Rugby World Cup

I see from my schedule that I shall be in Paris on the day before one of the Quarter Final fixtures at Saint Denis but on the TGV heading south when the match is actually played.

With Scotland drawn to play both Italy and New Zealand (!) my wearing of the kilt will probably provoke expressions of amused sympathy.

I like rugby enormously, possibly because itis the only team sport I have ever played; as a schoolboy I was a useful prop forward or 'pilier' as the French call it.

The gals, however, seem to have a different perspective on the sport, as a dear friend of mine (a lady who not only loves the sport but also understands the rules in consummate detail) pointed out this morning, having read Rachel Johnson in the Sunday times...

When 30 men with herculean physiques and meaty, reddened thighs go head to head over a small patch of God’s earth, it’s a me-Tarzan you-Jane spectacle of the highest order, which is why rugby reaches parts of women that football, for all its grace and solo flights of fancy, never will.

It’s a chance to watch men who weigh 16st with the drilling horsepower of a Channel tunnel boring machine play their hearts out for their country. This year we women have the added incentive of Sébastien Chabal (photo above), the latest French rugby-player-rockstar-philosopher whose caveman appeal seems likely to reinstate the beard as a key male grooming accessory for the first time since Osama Bin Laden went into hiding six years ago.