Several years ago the Fast Show indelibly inked into the British consciousness the impression of Scousers being shell suit wearing, big haired, moustachioed drinkers. Who was the Freek to contradict them?

Saturday 14th of August 2004, and everyone was reduced to tears of laughter as Fraser got out of the car, his curly locks grown long, his beard shaved to leave a moustache and proudly wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses. A book was immediately opened on how long it would be before a scally would take offence at what would be seen as a wig and smack him in the teeth. Average betting had it at 1 hour and 23 minutes from crossing the City line.

With the arrival of the Reekies who brought with them the front row partnership of Brian McGuigan and James “Chunky” Arden the tour could get underway. The bus was loaded and everyone took their seats, Chunky at the back with the curtain across the window because he had not been to bed yet and needed some sleep. Brian’s iPod was hooked up to his CD player and the Soundtrack to the Weekend was started.

5 hours and 2 comfort breaks later we rolled into Liverpool and straight off to the Sefton Club’s ground (via a piss stop at an Old Man’s Pub for the Freek who could hardly move for fear of wetting himself by that point).

Both games are written up in the Results section of the site (here). Let us just say that Paisley won the match, Freek got three tries and Man of the Match despite looking a good deal slower than usual which most attributed to the piss poor aerodynamics of his haircut, and Gav and Chocky got joint Dick of the Day for going at it, handbags drawn, for some indiscretion that only they witnessed and only they can remember. Young love eh?

After the match the boys had a bite to eat and a few rounds of Bitch. Chunky was drawn into a game of "copycat" with a Sefton member, which he lost much to everyone’s amusement. At about 7pm we remembered that we had not actually checked into the hotel yet and as securing a roof over our heads was probably important we all trooped off to the bus. On the way back Ben told us the moving and poignant story of a park we were passing. This old soldier saw his first action there if you know what I mean.

With everyone in a room, we got washed and ready for an evening in the Hen Night capital of England. Nelly was excited.

*Honourable mention at this point to Club Captain Fraser Ross who drove himself to Liverpool and then back to Barrhead that night because he had an exam on the Monday. The effort was appreciated mate and we hope the match did not interrupt your preparation for the exam.

Meeting in the hotel bar we had a pint to allow the whole party to congregate. Once we were all ready it was off out. We did not know where we were going but we were confident that we would see some sign from a “higher being” to guide us. As we crossed the road beside the hotel a people carrier taxi stopped and disgorged its cargo of nubile 20-somethings dressed in not very much who informed us that they were off to Edwards. “What a coincidence, that was where we were going as well so we will just tag along!”. We may not be able to decipher some opposition lineout codes but we can recognise a sign from above when we see it.

 So we were off down the road to Edwards. Once there we thought that it was actually decent. A few pints in there and we began to realise that most of the women were not hanging about. We had all washed and 90% of us were wearing clean underwear so the conclusion was that we were not yet in the best place. Onwards we travelled to a pub called The Office. Nice place but the music was a little specialised (a.k.a. shit) and not to many of us were keen to stay there. After one drink we were politely asked to leave when Chinz climbed through a decorative hole in a wall and onto the shoulders of Haggis, none of us shed any tears over that one. It turned out to be for the best because we had arrived at the Promised Land…Outback.

Dance floor jumping and the place heaving with soon-to-be off the market woman and their closest 50 friends all drinking as fast as they can. God loves Paisley Rugby Football Club and He sent us to Outback to show us so.

We assumed that the group of woman dressed as Police Officers and knocking back alcopops were a hen party and not evidence of lax disciplinary standards within the Merseyside Constabulary. They would certainly have had problems chasing the criminal element in their heels. Similarly even in the low lighting of the pub it was obvious that some of the “school girls” clearly were not (not by a good 40 or 50 years). Still, this was our Candy Store and the boys were off the leash.

After a good couple of hours those wearing kilts were still “enduring” ladies in micro skirts and low cut tops lifting the tartan “just to see if you are a true scotsman”. Most of those who wanted it got to rub their bits up against willing females and Joel continued his quest to be declared “CampMan 2004”. We slag him for it but even the kilts proved no match for the interest in Joel and his flamboyant style. It was like flies round shit. Bastard.

Fester proved that a kilt is the panacea for anyone’s natural disadvantage in the courting department. In his tartan get up the ladies seemed blind to the fact that he is a short ugly ginger, despite spendi ng most of the night standing next to the Arian Hawk Chris “Cobra Kai” Lyall. However young Nelly was destined to survive yet another tour without seeing any action, well I suppose that on Sunday he came closer as he ever has before but we have not reached that part yet.

 Newlywed Gary McNaught, on tour less than 7 days after returning from honeymoon, set up Second Row Scott Southerland with some action and as the Big Man pinned the helpless (and hapless) honey against the disabled lift Gazza publicised the event by touring the pub and directing all team members over to see this subtly disturbing sight. Despite rumours circulating the next morning at breakfast Scott insisted that he did not break any of her ribs in the heat of passion, nor did he tear any part of her lower anatomy with his knee. However we only have his word that she does not now sport an ugly axe wound.

Sunday, and the traditional pre-Sunday Match head count. As a rough yardstick you know you are on a good tour when the bus driver had to be woken up at 3am after falling asleep on a park bench. About 6 were unaccounted for, either their roommates woke up alone that morning or entire rooms had not been slept in. By 10 all were back at base and most were now in the pool in the leisure centre below the hotel.

The pool was a great way to relax before the Sunday match. A few swimming races, the backs standing on the forwards shoulders to make human pyramids and general larking about came to an abrupt end when two young lovelies in skimpy bikinis appeared, dipped a toe in the pool, declared it too cold and went off to the hot tub. So everyone duly trooped out of the pool and into the hot tub. Not in a subtle way either.

It is important on any tour that you have a well balanced diet. According to the Mick Skinner “Effective Eating for Rugby”; for every 5 units of “non-isotonic” brown sports drink consumed a slice of Pizza must be eaten to soak up the excess, the formula for Kebab is slightly more complex. Equally touring teams need to have a nourishing lunch and there was a McDonalds right outside the hotel, it would be rude not to patronise it.  10 of us in this place talking loudly about the exploits of the night before.  Chocky then interupted the chat to declare that he just saw Unice from Gladiators walk into the toilets.  Most agreed that we could not remember what she looked like anyway and were happy to take Chock's word for it.

On the bus and off to Wallasey. 20 minutes into the 10-minute journey to the ground Indian Scount Tonto Calvert made a good impression of someone who was lost rather than a local boy revisiting the stomping grounds of his youth. We eventually got there to the gentle strains of 30 gentlemen belting out “You’re the Best” by Joe Esposito in honour of Chris Lyall. We got off the bus and made our way to the changing areas where Chocky had the bright idea of war paint. The idea was excellent; in a Braveheart inspired move we would all play the match with blue “woad” on our faces to terrify the opposition into submission. However the execution was pure Livingston magic as he opened the container and spilled half the contents on the changing room floor. Him and Gavin then went into “Odd Couple” mode as they tried to clean up the mess. Once that was done the paint was applied and we were out warming up.

80 minutes of running about in the heat, under a scrum cap? Scott Southerland was not taking in half as much water as he should have been and there would be consequences to those inactions.

Following the final whistle the hosts produced two slabs of beer for us on the pitch and declared the BBQ open. A few cans, a burger and a shower we were dressed for Bitch again and set up the tables for it outside.

First came a singing competition that Paisley lost as they only knew two songs off by heart as a group, Flower of Scotland and You’re the Best by Joe Esposito. Then a test of strength that Gary McNaught lost as he shoved his face into a sweaty Wallasey arse crack. Then we decided to show the Birkenhead mob what we could do.

The Bitch was born and she looked angry. This Bitch eventually had a hot-dog bun in her soaking up the heady cocktail of Cider, Lager, Heavy, Whisky, Vodka, Baileys, Coca-Cola, mustard, ketchup and mayonnaise. The lads took their seats and a dehydrated Mr Southerland (now with a whole three cans of beer to his credit) had that look on his face that said he was feeling no pain.

Bitch being new to them, the Scousers immediately wanted to join in but they did not know the rules. We informed them that you don’t get to know the rules of Bitch beforehand; you have to learn as you play. One guy gamely sat with us and started to learn his trade.

Scott and Greg were in a rut. Well, Greg was in a rut, Scott was just heavily pished and his brain/body co-ordination (which is not the greatest when he is at his physical peak) was completely out of whack. If we were better friends we would have quietly excluded Scott to save him from himself, but that was not going to happen was it? One of our host’s children, a delightful 10-year-old wide boy, also played but had nominated Scott to be his designated drinker. We liked him a lot.

2 and a half hours later Scott was slowly learning that at no time was the phrase “Ah, shit” used in this particular game. Greg was fighting the alcohol to keep on top of his game but his rut had no limit. We were being told to wrap the game up, as we were to leave in 20 minutes. The remaining bitch was divided into 9 equal measures and one measure containing the remaining hot dog bun. The last looser would be drinking and eating. To everyone’s surprise it was Greg and not Scott that lost and had to eat the bun. The poor sod took a full 3 minutes to chew and swallow everything in that glass.

We were getting on the bus when the Wallasey lads put another lab of beer on the front seat to see us home. They then lined up and sang us a parting song. By halfway through the song Ron had a tear in his eye. No, he was not moved by the beautiful singing or the heartfelt compliment. Big Scott standing beside him was clapping above his head in time to the song and as the big doofus got more and more into the swing of things his arm movements became more and more exaggerated until eventually he twocked his second row partner in the face.

At this point Chunky Arden finally appeared. Having not put his hand in his pocket all afternoon, his opposite number had got him very drunk and eventually haggled a deal where Mr Arden swapped his tour polo shirt and club tie for a Wallasey playing shirt. The shirt had a Shining effect on him as he joined his “team-mates” to sing goodbye to Paisley. A bleary eyed Chunky was helped onto the bus as Wallasey formed a guard of honour, turned around and dropped their trousers in time honoured fashion. Firm in the belief that they had made a lot of new friends this day PRFC touring party (what was left of it) retired to their hotel to decide on the evening’s course of events.

Scott survived the perilous task of taking a shower while unsure which way is up, but he did manage to break his toilet. Most of the tour were surprised it took him to Sunday evening to damage the accommodation.

With a quick wash and shave the party met in the hotel bar. There was no mistaking that this was Sunday. Gone was the hen night in the corner and the regulars at the bar. Now just a couple of people in booths and a group of lads praying in earnest that this was not going to be another Bristol.

After a few rounds it was decided to head to the “world famous” Flanagans bar on Cavern Lane (the very same). The party followed Haggis, they had no choice.

Haggis had spent the afternoon committing the most heinous of crimes. He continued to refill the Bitch with every spirit on the bar without ever taking part in a round. Haggis was quite sober and the rest quite drunk. Now Haggis lead the way. He advanced on the Irish bar as if he were defending the Rohr Valley from the Red Menace. We would like to think that during his time as a Marine he would not have beat as hasty a retreat from the Ivans' as he did when he finally got to the pub. Although if the Third World War were to be as boring as Flanagans none of us would have blamed him for wandering off. Out of that place into the “Boogie Nights” place next door was a slight step up in that it also had only 20 people before we got there but they were playing loud music and a DJ was attempting to hold it together. Yeah, it was time to return to Outback.

No-one was expecting the same pussy parade as Saturday, still - hope springs eternal!

Naturally the party made our way upstairs to the same position we had occupied the previous evening. On the door to the disabled lift the faint indented impression of a female figure being mauled by an Aberdonian could clearly be seen much to the amusement of everyone. Even Scott laughed but by this time no-one was sure that through the booze haze he understood the joke and was not just laughing ‘cos he saw everyone else laugh.

The drink flowed freely and there were a good number of ladies willing to let the kilties charm them with the witty opening line of “Want to see my knob?” With the pub being a lot quieter the floor space available to Joel to showcase his dancing skills increased dramatically and it would be unkind (but accurate) to point out that during 3 consecutive songs he covered more ground than against the opposition over the whole weekend.

Paisley RFC, showing that communication has never been one of their virtues, managed to get the DJ to announce their presence in the bar twice and Ron’s birthday 4 times by different people wandering up and talking to the poor unfortunate disc spinner that night. Still, it kept the spirits high.

With drink flowing and the music varied the guys either danced away with anyone (male of female) who happened to be passing or indulged in a unique form of people watching from the upper floor. At about 11pm the decision was made to head to another place we had heard much about and had passed on the bus a number of times. X in the City beckoned.

Getting in about half an hour from closing time we ordered the pints and watched the girls work. A scheme formed in the mind of some and a “whip” round was taken. This cash was handed to one of the girls and birthday boy Ron was lead onto the stage to receive a dance from the three girls currently working the floor.

The ladies took turns in gyrating against him, putting ice down his trousers and jiggling their breasts in his face. However the “best” was yet to come. Stood up and leaned against the pole he was instructed to drop his keks. A good beating with belts followed that left nasty inch wide bruises across his arse. Following this and some other gyrating the three girls then sang happy birthday as they put their tits away.

Wishing to repay the compliment Ron, now holding the remains of the tour “fines” kitty used it to get young Nelly a 1-on-1 dance from one of these fine young ladies. How we laughed as Nelly tried to be a gentleman and not look at the various lady bits as they were presented. I do not believe that anyone briefed him that these girls were not going to be offended if you just admired their flesh. Still Neil, it is something to put in the "bank" eh?

Once Nelly’s dance was over everyone turned round to find Brian asleep at one of the tables. Not a good thing. We tried to wake him and he did occasionally look like he was about to start up again but it never happened. Picking him up and giving the girls a round of applause we carried the bearded one out into the street. It was the back of midnight and it was time to refuel.  There was a kebab shop across the road from the hotel.

Suddenly Brian was awake. Smelling the alluring, delecate sent of the “elephants foot” cooking on the spit brought him back long enough to break free of his minders and run across the road. However the water on the road resulted in him slipping and ending up sitting in the middle of the carriageway. Having lost the battle with gravity he decided not to fight the war and went back to sleep, in a sitting position, as a car screeched to a halt inches from his head. Ron and Joel grabbed him under the armpits and dragged him into the shop, propping him up against a wall while to food was ordered.

Meeting some ladies who worked in our hotel we got chatting to them and they accompanied us back to the lounge where we continued to drink as we found the reception had keys to one of the bars and was still serving. Brian at this point made the strategic decision of spending the remainder of the evening sleeping in a cubicle in the hotel’s reception toilet.

Most tourists went to bed at about midnight including the heroic Southerland who we all thought would pass out in his room as soon as we returned from the match. Some finally retired at 4am after a game of beer bitch that only served to prove that Greg was still in a rut.

At 8am most people began to surface. All had stories to tell and a few (C Arden) looked like they had spent the night running at various speeds, backwards, through hedges.

Breakfast out of the way, bags were collected and we checked out of the hotel. On to the bus and we were heading home.

Most were sleeping and Ben had promised lunch at a nice pub he knows on the road north. The bus driver nearly missed it and was only able to get us onto the slip road by hard breaking and 90 degree turns on the carriageway.

Most members of the party decided that after the weekend it was time to head home to loved ones but for a hearty few an evening in Paisley pubs beckoned.

So ended our Liverpool adventure. All that remains is to hand out the awards, please come forward and receive your plaque as your name is read out.