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If you read carefully my profile - maybe not your favourite activity ever, but you need something to do for those days you are snowed in - you will have noticed that although it is strangely silent about quilting, it includes among my centres of interest the noble sport of rugby. I know, those of you who have seen rugby fans or rugby players celebrating a victory, or indeed trying to forget a defeat, might take exception to the word "noble". It is true that alcohol usually flows quite freely on such occasions, and that those who live in the vicinity might legitimately wish their neighbours were a quilting club instead. But for all their boisterousness, rugby players are much better behaved, on and off the field, than say, football players. And those who have seen a few matches can testify to the truth of the famous saying: football is a gentleman’s game played by hooligans, and rugby is a hooligan's game played by gentlemen.
In any case, we are coming now to a very special time for anybody interested in rugby: the beginning of the VI Nations tournament. In fact, today heralds for me an almost magical time, as it throws me back to those Saturdays in February and March, when I was still too young to truly understand the rules, but certainly old enough to feel the passion, the excitement generated by the thirty warriors - or so they looked, covered in mud, sweat and sometimes blood - on the field. Every Saturday for more than a month, I would nestle on the sofa next to my father, and eagerly watch our team battle against those from the British Isles in what was then the V Nations. Being an astute psychologist, or maybe just a realist, my father did not rely on the results of France (who am I kidding? If you haven't guessed it by now, you never will!) to keep me interested: at half-time, we would get from the fridge an ice-cream bought that very morning at the farmers' market. To this day though, I wonder what my sister, who did not watch rugby, and could certainly not be hoarse from encouraging a team - or castigating it, as the case might be - had done to deserve the same treat. Well, it must have served some purpose, because today, if she is still not a great rugby fan, she does have a soft spot for the Dieux du Stade calendar, a collection of photos of the Stade Français players dressed in, err, not much more than baby oil...
In any case, we are coming now to a very special time for anybody interested in rugby: the beginning of the VI Nations tournament. In fact, today heralds for me an almost magical time, as it throws me back to those Saturdays in February and March, when I was still too young to truly understand the rules, but certainly old enough to feel the passion, the excitement generated by the thirty warriors - or so they looked, covered in mud, sweat and sometimes blood - on the field. Every Saturday for more than a month, I would nestle on the sofa next to my father, and eagerly watch our team battle against those from the British Isles in what was then the V Nations. Being an astute psychologist, or maybe just a realist, my father did not rely on the results of France (who am I kidding? If you haven't guessed it by now, you never will!) to keep me interested: at half-time, we would get from the fridge an ice-cream bought that very morning at the farmers' market. To this day though, I wonder what my sister, who did not watch rugby, and could certainly not be hoarse from encouraging a team - or castigating it, as the case might be - had done to deserve the same treat. Well, it must have served some purpose, because today, if she is still not a great rugby fan, she does have a soft spot for the Dieux du Stade calendar, a collection of photos of the Stade Français players dressed in, err, not much more than baby oil...
So, dear reader, I'm afraid you shouldn't expect many posts during the next few week-ends. I will update you on the results if they go the right way, but other than that, I won't be straying much from my TV set. Or one of the stadiums if I'm very lucky. Allez la France!
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