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I always forget about the Sevens, partly because I went to an all-boys school in England in the late Eighties/early Nineties and therefore associate rugby with having to wear shorts in the freezing cold while being berated by a man who'd channelled his hatred of children into a successful career as a PE teacher. Perhaps this is a shame; if I'd played rugby in Hong Kong where it's fairly warm all year round, it might have been enjoyable, but for a scrawny youngster like myself more interested in books than being jammed between the heaving buttocks of a heap of adolescent boys, it would never have had that much appeal.
Times change, and I do like physical exercise these days. But not being jammed in amongst heaving adolescent buttocks, mind. I don't want people getting the wrong idea.
Or indeed any sort of adolescent buttocks, heaving or unheaving.
Not that there's anything wrong with buttocks. I mean, otherwise your legs would look quite silly, wouldn't they?
Still.
Ahem.
Oh yes, rugby.
I should be thankful because the Sevens means I get to wheel out geriatric jokes about not knowing which team to support - do you support the Australians, because your grandpa went to prison, or do you support the Welsh, because he went to prison for having sex with sheep? See what I did there? It's a rich treasure trove of zoophilia and unfair national stereotypes.
But with Cathay Pacific paying to have the world's biggest rugby ball constructed and then displayed in Hong Kong, I'm struggling to think of anything to top that. Perhaps there will be another near-riot in Wan Chai like two years ago, when it seemed every policeman and every rugby player all decided to have a six-hour punch-up, or perhaps things won't be so eventful.
Maybe I'm just letting the side down. Perhaps I should be wearing a blue afro wig and have somebody's vomit spilt down my flank. I suppose there's always next year.
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