48 Hours in Oz: Hear the Lions Roar… (at 50, Australia 2025)
By Neil Peyton
Fifty used to mean the pipe and slippers. I swapped both for a red jersey and a passport that suddenly said “Lion.” The British & Irish Lions tour is not just another rugby trip, it is a travelling witness-protection scheme where four rival nations bin their flags and roar as one. That is the twist, the bit the outsiders never grasp.
Brisbane on Friday afternoon proved the point straight away. Our crew hit Fortitude Valley, IDs flashed like it was Freshers’ Week, and we learned the local horror story: three-beer limit per person per order. England, Ireland, Scotland, Wales – every accent cursed in unison. Problem solved by forming an orderly queue to the bar, stacking schooners like Lego, and belting out Calon Lân, Flower of Scotland and Fields of Athenry back-to-back. The DJ laughed. First clue that identity is fluid when the Lions are in town.
Saturday lunch at local haven Harveys before game 1 delivered exceptional white-tablecloth calm before the storm. Snapper so fresh it twitched, local Pinot Noir, and a dining room washed with crimson. At one table a Scot explained line-out calls to an English couple, at another an Irish lad taught a Welsh granny the words to Jerusalem. The food was great, but the soundtrack was better. A pride of Lions rehearsing for something bigger.
Suncorp Stadium that evening felt nuclear. Kick-off, and the Lions moved like they had a debt to collect. The Wallabies defended bravely, the scoreboard ticked, but the red wave kept coming. Final whistle and the place erupted, not in four voices, but one. Strangers high-fived, shirts swapped, a kilt ended up on a Queensland policeman. I caught myself singing Swing Low with a Glaswegian who had never cheered it in his life. That is the Lions switch-flip.
Sunday we chased humidity north to Cairns for reef therapy. Coral like living graffiti, turquoise water, and then one of our crew met a box jellyfish. Helicopter airlift, antivenom, a doctor shaking his head, many red jerseys eyes on in concern. He survived, with a scar and a story that will outlast his tattoo.
Here is the thing. Sport has alliances and rivalries, cups and leagues, but nothing else asks fans to trade passports for a common roar. Only the Lions make an Englishman teach Flower of Scotland, make a Welshman belt out God Save the King, make an Irishwoman wrap a Union Flag around an Ulsterman and laugh. That is why you fly twenty-four hours and queue for rationed beer.
Once you have felt a stadium full of temporary citizens sing in the same key you know it, the Lions are not just a team, they are proof that identity can be borrowed, shared, and celebrated. And that, even at fifty, is worth every mile.
