It is very much the atmosphere of the Rugby dressing room, lovelylady. I haven't haunted such dens for a quarter of a century and of course they are terra incognita to you. (unless... unless you are actually male, masquerading as a lovely lady for goodness knows what private reason...?) When the fifteen muddied oafs are changing into and out of their kit, we hear high-volume aggressive homophobic banter, uneasily juxtaposed with furtive but intense interest in the size, shape and possible performance qualities of each other's 'organs of generation'. They are often joined by older males, whose shattered knees or Himalayan beer guts prevent them from taking part, but who have become embrocation junkies. These men will roar and bray ribaldries at the younger gladiators fumbling with their stockings and jock straps. After the game they will join in the fun fights with talcum powder, wet towels, deodorant sprays and cans of beer. Outside Australia and parts of Wales, however, overt declarations of passion and explicit acts of 'manlove' almost never take place, the whole ritual, like the game itself, being a masterclass in sublimation, displacement and repression.