Rugger!

In a serendipitous turn of events, just as I was grumping around on Saturday, trying to come up with a fun way to spend the afternoon, a friend of mine messaged me--would I be interested in going to the Scotland-Italy rugby game? WOULD I?! I wasn't sure and proceeded to ask about seventeen billion questions about cost, travel time, if I knew anyone else who was going and if I would be miserable if I didn't get drunk and rowdy. With questions duly answered, I informed now seriously irritated friend (the thing is, he hasn't known me long enough) that yes, I would love to go to the game.

The game in question was, I believe, the second-to-last in the Six Nations series. Before you ask, I don't know anything about what that is or what it means or how it works. Google it. Jeez. Anyway, this was a part of that. Arriving at the stadium I was immediately confused by how all of the visiting Italy fans were wearing blue and white shirts and wigs the exact color of the Saltire (one of the two unofficial Scottish flags). At least the Scotland fans were easy to identify:

The kilt should flirt with the knees.

Still all worked up about those blue Italians, a friend and I had a discussion about how, if the color isn't in your flag, you DON'T GET TO USE IT. Hear that, you baby blue Italians? Stop making rugby even harder to understand.

Because it is hard to understand. As far as I could tell, this entire sport is built around different silly things to call physical assaults, with the occasional punt thrown (booted?) in. Part of the problem may have been that we were literally sitting a mile from the field:

The pipers before the national anthem. It turns out, I have no pictures of the actual game. Oops.

 As far as I could tell, the point of the game was to be handed the ball and then immediately fall over. Repeat until falling coincides with goal line. Cheer! Scotland fell over the line more times than Italy, so they won. Yay, Scotland!

This is honestly exactly what I understood from the entire game. Also, there was a twenty minute interval where I was eating some chips and cheese, so a jet plane could have landed in the middle of the field and used its wing to kick a field goal, and I wouldn't have noticed or questioned it.

Moral of the story: I love cheese fries.