Somehow in the last 24hrs I've gone from being blissfully inactive and relatively sport free - other than the obligatory Sofa Olympics mainstays of Popcorn Tossing and Lager Lifting - to voluntarily offering up my body to be trampled and crushed by fellow man-mountains.
Yup, it's rugby season again.
At the end of every season, and again at the beginning of each ensuing campaign, I tell myself I'm too old and unfit for rugby, and resign myself to the fact that I'll be enjoying the next season from the stands.
But every year I get a welcome call from the lads at the rugby club, and something inside me makes me say "Hell yeah, I'll be there on Saturday."
Maybe it's the camaraderie and the banter amongst the guys.
Maybe the thrill of competition, going toe-to-toe with the opposition.
Most likely it's just the opportunity to legally beat the crap out of a bunch of Englishmen week in and week out.
Whatever it is, I'm playing my first match of the season tomorrow afternoon.
And as Russell Peters' father would say, "Somebody gonna get a hurt real bad!"
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