Take charge of the TV remote, girls, and get ready for some Rugby World Cup ogling
It's Rugby World Cup time again! Hooray! I'm SUCH a fan of the game. What a proud history it has, born on the playing fields of Rugby school 200 years ago when William Webb Ellis got tired of kicking the ball in his football match and had the much more sensible idea of picking it up and running with it in his arms instead.
What a thrilling execution of finely-balanced tactics a good match is - the creation of space, the pacing, the pile-driving prowess of the forwards, the scrums, the rolling mauls, all done by great big men in tiny shorts, with lovely broken, noble faces framed by huge shoulders that could stop a train or carry you off to...
Ah. Okay. You've caught me. It's not the game. It's the gamers. For a large part of the female audience, the greatest attraction of the Rugby World Cup is not the competition, the Corinthian spirit, the chance to relive glory days or whatever it is that attracts male viewers to the sport, but the chance to ogle big beefy men.