Sports and passion

Rugby is fantastic. It's like some gladiator movie crossed with a national sport. There's singing, nationalism and blood blood blood. Players appear to be allowed to stamp on each other's heads, receiving points for artistic impression as well as brute force. The players appear to divide into two groups - huge men with their ears taped to their head, broken noses, not many teeth and size 87 chests and blokes who use hair styling products.

Watching is great fun - unless Scotland are losing - and good exercise. What is required, along with replica shirts, beer, ham sarnies and a masochistic streak, is some sort of guard for the telly screen to protect it from the spittle and sonic wave generated by screaming 'come onnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn' at the sort of volume normally only experienced by those who live close to Heathrow, more specifically those that live on the final approach of the really big runway where the jets full of fat-arsed tourists land, the engines straining, the bilges sloshing and the duty-free already consumed.

Final game on Saturday. Scots way-hey!