I too played rugby. It was the school game in the boarding school I attended, motto "Let's play the game." That, during the winter, cricket during the summer where you had to wear a ridiculous straw boater along with a white pullover which was a heat trap where sweat would pour off you head. Doring the winter months you all emjoyed the scrum, because as scrum half far from thyinr to kick the ball out to your man, you used it as an ideal opportunity to kick hell out of your opponent. Our sport's master was a swine - he knew full well what was going on but would turn a blind eye. Some kid would always collapse screaming in pain. The sportsmasters face would distort in mock rage.
"You wanna do mathhs for the rest of the afternoon, boy?"
"No, Sir."
"Well get back on to that pitch!" He'd scream, and crack up has he hobbled back. Always on the side line were three or four impeccably dressed men whom I assumed were parents or schoolmasters from other schools. One of them looked as though he'd stepped straight out of a tailor's window - the air of respectability. His name I would learn much later in life as none other than John Jeremy THORPE Quite interested in the older pupils as they played rugby. Phew, I had a narrow escape there. Rumour had it he'd been found dead under a pier (peer - geddit?) 
