Rugby is a game for idiots to play and drunken morons to watch. Count me in as a moron. Where can I buy the T shirt? It is also essential to World Peace. Without it there would be way too much testosterone walking the streets. I think that they should interbreed Mixed Martial Arts with Soccer and get the Taliban to field a team.

At the same time, I must confess that, despite my Northern Working Class Roots, I hate Rugby League. Always have, despite Dad and Brothers all being fans. I just don’t get it. I’m a class traitor and will just have to live with it.

But in Hong Kong we have a variant. Abhorrent to some but beloved by many. The Rugby 7’s. And by this, I mean THE Rugby 7’s. Yes I know it originated in Scotland, but Hong Kong is its spiritual home. The first International tournament was held at Hong Kong Football Club in 1976, the brainchild of a tobacco company looking for a sporting event to sponsor and what more glamorous than beer, cigs and grown men beating the crap out of each other.

By 1982 it had grown too big for the Football Club to host and moved to the old So Kon Po stadium where, in my heart, it had its glory days. The pitch was surrounded by a running track which, for the duration of the event, was a parade ring. Everybody knew everybody and the days were spent roaming around, enjoying the various picnics, watching fabulous sportsmanship and getting fairly well blootered. But, inevitably, word spread, the competition and the fan base got bigger, so a much bigger stadium had to be built and it changed. I won’t say it changed for the worse, because a change that allows so many more people to participate can’t be all bad. But ask anyone who was there in the 80’s what they think.

One year was particularly eventful. Dori was working for a bar called ‘Traps’ and they bought a franchise space within the stadium, actually in the stands. Dori asked me if I would work security for the bar and this involved me sitting on a mountain of wine cases, from where I had the ultimate view of the action and free drinks. Bonus! Two days of alcoholic bliss ensued and, by the penultimate game on Sunday evening, I was feeling particularly blissed and wishing to share my good fortune.

My mate Brian Langley was a sports commentator for the local TV station and, by that stage, he had spent 2 days in a hot, cramped, stuffy box suspended underneath the stadium roof. “Well”, I thought, “My mate’s been stuck up there forever, the last game’s coming up, I bet he would really appreciate a glass of wine to take the edge off it.” So, without really thinking it through, I set off with a bottle tucked under each arm. This wasn’t as easy as I had imagined.

To get to the commentary box, I had to climb a metal ladder which, fortunately, ascended one of the roof columns adjacent to my wine mountain. Tops! Half way there. But climbing those metal rungs, hand over hand, with two bottles of wine, while extremely refreshed, slightly more complex. But I persevered and, with everybody watching the game, nobody noticed this particular Jack on this particular beanstalk. Eventually I popped out onto the roof, rolled over and got my bearings. I could see the hatch going down into the commentary box, but the roar of the crowd dragged me to the edge of the stadium roof. I staggered over and leant against the somewhat flimsy railing above the precipice.

Waves of black clad figures crashed against waves of white on a field of purest green. It was beautiful and I was mesmerised. My quest to find Brian was put on hold as I watched the game unfold. Then, at half time, as I looked up from the field of play, I noticed a commotion in the opposite stand. People were pointing to my stand. They were laughing and somebody was trying to get a chant going. I peered over the edge of the roof trying to look down into my stand and see what it was that had caught their attention. All I could see was people looking up. The cheering got louder. I couldn’t figure it out. Until, of course, I did.

By this time, the entire stand was cheering the drunk on the roof of the stadium, staggering about with a bottle of wine in each hand. Whoops! Time to make a move. I quickly skipped over to the commentary box hatch. It was another set of vertical rungs. I gripped my bottles and, for some reason, decided to attempt it facing away from the ladder. And failed. I dropped 10 ft into the  box, landing on my arse with an almighty “Whump!!!”. The game had re-started. Startled Commentators in earphones turned to look at this eejit descended from above. I couldn’t see Brian and they didn’t think to switch off their mikes.

“As anybody here seen Briaaaan?”, was broadcast across the globe. My one claim at inter-continental fame.

Fortunately for Brian, he was in the other box and was therefore saved the embarrassment of witnessing this debacle, or denying that he had ever met me before in his Life. I was just proud that I hadn’t broken anything and hadn’t spilt a drop. By this time a little face was peering down the hatch and quietly requesting that, “Sir to please climb back out”. I left the wine for the lads and did as I was bid. Two very polite, bespectacled security guards, led me back to the main hatch and helped me down the ladder, then placed me back on my wine mountain, with the request that I, “Please to not do that again”. From here I watched the dying moments of the game.

When it was all over and we were tidying up. Dori asked me if I had seen the idiot on the roof, to which I could honestly reply, “No!”. After all, without a mirror, that would have been very difficult. I could imagine him though.

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