Lions diary, day twenty-three

And we're back. Away from the mother city, except the only mother I noted there was the mother of all doses of 'flu bequeathed to me by the dank winter air.

And we're back. Away from Cape Town. Good old mother city, except the only mother involved in last weekend was the mother of all doses of 'flu bequeathed to me by the Western Cape's dank winter air.

Two days were spent flat on my back with fever, which induced some quite delirious hallucinations at times. I actually thought I saw France beating the All Blacks in New Zealand, followed by the barmy notion of Luke Watson going an entire eighty minutes without trying to kick the ball.

Only when I saw Naas Botha deliver a withering verdict on South African rucking techniques and two tonnes of crackling and gammon sail past my hotel window did I realise the obvious and drift off into oblivious delirium again.

I re-entered the world of the real on Tuesday. That should have meant hopping on board a short flight to Port Elizabeth, checking into my hotel, pausing for a swift orange juice and jumping on the media bus to the game.

Unfortunately, such smooth plans are so often the product of feverishly delirious imagination. Instead, I was forced to mooch around the marquee that is Cape Town's current airport at the moment – as with everything else, the real one is being jazzed up for the soccer – a marquee with no bar, one under-stocked sandwich shop, one bookshop and some 200-odd Lions fans.

It is fortunate indeed for the airline people concerned with our flight delay that these Lions fans appeared not to have stopped since departure from… Wales in most cases (welcome to South Africa, Bargoed RFC), and that the carpeted marquee floors with no bar on them presented the ideal place in which to sleep it off, rather than a platform upon which to get frustrated about the airline costing them the chance to watch the game in Port Elizabeth.

The flight passed uneventfully – as far as I know anyway, the airline seat was to me as a carpeted marquee floor is to a hungover Lions fan – but it was when we hit PE that the real trouble began. I mean: who would have planned for the contingency of an airport with no taxis?

But there were none. We waited. Still none. We waited a bit more. The taxis obstinately persisted in their absence. What did appear was a brutally cold westerly gale, carrying in its teeth a spray of icy droplets of rain which did little either for my 'flu or for the mood of the fans now facing a 25-minute deadline to make it to the ground for kick-off.

A taxi appeared. The driver got out. “Is there anybody here called Allister Stewart?” he asked.

“Yep, that's me,” answered at least eight Lions fans, including one woman, and it was there I left them to their fun and games and headed out of the rain for a coffee before hopping over to departures and jumping into a cab that had just dropped off. I didn't make it to the game, but I did make it to my hotel in time for kick-off.

I also made it to join a group of colleagues for dinner later, where politics dominated the conversation. To a man, everybody agreed the following: contriving to have a Super Rugby franchise here on a foundation of next to nothing is nothing more than SA Rugby bending over backwards to accommodate the government's transformation agendas, that it is simply not a realistic ambition, irrespective of how many journeymen you can bring back from Europe for an exhibition match, and that the whole day felt very staged.

I should add: there were three European journalists in that group, before I am harangued by whichever politician opens his mouth before thinking next.

The pitch didn't really come to the party either. Poor Mathew Turner turned his ankle in a big divot, while there were patches there barer than one of those pitches the Lions used to play on in Kimberley back in '74.

But why, when three or four weeks ago, it had looked so lush? The answer does not bode well for the soccer – which is why this stadium has been built after all. Apparently the turf was laid and laid well, but the winter sun does not climb over the stadium roof enough and so the grass has had no light in the past month and simply does not grow. Something to chew on there, one feels. Unless you are a sheep.

Spotted: Peter de Villiers (the South African coach, not the former French international prop) gets it good. At 12.00, he finished his team announcement in Durban. He was then whisked to Durban airport, flown to PE and picked up to go to the stadium in a chauffeur-driven… bright blue Ford Fiesta, into which he squashed with four mates! He must have called shotgun though (and he didn't have to wait for a damned taxi like the rest of us).

Spotted: Pieter de Villiers (the former French international prop, not the South African coach) trying fairly hard not to be recognised on a plane full of rugby fans on his way to a business meeting in PE.

Antic of the tour: The Englishman who drank a bottle of barbecue sauce in the PE Flaming Arrow Spur wins this award so far – unless you can beat it? Proof is required…

Witch hunt? There's been plenty of physical rugby on this tour, with a fair share of dust-ups and handbags, and nobody's batted an eyelid. De Wet Barry and Frikkie Welsh come along and throw a couple of late hits and swinging arms: suddenly every British journalist is working the niggle and aggro angle at the press conference after the game. You mean they actually hit each other? Hold the front page…

Kilometres spent following the Lions: 5367.5

Medication tablets for all assorted ailments ingested since the tour began: 47

Hotel of the tour so far: Carslogie Bed and Breakfast in Summerstrand, PE. Huge swimming pool, immaculate furnishings and a small decanter of brandy on your bedside table. It's the small details.

Journal kept by Richard Anderson