you who are married will most likely know the answer. We aren't really given any responsibility when it comes to planning. In fact, apart from selecting the top tee shirt in the drawer, I can't think of the last time I decided to do anything. I argue therefore, that the failure of our boys rugby trip to Biarritz is squarely down to our partners.

As said above, six of us go regularly to Quins to watch rugby. Last year after a windfall from lucky betting, we found ourselves in Bordeaux.

Then, despite turning up at the wrong rugby stadium, we did still manage to see most of the match.

This year, we chose Biarritz. Local rugby club Bayonne are now a top flight club and their match against Montpellier seemed as good a game to head for as any.

We even knew which ground the match was at. We had just failed to book tickets this year!

The sell out, the no returns policy, our lack of spoken french, an abject hatred of Brits and an impenetrable wall of security ensured we spent the afternoon in a sports bar.

Having struggled even with parking at Stanstead, we were rightfully jubilant that all was going to plan. Then this. Hideous undignified situation. I have to write about a weekend in France watching rugby and admit so early on, that we failed to watch rugby. Except on the screen in the Black Dog pub, aptly named after a cloud of depression.

The day before the match we spent kayaking.

Again organisation was not our strong point. Navigation, even finding a bus stop at this stage, has become overtly taxing for us.

We paid for taxis to the village of Le Centre du - fukin - nowhere. We glibly dismissed the drivers and headed for the grandly titled kayak station office.

Cash only, no phone signal, no cash, no way down stream by boat, no mechanism for getting home. I felt temporarily downcast.

They relented and agreed. In the unlikely event that after 2 hours of gruelling upper body work we did make it back alive, we could then hike the several miles on foot to get them cash. They would keep some of us hostage while the fitter looking kyake survivors were dispatched to fetch a small suitcase full of euro. We were ecstatic. The Alsatian looked hungry. I volunteered to go get the cash. Unfortunately my medical skills would later mean I stayed behind to give the kiss of life to the heavier of our party who foolishly fell into the river.

What a terrible day out. Not only was it too hot to kyake, but the muddy riverbank was all we saw on the entire trip, save for a passing floater.

Our spirits were greatly lifted as the grandfather of our party managed to fall in unceremoniously due to his failing health and top heavy build. How we laughed.

On match day last year, two bottles of the finest St Emilion has been purchased from a chateau in the town. Hand luggage only had conspired to ensure we couldn't get them safely back to Blighty.

Another tradition of one years standing was established.

Withnail: "Balls! We want the finest wines available to humanity. And we want them here, and we want them now! "

Paper cups and corks pushed into the bottles. Marvellous.

This year, to prove that two years in a row we were again capable of the same extravagance, we necked nearly 200 euros of wine, on a park bench outside the match venue, again from cardboard cups. We stopped only to look menacingly at a park warden stupid enough to mistake us for tramps. He had no idea who he was dealing with. This was the closest we got to being in the stadium.

By the way Biarritz is a beautiful restored grande dame of a town, heavy with art deco, a casino, in places like the set of a glamorous 1950's movie. A fabulous place for a couples weekend break.

Would highly recommend. I suggest getting your partner to organise it.