It was twenty years ago that the first Moose herd boarded the bus at Victoria Coach Station, bound for Paris. In the halcyon days of Merrydown Cider and the Huge Cheese Company, a very drunk and flatulent band of cricketers arrived on the Rive Gauche after several hours of watching hard core porn on the team vehicle, featuring the much missed Stormy the Horse.

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Led by Nick Ogden, then one of the Fulham Road’s premier fireplace restorers, Robert Howie and other Moose of yesteryear, the portents were not good. Arriving with 5 minutes to spare before departure, Messrs Atkinson and Yorke had slightly over-trained in the then trendy 151. Greeted by the squat John Lynch, emergency vodka rations were administered, which at 8am had a recuperative affect. As we pulled down Warwick Way the first herbal cigarette was ignited and the tour went downhill from there.

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After several attempts to turn off the Peripherique, we then traversed the Pont Neuf at least half a dozen times as the coach driver, evidently overcome by the Moose fumes, confessed to being hopelessly lost. Luckily Rob Howie had elected to fly to Paris and take the master suite at the 2 star hotel that we had selected, and we were guided in safely. More drinks were needed to calm irate passengers such as Heron and Avard, and supper was taken at the Café du Merde opposite the condemned building that served as our roost. As if by magic guitars were produced and the Moose burst into song. The old Eurovision classic “Joycey, Joycey, Show Us Your Growler” was aired once or twice, much to the chagrin of not only Joyce (a fellow tourist), but her bearded partner, Ian Hunt, the intense Mazda salesman. After finding a word that rhymed with Hunt, they were dispatched into the warm Parisian night to take the air.

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The next day was exactly what we were hoping for. A light drizzle fell from grey skies and the Moose enjoyed a couple of croissants and a Pelforth before trotting off to the Standard Athletic Club, Meudon, where wealthy ex-pats play tennis, swim and enjoy cocktails by the pool. Greeted by a bemused Indian called Ian Culley, the Moose took on more liquid and elected to field (or bat, this is where it gets a bit hazy). Some uncharacteristically good cricket was played, Moosey realising that in fact they were of superior standing to these people who couldn’t hack the UK. The maxim NKBV was actually observed, and despite a mighty effort, the tourists fell slightly short, unused to playing on matting.

Undeterred by this loss, the swaying herd moved on to the Temple of Helena, a Greek restaurant that wouldn’t necessarily be one’s first choice in Paris. However, after much plate smashing, table dancing, joke telling, singing and bonding, it was agreed that this was indeed the best Greek restaurant in the Rue Napoleon and an inspired choice. Their stocks of Metaxa took a hammering at the hands of the incredibly thirsty John Lynch, and at a very late hour it was back to the Café du Merde. Greeted with a gin and cockroach, the Moose struck up again, without Joyce and Ian Hunt. Amazingly, at 3am, having set off two days earlier from Sussex, Ian Graham-Scott and family arrived.

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The next day’s cricket was not good. Graham-Scott, whose family were not allowed out of their 20 year old Volvo, bowled very badly indeed. Urgent back-up was required but the cupboard was bare. The ex-pats, who themselves had had a late night (11pm) were cautious in their approach, but again seemed to win the game.

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At this point the Moose homing instinct kicked in, and once we had woken the driver from his deep reverie, the coach chugged out of Paris, around the Peripherique only twice, and headed for Calais. Loud snoring from the Moosettes threatened to interrupt the 28th showing of Stormy’s epic movie, but luckily everybody had got the gist by the time we arrived back in Blighty.

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These were the days before mobile phones had been invented, so it was only at the reunion drinks at Crocs in Fulham the following week that we discovered the Graham-Scott family had mistakenly taken the road to Belgium, ending up in Metz, and missing not two, but three, ferries. 

A great trip and the inspiration for many more. Sadly some of our dear old friends from Paris ’87 are no longer with us….Rob Howie, Bibi Lynch, but the spirit lives on and the Moose will forever roam.

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Ed Atkinson