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I cast myself back to Friday, 5 February. It’s just before lunchtime and excitement levels are high. My costume is in my bag, cash has been withdrawn from my bank account and beers & RTD cocktails are cooling in the fridge at work.

Somehow I need to get out of work early to catch up with the rest of the WIRB gang at Bill Jobs’ place. Thing is, they all planned to have the day off work, I didn’t.

The Tabernackle is joining us today, along with Little Dan and Cass the Wench (but only in name, lovely young lady it turns out). Two French nomads have been pulled in for the pre-game festivities also. We even decided to bring our very own Cougar along for giggle.

I had already used a few of my get out of jail/work free cards. My only option was to change into my skin-tight lycra Morphsuit, then proceed to ask my extremely homophobic manager to zip me up. After returning to my desk, body fully covered, my boss told me not to be here when he returned from lunch. Done.

Holy Hukanui & Verbal Kent joined Scanlor, myself and the rest of our gang in hydrating ourselves. It was at this point I realised the difficulties in being able to relieve myself in a one-piece. The other issue I seemed to be having was ‘peanut smuggling’. Deep down I was more concerned about what would happen if I got “happy”. There was no where to hide in that case. Why did we have to pick such a hot wench? I thought to myself. Standing in the sunshine and warmth on Bill Jobs’ deck, I thought about funerals. That did the trick.

We caught a public bus into town. We chanted, sang (badly) and were generally loud. Apologies to the very scared hot chick sitting next to Scanlor on the bus and to the seat she peed on.

The concourse walk is always fun and so is getting your photo taken by very sober Policemen who still get into the fun of it. The sights of the different (clever) dress ups are great. Photos and laughs were had, not to mention the branding of a sign with a WIRB sticker – marketing is key!

Once in the stadium, we dominated aisle 23, our temporary home for the next couple of days. In honesty, all I can remember is getting there, a Beatles song (Twist & Shout), the Black Eyed Peas “I’ve got a Feelin” NZ winning the last game and walking to Lovelocks, only to discover that Hell Pizza, in their wisdom, had closed on time. All the bits in between are flashes of skimpy outfits, flesh and broments.

Saturday was a slow start. The morning was spent tracking down Scanlors belongings spread through town and uncovering dramas the had occurred the night before, fuelled by beers.

It was decided that the best way to kick through the beer barrier was to do it in group form. So we all decended on our mates place. His name rhymes with Jedi.

It was here where appropriate apologies, hand shakes and hugs were shared and all agreeing that Friday’s indiscretions were all  in the past. I ran and hid in a corner anyway. After chewing on a couple of beers, drinking games got us through and all of a sudden I found myself with a glow on and back in aisle 23.

Feeling pretty good with life, my day got better. Happy people around me, the boys at my side, the shining sun, music, Sevens Rugby (apparently) I was in ecstasy.

The crowd was more into it on day 2. There was more chanting, dancing, singing and frolicking in parts than the day before.  To sum it up, everything felt like silk. Who cares that NZ didn’t win? The highlight for me was the Iroquois helicoptor landing on the pitch, although it did not help with my acid flashbacks from my second tour in ‘Nam.

Sunday sucked. Monday wasn’t much better. I’m broken, so is the WIRB team. We will rise from the ashes again, but not if they make it a three day tournament – that, I think, would kill us.

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