Hamilton Sevens not the noisy, messy riot expected
One animated chap propped up the bar for some time. Was he dressed as a barrel of whisky or did the kilt just sit that way across his midriff?
Lessons learnt from the first Hamilton Sevens.
OK, I didn’t go myself. Frankly, there’s only one member of the family who’s partial to dress-up and for her, a day in the sun watching a bizarrely bonsai version of the national game would rank just behind teeth extraction or sitting through a David Bennett speech in Parliament.
Ahead of time, I had two diametrically opposed fears. Firstly, that the fun police would squeeze all hedonistic pleasure out of the event, piously neutering costumes and watering down the ale.
Secondly, that barbarians would crash the gates, running rampant through town, confirming all those puritan fears.
If white middle-class punters play up as much as the hip-hop loving crowd at The Hood, the cops just might lower the boom on them, too, and all looking for latenight thirst quenching in the Hamilton CBD will suffer as a consequence.
As it turned out, civility would seem to have been the winner on the weekend. At the expense of atmosphere, perhaps.
1. Lesson one: You cannot hear them roar
According to Google Maps, I live and work 1.7 kilometres from FMG Stadium Waikato. When there is a test match on, or even a wellattended Super Rugby fixture, you can follow the progress of the home side through the oohs and ahhs of the attending public.
Excited folk make noise. Noise travels. Another point of comparison – if you pardon the blasphemous segue – would be the V8s.
Living in town during the era of that expensive folly involved enduring a ceaseless drone. The Sevens offered up no such cacophony. From the aural vantage of north Victoria St, you could be forgiven for thinking it wasn’t happening at all.
2. Lesson two: Some rugbyheads have taste
At 3pm on Saturday, the forces of temperance made a belated appearance at the stadium. Beer strength was unceremoniously reduced to something akin to what you run your mower on.
One chap had waited 40 minutes in a queue and was sober as a judge, having yet to touch the sponsor’s product. He too was given two-stroke. Next time, he’ll read the memo about pre-loading.
There was a silver lining for my place of business. Among those driven from the park in search of full-strength sustenance, were a couple of lads of discernment.
Their costumes were well considered, if comparatively understated, permitting ascent of the Auteur House stairs. The younger rented our longest, most serious and philosophical documentary.
3. Lesson three: Don’t judge a book by its cover
After closing the shop marginally early to accommodate the twenty20 cricket game in Sydney, I ventured across the road to the tavern of choice.
It would be overstating things to claim that the Londoner was packed to any gunnels, but there were a smattering of Sevens punters, more merry than rabid.
A senior staff member told me she had to refuse one service, he being exception, not rule. A junior staff member noted a costuming trend, having observed three ‘‘slutty Snow Whites’’. Together, we calculated the probabilities of 21 dwarfs getting lucky.
One animated chap propped up the bar for some time. Was he dressed as a barrel of whisky or did the kilt just sit that way across his midriff? In any case, he carried off the tartan theme rather well.
I would confess though to prejudging on ethnicity, presuming anyone so brown of skin could not possibly be from the land of parsimony and Sean Connery. How wrong – and racist – I was.
Venturing closer, the broadest of brogues was overheard. Intelligent – and evidently deep pocketed – it seemed this gentleman had travelled all the way from Scotland and had some well considered opinions on Hamilton’s ‘‘teething problems’’.
He thought the Lions tour was better. ‘‘Och aye’’, I thought, but caught myself before I said it.
4. Lesson four: Fijian car horns are as loud as Tongan car horns
All hail the champions. Upon hearing that Fiji had bested New Zealand in the semi, then taken out South Africa in the final, I immediately thought of one of Auteur House’s oldest customers, a Fijian rugby enthusiast whom I knew to be attending.
How wonderful for him, a lifelong fan.
The celebrations did not go as deep into the night as those that accompanied last year’s Tongan league triumph, but the mode of expression was the same. If you are happy and you know it, honk your horn.