Marie Le Conte: ‘It’s not enough to say rugby bored me… I couldn’t even bring myself to despise it’

I have dressed up for the occasion, by which I mean that I looked through my closet for an outfit that screamed “I actually enjoyed the coalition years.”  Sometimes itʼs nice to blend in.

Speaking of which – I get talking to two Harlequins FC fans on the train platform, and they offer me a seat next to them on the way to the stadium. The older one, though helpful on the rules, which I know nothing about, chooses to bravely embrace all stereotypes by calling football “oikball” and reminiscing about afternoons spent in the car park of Twickenham Stoop, eating pies and drinking champagne.

I eventually ditch them to get to my seat, and stumble upon one of lifeʼs great truths: no matter who you are, or how edgy you think you may be, there is no purer joy than sitting in the sun, drinking an ice cold pint, and listening to London Calling play in the background.

Regrettably, this turns out to be the high point of the afternoon. I may now know how a team can acquire points, due to my friends on the train, but that doesnʼt actually make the game any more enjoyable to watch.

I believe that all sports can be understood through the medium of choreography, but am failing to tune into rugbyʼs innate rhythm. Sure, people are moving across the pitch and the ball goes from hands to hands, and sure, the crowd erupts when the Quins score against the Exeter Chiefs, but it leaves me cold.

It is, I decide at some point during the first half, not unlike watching a porn film involving people youʼre not attracted to. I'm glad everyone here is having a good time; Iʼm just not convinced it has to be any of my business. Even the scrums fail to lift my spirits. Iʼd assumed, sweatily, that watching these big pile o’ lads form then disperse would entice me, but somehow they just donʼt do it for me. Instead the only highlight comes from what I dubbed the Leaning Tower of Peter, where a player gets brought up high into the air to catch the ball.

Now that’s a good bit of sport: an unexpectedly dainty exercise, conducted with the precision of Bolshoi-trained ballerinas by fellas the size of a mountain range. The rest, though? I could do without.

As Iʼm finding out, I either enjoy the mellow relaxation of an afternoon of cricket, or the psychotic, relentless stress of a football game. Rugby strikes me as a janky middle-ground, and I spend the whole game unable to settle on a mental state.

Crucially, I have already forgotten all about it by the time I reach the station. Some sport happened in my general direction but failed to leave even the hint of a mark. In a way, that’s the worst possible scenario. Being an enthusiastic hater is one of life’s greatest joys,  but I couldn't even bring myself to despise rugby.

Like polyamory, I guess it’ll now be one of those things I’m aware of, briefly considered in a weak moment, then decided should only be inflicted on other people.

Let them have their fun, I won’t stop them; just donʼt feel the need to tell me about it, and we’ll be grand.