Last Saturday, I went to a local sports club to watch the international rugby with my son, the pilot. Between drinks and half time and other stoppages I checked out how my local team were doing from the vantage point of the covered balcony. Someone clutched my arm and invited me into the posh bar for a drink. 'I can't go in there, I'm not wearing a collar and tie.' My bearded buttonholer left to pay a call and on his return, repeated his invitation before re-entering the bar. Five guys, all in jackets and ties, subsequently emerged and persuaded me, against my better judgement, to join them in the hallowed room. Apparently they had attended a dinner nearby. They were smiling a lot. One sang the Irish National Anthem complete with accent. Another described the after-dinner speeches, temporarily losing his smile. Yet another, adorned by club tie and badge, suggested he sing his favourite piece about going to the toilet on a railway train, embellished with more than 'fruity' language. I was pleased to see the room was nearly empty, not only to cover my own embarrassment but also the reduce the numbers of senior members exposed to words more often heard on the terraces at a 'soccer' game. One of them looked rather dishevelled, as if not used to the formalities. He wondered if I was Welsh. For the record, I was born in Hillhouse, Huddersfield, across the road fromThe Slubber's Arms, within ten minutes walking distance from Fartown's RLFC's spiritual home. I noted that most of the guys appeared slim and fit, so obviously they were taking a short break from treating their bodies as temples. I soon had to withdraw to return to my son. This was around 3.30pm so heaven knows where and when the guys finished up. Perhaps one of them might like to comment?