Record scratch. Freeze frame.

Yep, that’s me.

Face buried in the armpit of with a 123-kg Welsh policy advisor - specialised in regional agricultural integration - lying on top of me. The rain is pouring down at a rate usually reserved for the final scenes of a cheesy romantic Hollywood movie. Except instead of a glamorous actress, my co-star is a guy called Gavin. To be fair, he smells surprisingly good.

You’re probably wondering how I got into this predicament.

Well, a couple of years ago, I was dragged along to my first ever rugby training by three guys who have all since retired - through injury. Somehow, I stuck around. Statistically speaking, my career-ending injury should arrive any day now as my age creeps towards forty. But not before a World Cup, and not before being tackled at a Welsh boys’ school by a sweaty Gavin in relentless, non-stop rain.

All the while being yelled at in French by compatriots, humming the glorious European Anthem at least four times, and alternating it with a song in a language so obscure that linguistic science can only speculate about its origins.

If anything, the EPXV rugby experience is weird.

Wonderfully weird.

And highly recommended.