Rugby Player Quotes

The width of neck and shoulder suggested a rugby player, the broken nose confirmed it. Which shows just how wrong you can be as he never played the game in his life.

Beauty comes in many forms, and the strong, powerful kind is the most admirable. It's easy to be weak; you simply do nothing, but strength takes courage and effort.

I could've been a professional rugby player... but then I saw a new Gaunt's Ghosts book come out...

In no particular order: baked goods, Colin Farrell's eyebrows, and the thighs of rugby players everywhere. And to the city of Edinburgh, where a love story was born.

The moment you walk into a room you brighten it, Lucy Fitzpatrick, and I for one feel like the luckiest bastard in the world for having known you.

Utu--Maori revenge. 'Do everything well, boy. Do it better than them. Be a better rugby player, better at your job. Outshine them everywhere. Tramp on their pride. Go far, and leave them sniveling in your dust.

I don't want to close my eyes when I could be looking at you

I think I've missed you all my life

Something decidedly female was going on in her head, something of the mystery-to-men variety. I had no idea what she was thinking, but she looked both aggrieved and remorseful. I held very still because it seemed like the safest thing to do.

Because that’s how snobs deal with uncomfortable subjects. We belittle their importance, laugh at them, and change the subject to weather or sport.

@SeanCassinova Where might one procure a shoe horn in NYC? @RugbyFan101 to @SeanCassinova I’ll loan you my horn any day of the week, baby ;-) @SeanCassinova to @RugbyFan101 Who is this and where did you get my number? @RugbyFan101 to @SeanCassinova Uh, this is Twitter. @SeanCassinova to @RugbyFan101 That’s a very strange name. What were your parents thinking? @EilishCassidy @SeanCassinova Stop being an arse.

Look at the Wikipedia entry for any famous doctor, and you’ll see: ‘He proved himself an accomplished rugby player in youth leagues. He excelled as a distance runner and in his final year at school was vice-captain of the athletics team.’ This particular description is of a certain Dr H. Shipman, so perhaps it’s not a rock-solid system.

Insincerity was taxing once you’d breathed the refreshing air of artless candor.

William had played [rugby] at Eton when it first became popular, and now he only spoke of it in a reverent tone he normally saved only for women and rifles. . . . . [in contrast] Cricket had rules: one was not allowed to stamp on the head of another player and pass it off as enthusiasm.

He liked being the bigger man of the two, even though it wasn’t by much, he liked the way his solid rugby player’s build matched and countered Jonah’s athletic strength. But there was something about Jonah’s body hair, that incontrovertible evidence of his masculinity, that made Ben feel…not that he was less manly, precisely, but that Jonah was more so.

You’re too cute sometimes. I mean, seriously too cute.” “I’m not cute. I’m aloof and manly.” I lifted a disdainful eyebrow at the idea of me as cute. Ridiculous.

What the fu— How the bloody hell had Voldemort gotten into the building?

The worst thing that happened to air travel in the past ten years was the bankruptcy of Xhibit Corp., the parent company of SkyMall. I recalled with clarity the first time I boarded a flight and it was missing from all usual nooks and crannies. It had been a dark day.

Nev was the man in the parlor and the painter in his studio, the banker and the rugby player. The boyfriend who bought her prawn crisps and rubbed her back when she cried. The tender lover. The caged beast who came out to play when they got naked together. He could be any of them.

@LucyFitz Would you rather live the rest of your life with a human head and a horse’s body, or a horse’s head and a human body? @BroderickAdams to @LucyFitzHuman head + horse body = centaur. Horse head + human body = WTF. So, the first one, obvs. @RonanFitz to @BroderickAdams @LucyFitz No more acid tabs for either of you.

We all have issues. Human beings are flawed, and all we can hope for is to work toward making ourselves better. Not perfect, just better.

I needed to get a handle on this girlish exhilaration. This girlish exhilaration needed a reality check. Maybe even a bitch-slap.

Ronan’s eyes widened as though I’d just told him Santa Claus and Genghis Khan had been having a torrid love affair since the twelfth century.

Every stray deserves a chance at love, a home and a warm bed to sleep at night.

I just like a good underdog story, that’s all. Every stray deserves a chance at love.

No rugby player, no matter how talented, has ever won a game by playing alone.

a rugby player with dyed-pink hair, the first vegetarian and lesbian I ever met—who’d overseen my coming-out like a benevolent gay goddess.

I was a dog lover. I trusted them. There was something about the way a dog looked at you; they didn’t care if you were a famous rugby player or a homeless person on the streets. They only cared about how you treated them, and once they chose you as their human, you had a faithful friend for the rest of their lives. I didn’t think humans were capable of such compassion and commitment.

Do you want anything from the shop?” definitely ranked as one of my top three favorite sentences of all time. It’s right up there with, “School’s been cancelled because of the weather” and “Would you like me to go down on you first?

And,” I went on, grinning now, “as far as I’m concerned, dogs are people, so never let anyone tell you otherwise.” Sean

Christ on a bike. 

Talk to me when your nuts are so blue they look like something you can hang on a Christmas tree.

His aftershave – eau du sex god - wafted her way.

We all have depth, Sean. It’s a side effect of being human.

Shall I sneak in later? Crawl into your bed and wake you up with my head between your thighs?

In any game, the game itself is the prize, no matter who wins, ultimately both lose the game.

Don’t call your family ‘the fam’, Sean. It sounds douchey. Another two syllables won’t kill you,” I chided playfully. Sean’s smirk indicated he was enjoying my criticism, and I didn’t understand that, either. “This coming from the girl with hair like a packet of Skittles.” “My hair isn’t douchey,” I said, and flicked a few locks over my shoulder. “It brings joy to all those who gaze upon it.

The car was some kind of Porsche and the door stood open and beckoning, like a gold embossed invitation to sin If she could survive a ride with angel-lips in his penis car then surely she’d be immune to him in any situation?

The best nicknames that I have ever come across: -Dai Young (ex-Wales rugby prop, current coach of Wasps) –‘Only the Good’. -Billy Twelvetrees (England rugby centre) –‘36'. - Martin Offiah (ex-rugby league legend)–‘Chariots’ - Nia Wales (ex-work colleague) –‘Chester’ - Fitz Hall (QPR defender) –‘One size’ -David Jones (lower league rugby player who had half an ear bitten off) –‘Dai 18 months’ - The New Zealand junior rugby team -the small blacks -The New Zealand basketball team -the tall blacks

The room was small, lit by two naked bulbs in wall recesses, and bare of anything except for two solid wooden posts the height of a man and four feet apart. In each post, at just below shoulder height, was set a large iron ring. There were two other men already waiting, both leathermen. Len indicated each in turn. 'Rick and Sam.' The two men regarded Mike with arms folded. Rick was in his late twenties, a tall, blond biker, his hair hanging down well past his shoulders. Under his leather waistcoat he was bare-chested, his spare, pale flesh covered with tattoos of skulls, burning angels and other biker motifs, the twining reds, blues and blacks extending along both arms as well. He was wearing black leather gloves and impenetrable black shades. Shaven-headed Sam was older, shorter and stockier, built like a rugby player. A leather harness stretched across the barrel of his chest, its steel circlet buried in wiry hair. Through his leather chaps Mike could see a sizeable pouch, heavy with its contents.

Something decidedly female was going on in her head, something of the mystery-to-men variety. I had no idea what she was thinking, but she looked both aggrieved and remorseful. I held very still because it seemed like the safest thing to do. We stared at each other.

Archie Henderson has won no awards, written no books and never played any representative sport. He was an under-11 tournament-winning tennis player as a boy, but left the game when he discovered rugby where he was one of the worst flyhalves he can remember. This did not prevent him from having opinions on most things in sport. His moment of glory came in 1970 when he predicted—correctly as it turned out—that Griquas would beat the Blue Bulls (then still the meekly named Noord-Transvaal) in the Currie Cup final. It is something for which he has never been forgiven by the powers-that-be at Loftus. Archie has played cricket in South Africa and India and gave the bowling term military medium a new and more pacifist interpretation. His greatest ambition was to score a century on Llandudno beach before the tide came in.

The first day I stepped into Dr. Hollyfield’s office he’d told me about a little thing called the phone test. If a certain person calls you and you just can’t bear to pick up and talk to them, then they’re probably toxic and you should cut them from your life. If it’s a person you can’t cut from your life, then you need to find a new approach to dealing with them.

@LucyFitz Always trust in the kindness of strangers…except when it comes in the form of a glass of sauvignon blanc you haven’t seen them pour. @RonanFitz to @LucyFitz What’s going on?! Is some creep offering to buy you drinks? @LucyFitz to @RonanFitz Chillax. It’s supposed to be humorous. @RonanFitz to @LucyFitz Well I don’t find the concept of messing with my sister funny. @Anniecat to @LucyFitz I apologize for your brother

something that cannot be memorized and graded: a great doctor must have a huge heart and a distended aorta through which pumps a vast lake of compassion and human kindness. At least, that’s what you’d think. In reality, medical schools don’t give the shiniest shit about any of that. They don’t even check you’re OK with the sight of blood. Instead, they fixate on extracurricular activities. Their ideal student is captain of two sports teams, the county swimming champion, leader of the youth orchestra and editor of the school newspaper. It’s basically a Miss Congeniality contest without the sash. Look at the Wikipedia entry for any famous doctor, and you’ll see: ‘He proved himself an accomplished rugby player in youth leagues. He excelled as a distance runner and in his final year at school was vice-captain of the athletics team.’ This particular description is of a certain Dr H. Shipman, so perhaps it’s not a rock-solid system.

Despite myself, I fought a smile. “You certainly have a way with words.” “I know.” Broderick’s features rearranged themselves, settling back into impassive neutrality. “Everything out of my mouth is goddamn poetry.” I surrendered to the smile and fought a laugh. “Loveliness, the incarnation of beauty in spoken form.” “Like a fucking butterfly, but with sounds.” And now I surrendered to the laugh. He laughed as well. We laughed together in a way two people cannot and do not laugh alone.

In its modern form, football comes from a gentleman’s agreement signed by twelve English clubs in the autumn of 1863 in a London tavern. The clubs agreed to abide by rules established in 1848 at the University of Cambridge. In Cambridge football divorced rugby: carrying the ball with your hands was outlawed, although touching it was allowed, and kicking the adversary was also prohibited. ‘Kicks must be aimed only at the ball,’ warned one rule. A century and a half later some players still confuse the ball with their rival’s skull owing to the similarity in shape.

So, what...in the meantime, you just...” He glanced at her then back at the road. “Deny yourself?” Em gave a half smile at the incredulity in his voice. Clearly it was a foreign concept to him. “It’s okay. I have a battery operated boyfriend awaiting my attention when I get home.” He shot her a quick, open-mouthed stare, his lips parted enticingly. He looked so stunned at her admission she couldn’t help but laugh. “Sorry, didn’t you know that women did that, too? Did I shock you?” “Not at all.” He recovered quickly, a big smile splitting his profile. “I’m just trying to decide which is sexier. Self-denial or self-abuse.

But...a vibrator can’t hold you in its arms or give you the full-body experience.” Em clamped down on the wicked surge of heat between her legs, thinking about a full-body experience with Lincoln Quinn. “It’s not going to make me lie in the wet spot, either.” “It can’t snuggle with you after,” he countered with another laugh. Em snorted. “And that’s your specialty, is it? Hanging around for pillow talk?” “I’ll have you know I give very good pillow talk.” Sure. And Elvis was alive and living at Henley Stadium. “Right,” she muttered. “Of course you do.” “I really do.” He nodded. “Most women seem to be more interested in me giving them good head, but hey, I’m a full service kinda guy.

You should really go inside now,” he said. Her glazed, unfocused stare was starting to clear, and the cranky look he was used to being levelled at him started to take shape. “And if I don’t?” “You want to fuck me on your doorstep?” he asked, his voice low and gravelly. “Call me tomorrow when you’re sober. I’ll be right over.” She jutted her chin defiantly—clearly pissed at him for trying to be the responsible one. “I won’t need you after I’ve spent all night with a couple of multi-speed toyfriends and a box of batteries.” Linc shoved his hands on his hips, pushing back unhelpful images of her naked and pleasuring herself with a hot pink cock. “Go inside,” he growled. Before he did something crazy like offering to watch.

You Are Not Your Jersey “Avoid having your ego so close to your position that when your position falls, your ego goes with it.” - Colin Powell The New Zealand All Blacks (national rugby team) have a mantra: “Leave the jersey in a better place”. It means, this is not your jersey, you are part of something bigger but do your best while you wear the jersey. It provides a valuable lesson about enjoying your moment in the sun but letting go to pursue another one once your time ends. When I played in Toulouse they had the same mindset. The club only contracted a certain number of players each year and there was a set number of locker spaces. Each locker was numbered in such a way that was not associated with a jersey number and that was also the number you wore on your club sportswear. Some numbers were 00, others were 85 and mine was 71. When I joined the coach explained to me in French that this was not my number, but I was part of a tradition that spanned decades. My interpretation still remains, “You are not your jersey.

Jogging down the stairs and out the door leading to the player’s hallway, I rehearsed what I would say. I would say, Hello, Bryan. I have a bit of time before the end of the day. Perhaps I could take a look at your knee. Or, I might say, Bryan, let’s have a look at your knee. I hear it’s still giving you trouble. Or maybe, Bryan, I understand you’re having a bit of trouble with your knee. If you have time before the end of the day— “Eilish.” I stopped short, almost colliding with William Moore. Automatically, his beefy hands reached to steady me. “William. Sorry. Sorry about that.” I backed up a step and out of his grip, counting three other players behind him, and swallowed with some difficulty when I realized Bryan was one of them. “You okay?” William asked, dipping his chin to catch my eye. I nodded, looking beyond him, and pointed at Bryan. “You.” Bryan stiffened, his eyes widening. “Me?” “Yes. You. Meniscus tear. Follow me,” I said, turned away from him, and promptly grimaced. Real smooth, E. Real professional. Great job. That wasn’t weird at all. Leading the way to the training room, I didn’t wait to see if he’d followed. I was too busy berating myself for speaking like Tarzan. So much for rehearsing.

Michael Lewis, the author of Moneyball, wrote in the New York Times in February 2009, “The virus that infected professional baseball in the 1990s, the use of statistics to find new and better ways to value players and strategies, has found its way into every major sport. Not just basketball and football, but also soccer and cricket and rugby and, for all I know, snooker and darts—

Scotland head coach Vern Cotter, said: "There's a lot of excitement within the team leading into this Test. "There are players who are going to earn their first cap for Scotland, and there are those who see this as a chance to stake a claim for the Rugby World Cup squad in 2015, as there are only a certain number of opportunities remaining for players to express and prove themselves.

It was bad enough being black...How much lower down the social scale could one go than to be seen as a black, uneducated rugby league player.

values can be circumvented more easily when the payoff is alluring enough through the creation of an emotional state that is more powerful than the value. Perhaps the most vivid example of this dynamic involves stranded survivors of disasters such as the Uruguayan rugby players who survived a plane crash in the Andes and then decided to eat the flesh of their deceased friends to remain alive.

Dennis and Mario, meanwhile, have fallen behind to debate the merits and demerits of Mario’s new phone. ‘The thing you don’t understand about this phone is that it’s state of the art, which means, this is the best phone you can get.’ ‘I do understand that, you moron, I’m saying what’s the point of having a state-of-the-art phone when everyone who’s going to call you on it is living six feet away from you?’ ‘I think what it is, is, you are jealous of my state-of-the-art phone, which has a camera and an MP3 player.’ ‘Mario, if you can’t see why your parents suddenly gave you that gay phone you’re even dimmer than I thought. I mean, think about it, they leave you in school for the entire holiday, and then they give you some rinky-dink piece of plastic so they can talk to you without having to see you face-to-face. They couldn’t say, “We don’t love you” more clearly if they wrote it in skywriting over the rugby pitches.’ ‘That shows what you know, because my parents do love me.’ ‘Well, why did they leave you here over mid-term, then?’ ‘They did not go into it, but they were very specific about it not being because they didn’t love me, and I know because I asked them that very question.

Lucy: A great memory? Really? Sean: Yes. Really. His memory is faultless. Pristine. Immaculate. Lucy: That’s a shitty compliment. That’s like telling a person they don’t smell.   Is it odd that this made me laugh? I took gleeful satisfaction in the book-report nature of my compliment. Ronan is a man. He has very brown hair, and very brown eyes, and a very good memory.   Sean: No specification was made as to the quality of the compliment, only that one was required. Lucy: You’re a filthy cheat. 

@LucyFitz Topic of the day: Celebs who look like other celebs. @BroderickAdams to @LucyFitz Julia Roberts = Steven Tyler. @LucyFitz to @BroderickAdams#mindblown

@SeanCassinova If dreams are the subconscious’ attempt to live desires, then I need to buy my subconscious a drink. And a house.

How Broderick managed to say that and still sound sympathetic was beyond me. He was a Jedi master of being likable.

The older woman inclined her head, now fully composed, in such a way that made me want to give her a recommendation for a good chiropractor, or perhaps someone who could help her remove the rod from her arse.

There is Brett, the Bratwurst, who wears Lederhosen. There is Stosh, the Polish sausage, who sports dark sunglasses and a blue and red rugby shirt. There is Guido, the Italian sausage, who wears chef’s garb. There is Frankie Furter, the hot dog, who wears a baseball uniform. And there is Cinco, the Chorizo, who sports a sombrero. It’s an awesome tradition. Visiting players gather on the top step of the dugout to cheer, heckle, throw cups of water, and handfuls of sunflower seeds and—in one infamous case—use a bat in an effort to disrupt the race.

He was a little monster,” Bob said, laughing, about Steve as a child. The main difficulty wasn’t unruly behavior. It was Steve’s insatiable curiosity about the bush and the wildlife in it. “For the first few months, when he was a baby, I could put Steve down and he would stay where I put him,” Lyn told me. “But after he started to get around on his own, it was all over. I would find him either on the roof or up in some tree.” When the family headed off on a trip, usually to North Queensland on wildlife jaunts, Steve could always be counted on to be elsewhere when they were ready to go. They would find him next to the nearest stream, snagging yabbies or turning over bits of wood to see what was hidden underneath. “He was never where we wanted him to be,” Lyn recalled with a laugh. Steve’s childhood was “family, wildlife, and sport,” he told me. He played rugby league for the Caloundra Sharks in high school and was picked to play rugby for the Queensland Schoolboys and represent the state, but he chose to go on a field trip with his dad to catch reptiles instead. Sometimes sport and wildlife mixed in unexpected ways. Both was an expert badminton player, and a preteen Steve decided to layout a badminton court in the family’s backyard one day. He had a brolga as a friend, a large bird that he called Brolly. Brolly objected to Steve rearranging her territory. She waited until his back was turned and then attacked. Wham! A brolga’s beak is a fearsome weapon, and Brolly’s slammed into the back of little Stevo’s head. His bird friend knocked him out cold. “Go ahead, feel it,” Steve said after regaling me with this story. He bent his head. I could still feel a knot of scar tissue, a souvenir of the brolga attack years earlier.

One of Henry’s toughest jobs when he arrived in the post was trying to eradicate the All Black’s inherent binge drinking culture. Previous All Black regimes had never challenged the idea of professional athletes knocking back the pop. For coaches and players who emerged through the amateur era it was hard to change the mindset. Booze had been an integral part of the culture in that period. There were no body fat tests or other high tech assessments of this, that and the other back then. As amateurs it was their right to have a few beers – that was kind of the point of playing. Rugby has never been just about what happens on the field. The camaraderie has always extended into the bar and a rugby team that hadn’t drunk together was not a team.

Line-out: a rugby term. After the ball goes into touch (out of bounds), players from both teams

from my ankle, buckling me to the ground in agony. The mountain officially closed three weeks ago, but tell that to a bunch of wild rugby players who think we’re invincible. Nothing can take us down or stop us once we set our minds to something.

Material objects are transitory. The joy they bring is momentary and hollow . . . Strangely, my mantra wasn’t working right then. So, you’ve probably already guessed my secret. I had an addiction . . . or maybe a compulsion was the better word. I was a thief. A shoplifter. And the mere sight of consumer items small enough to conceal within the confines of a purse or a coat pocket gave me twitchy fingers like you wouldn’t believe. It was abhorrent, I knew that, and I struggled daily with my guilt. In fact, I’d been doing so well in my attempts to quit. To be a better person. Six months ago I’d moved to New York to begin a new job as a celebrity photographer/blogger/YouTuber, and I resolved to stop. It was my chance for a fresh start. I hadn’t stolen a single thing in all that time. Yes, the Big Apple remained untouched by my habit for five-finger discounts. And yet, there I stood, just itching to steal that flipping ridiculous bottle of nail polish. I knew the reason why, and her name began with a J. That would be Jackie Fitzpatrick, my mother, and provider of inferiority complexes everywhere. It was summer and I’d come home to Dublin for a visit, see my brother and his fiancée, meet up with some friends. The problem was, I’d committed to staying at Mam’s for the duration. I was only back a day before she started in with the usual comments. When are you ever going to meet a man and settle down? Those baggy jeans do nothing for your figure.

Something decidedly female was going on in her head, something of the mystery-to-men variety.

Probably just as well. Maybe with all that testosterone walking out the door, the insane urge to hump Lincoln Quinn’s leg would walk right out as well. Because that was exactly how she felt every time she looked at him. Like she was in heat. Within minutes, the restaurant had emptied out to only a few non-team wedding guests. Her nemesis was nowhere to be seen, and Em congratulated herself on her self-control as she eased off the bar stool. Embarrassing leg-humping avoided—bravo!

Sex was a happiness transaction. And rugby had given Linc the means to feel very happy, very often.

It was the kind of mouth that should only be found on angels. Chick angels.

Linc had always been a leg man. Thankfully hers made up for her caustic tongue and armour plated panties

This was Linc at his most elemental. This was cave man stuff. Potently male. Potently virile. Hot. As. Fuck.

He hadn’t struck her as particularly religious unless she counted the number of times he’d called out to Jesus when he’d been deep inside her.

He was stretched out like he was her own personal playground and she wanted to ride on his equipment for a bit longer.

If I’d known a sixty-niner was the way to your heart I would have done it weeks ago.

You’re a gambling man, right? Or do you only bet on frivolous things like poker and fucking women?

Why do men always have such high opinions of their cock?

He’d gone too far. He didn’t usually talk to women so frankly. Not with them both fully clothed anyway.

There was something about Sean Cassidy that reminded me of the dogs that came into the shelter in New York, abused and mistreated, barking at everyone because they didn’t know who to trust. Obviously, it was a ridiculous notion. Sean wasn’t a rescue dog, he was a primped and pampered thoroughbred.

Ronan doesn’t have poor taste, he’s just prone to bad judgment. It’s a family trait, which explains why I’m sitting here with you right now.

Uh, would it be too overfamiliar to request he do that again, this time all over my body?

Sean Cassidy sat serenely on a yoga mat, his legs crossed and his hands braced on the floor, grinning widely like he’d just been told Scarlett Johansson wanted to give him a blowie. No longer was I relaxed. My inner peace fled for the hills as my palms grew sweaty and my heart rate sped up. I blinked— like maybe I’d imagined him— but no, when I looked again he was still there, still wearing that same smug grin.

I scoffed. “God, you’re completely out of touch.” “I agree. It’s a terrible problem. I should touch you,” he answered low, and there was something about the way he said it that had my mind conjuring up all sorts of unwelcome images.

Still . . . No mention of missing me, wanting to see me. Was a simple I can’t live without you too much to ask?

Was violence against women permitted when the woman in question was as warm as a can of piss?

I liked Sean Cassidy. I liked him with something more than just my vagina.

Why were the beautiful ones always such pricks, huh?

There are three certainties in life, death, taxes, and the cold dread of attending another family gathering.

Buzz and Dad are talking about a rugby player called Jones. I listen in for a while, but there seem to be at least four different Joneses in question, which seems excessive, even by Welsh standards.

Nelson's first thought is that Father Hennessey looks as bad as he does. The priest is still an intimidating presence, with his rugby player's shoulders and boxer's nose, but his eyes are shadowed and he looks as if he hasn't slept. He puts his hat on the floor and accepts a cup of coffee. 'I'm giving up coffee for Lent,' he says. 'Better make the most of it.' 'This stuff's enough to make you give up coffee for life,' says Nelson. 'I should know. I've drunk about a gallon of it.' Father Hennessey smiles and drinks his coffee in silence for a few minutes.

You know, I reckon you’ve had a narrow escape. I was reading an article about early-onset arthritis in rugby players, and apparently the whole lot of them are cripples by the time they get to sixty. And they’re the ones who are sixty now; they played a hell of a lot less games forty years ago.’ ‘But they patch them up a lot better these days,’ I pointed out. ‘There’s still not much you can do about having no cartilage left in any of your joints.’ ‘They can replace knees and hips.’ ‘Not shoulders. Or fingers. How many of them has he dislocated?’ ‘I don’t know. A few.’ ‘There you go. Those’ll all be buggered in another ten years. You would have ended up wiping his bum for him.’ ‘I wouldn’t have minded,’ I muttered. He passed me out a handful of bolts and shuffled along to the next corner. ‘You’re pathetic. And there’s another reason you should have been heading for the hills.’ ‘What?’ I asked. ‘Do you know what the All Blacks’ motto is?’ ‘“Feed your backs”?’ ‘Nope. It is – and I kid you not – “Subdue and penetrate”.’ ‘I don’t believe you.’ ‘Google it then.’ ‘Maybe it didn’t sound so dodgy a hundred years ago when they came up with it,’ I said weakly. ‘Of course it did. It’s not like human biology’s changed since then. Very shady people, rugby players.

Well,’ said Em a few days later, putting her bottle of nail polish down on the coffee table and looking critically at her handiwork, ‘personally, I never thought he was much of a rugby player.’ Seeing as Em’s knowledge of rugby was probably somewhere on a par with Kim Kardashian’s, this was not a particularly damning condemnation. ‘He’s big and strong,’ she continued, ‘but all he does is run into people and try to rip the ball off them.’ ‘Em, that’s pretty much the job description,’ I said. Rugby’s really fairly straightforward – the forwards try to pulverise each other, and then the backs skip lightly through the holes in the opposition’s defence to score the tries. Forwards can score tries, but it’s not their key role and they like to pretend it’s no big deal. A manly nod of acknowledgement once the ball is planted over the line is acceptable, but victory dances, like fancy hairstyles, are left to the backs

I’m texting your picture, your name, and your address to one of my flatmates. In case I’m letting your beautiful building blind me to the fact you’re actually a serial killer.” To his credit, he didn’t look at her like she was crazy, just smiled. “I’m a reasonably famous rugby player. I’m on the TV. You can see my half naked ass on a billboard as you drive off the Sydney Harbour Bridge.” “What, you can’t be a serial killer as well?

He was so pumped, jumping up and down on the spot, showing off the taut lean muscles in his quads and calves so different to the bulkiness of a lot of the other players. He bristled with energy, shaking out his arms, flicking his fingers. Flicking off invisible globules of testosterone so powerful she could feel their pull all the way up here. He dropped his head from side to side to work his traps, bending at the waist right in front of the box to execute a perfect hamstring stretch. Ooh la freaking la.

Trying to Jedi mind trick the towel into falling off me won’t work. You’re a rugby player not Luke Skywalker.” He grinned. “I have a light sabre in my pants that says different.” Oh he did. And he wielded that weapon of mass distraction well.

A year ago, when I’d been having a really bad night, I’d looked Jonah Ho-bag Collins up online, and in the process, found a list of the twenty-two sexiest rugby players in the world.

As three-time Olympic ski jumper Andreas Küttel puts it, “Nature . . . gives me absolutely a lot of energy on a daily basis but also for special occasions it gives you calmness.” The ability of natural spaces to help us de-stress is reinforced by former Irish rugby union player Rosie Foley, who enthuses, “The emotions are just pure relaxation and just that lovely feeling of this is where I’m supposed to be!

When the ball is up in the air and it’s a perfect kick, it doesn’t matter how great it looks, cos there’s no telling which way it’s going to bounce when it hits the floor. That’s a bit like life, isn’t it? You think it’s going great one minute and all looks wonderful, but you never know which way it’s going to take you.