Imagine you are peering across halfway at a pack of forwards so big, knotted with muscle and profoundly pug-ugly that the dark web would refuse them a platform.
You are uncomfortably aware that you are about to suffer the torments of hell at the scrum and a nailing to the cross at the driving maul.
In short, you are facing a long Saturday afternoon’s journey into night.

What to do? Pretend you’ve pulled a hamstring tying up your bootlaces and hobble from the field while the captains are choosing ends? Give it 30 seconds before feigning concussion?
Shapes and sizes
Clatter into the referee...