The morning after England’s Rugby World Cup triumph over Australia four years ago I walked down my local high street and saw two boys doing something which deeply disturbed me.
Knock knock.
Who’s there?
Jonny.
Jonny who?
The morning after England’s Rugby World Cup triumph over Australia four years ago I walked down my local high street and saw two boys doing something which deeply disturbed me. I knew these kids and had always thought them normal, well-adjusted, cheerful youngsters. And now, here they were, in the street, throwing an oval ball to one another. Running and throwing an oval ball to one another. Never seen them do that before. I felt physically sick.
They had been gripped, briefly, by the same temporary affliction which I and much of the rest of the country had succumbed to over the previous two weeks: we had all become rugby fans.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in