Où est le poulet is a rather lovely daytime activity where the entire Men’s 1st team squad break up into teams and scour the local hostelries of Barnes and Mortlake to search for one or two people dressed up as chickens!

Our deux poulets this year were back rower Ryan Nixon and physio supremo Colette Goveia, garishly dressed as farmyard animals, and set loose in Barnes.

Last Saturday, the whole squad broke into teams of farmers, and proceeded to pursue the recalcitrant poulets.

The expedition was set to begin at 3:30pm from the clubhouse. Lucky for me I turned up at 4:30pm and side stepped the early pints in the clubhouse. I joined a team with ex-skipper Ryan Seabright (the subject in the attaching pic) resplendent in wellies and tweed (his everyday outfit some wag commented), Rory Hogan, Occies Vice-Captain and a young saffer Luke who is a recent recruit to Barnes RFC.

Because we were the last team to hit the trails our first decision was "could the poulet be in the Red Lion?" Ryan was our team captain and using his massive PhD brain deduced that the Red Lion was a strong possibility. It wasn't.

Drinks were mandatory so we settled down while Rory regaled us of his younger days on rugby tour to South Africa with his dad. In summary, Rory he sent his dad back to the hotel early in a cab while he did some nocturnal cultural exchanging. A ‘splendid tradition’ was the verdict round our table.

By now we are dead last in the poulet rodeo. In order to make up time it was decided that we should eliminate the possibility that the sneaky chickens might have turned right and headed to the Bridge. There was an executive decision made, of which I took no part in, to call the Bridge and cross it off. Luke made the enquiries and confirmed no big yellow birds were present.

Onwards to the Coach and Horses as it was determined that the Sun Inn would be rallying point at the end of the hunt and therefore unlikely to be a roost this early.

Len and his team were at the C&H so we knew the fowl were not cooped up in there, however a passport stop was necessary and of course the obligatory pints as per the rules.
Our next dilemma...Bulls Head or venture to the other side of the tracks?

Having learned our lesson at the Coach and Horses we were able to eliminate the White Hart because upon approach Bloxy was leading his team out the door and even though he tried hard to persuade us the birds were inside. Us wily farmers wouldn’t be fooled twice such as at the C&H. Avanti!

Like 4 hobbits on a quest, we braved the wilderness of Mortlake towards the Crossing on White Hart Lane. This particular henhouse was also vacant, so beverages were ordered and followed by round upon round. At this point it was felt that the poultry could cluck right off because the craic was mighty amongst the disorderly gathering of farmers.

Word eventually came through that the poulets had been located and they were decamping from the Bulls Head (another PhD error of judgement) to rendezvous at the Sun Inn for beer and medals.

It was at this moment that Rory Hogan had a brain fart and revealed how smart we had been to call the Bridge and cross it off the possible hidey holes. Fines were issued. Let me tell you, ‘Loose Lips Sink Ships’.

All the "Farmers" gathered at the Sun to quench thirsts after successfully corralling the wayward egg layers with many claims and counterclaims as to which team of farmers found them first. There was a stronger whiff of BS than you would get in any agricultural show.
This was followed by the Fines session of beer and shots however as the kitty was empty shots were excluded due to fiscal ineptitude.

All my team were called out to answer for the earlier rule breakages. Ryan Seabright chopped his fine and promptly watered the flowerbeds with at least two pints on the way back up. Ryan explained that it wasn't too bad because the beer was still cold upon regurgitation. That's science, I guess.

Apparently, we were all getting a bit boisterous for the newly gentrified Sun Inn beer garden, so we closed the loop by returning to the Red Lion where they were unaware of the anarchy. Tally Ho!

By now it seems we had descended the second, third and fourth rings of hell (lust, gluttony, and greed) and with young prop Rory Marsh toying with the fifth (anger) uncharacteristically.

For this correspondent sanity of a sort prevailed and in a moment of lucidity I waved farewell to my fellowship of the rings and pointed myself in roughly a northerly direction back to the Mason's Arms of Castelnau wishing the remaining clodhoppers well in the nightclubs of London.

Job done.

Colum