Quins at Twickers

Harlequins 22 v 6 Exeter Chiefs

I drove up to meet Kiz with MM. After the first few “is that me, or you?” moments when a Blackberry chimed an incoming text message alert, I realised that he's infinitely more popular and in demand than I am, and assumed it was his phone making the noises.

Starving hungry, I picked up a kebab roll on the way to the bus stop. A wonderful invention, whether it derives from some authentic street food or is a recent hybrid allowing Indian takeaways to compete with kebab shops. A skewer of seasoned lamb grilled over charcoal, gets slipped inside a round roti bread. In goes some salad (see – almost health food), yoghurt and garlic and chilli sauces are liberally applied, starting off as contrasting red and white, then dripping from the wrapper a vivid pink. It gets served wrapped tightly in paper that you tear away to get at the food. Two quid. I ate it on the bus to Clapham Junction.

The un-anal bus driver, after I tried a few unsuccessful swipes of the Oyster card, said “don't worry, mate, forget it” and waved us through to our seats. Top man. The train was a de facto rugby special. 99% of the passengers were going to the game. We got there with perfect timing: just long enough to get in the queue, buy our beers, and take our seats, avoiding having to listen to some X-Factor karaoke drivel, but in time for Tom's spirited metal-backed rendition of The Mighty Quin. The sound in the stadium is superb. The stadium, as a whole, is superb, visually stunning, and we had great seats and a great view. 74,827 turned out to watch the game, including a fair few Exeter Chiefs supporters, loads of them complete with Red Indian (should that be American Indian? Native American?) headdresses. The kids in their replica shirts and Quins flags lined up to see the teams onto the pitch, the fire-flares went off, then the fireworks, and then the game kicked off, with the smoke from the fireworks still lingering in the still air enclosed by the stadium. The flares and fireworks went off to Led Zeppelin's Kashmir.

Exeter started well, keeping possession and briefly silencing the crowd, the aim of away teams early on. It wasn't long before the Quins turned over possession, and found themselves with a queue of players on the left, outnumbering the Exeter defence, and Nick Evans ran in the try and kicked the conversion. Exeter kicked a penalty to make it 7 – 3, before Hopper scored another try right in our corner, and then Care bombed through a gap from the halfway line and set up Mike Brown for a third try. His dive took him into the Quins replacements warming up behind the posts, and they picked him up and gleefully started the celebrations. 19 – 3, Exeter down to thirteen men with their wing in the sin bin.

One of the rules of watching sport was duly respected and observed: the lady sat next to Kiz went to the bar, Quins scored their second try. Kiz went to the loo just before half time to miss the long queue, Quins scored their third try. If ever your team desperately need to score, just when you can't take your eyes off the game because the tension's just unbearable, give in to your bladder. It's not infallible, but it seems to have a high success rate.

The second half was quiet in comparison. The teams exchanged penalties to finish up 22 – 6. Quins looked disappointed to not have picked up the bonus point another try would've secured. Exeter were better in the second half. Both teams used all their replacements, and the fresh legs put paid to fatigue opening up space and making scoring easier, and inevitably disrupted the game.

It's easy to forget just how huge these men are. The starting point to play in the front row is sixteen to eighteen stones, second row forwards need to be at least 6'5” to be remotely competitive. Centres are now the size that back row forwards were twenty years ago. Take into account the intensity of the game, the very, very few missed tackles, some colossal hits, and you have to respect a Quins XV that closed out the game while still looking for another try.

Even the train back was enlivened by some debate about the 2015 World Cup and New Zealand's chances when a couple of Kiwis piped up. While they're an ageing team, they do seem to have one of those conveyor belts, similar to the Aussie cricket development system, where, as greats retire, new potential greats step up to take their places.

All rounded off with a new curry: Green Masala. I think the green came from chillies as much as from the coriander.

Thanks Kiz.

Why the Mexican wave is wrong

The crowd play a part, but a peripheral, passive part, in sport. Sit down, sit still. You've paid good money to watch some of the best at what they do, do what they do best, not other people congratulate themselves on their ability to stand up with their arms in the air, then sit down again. One corner of the stadium were so perfect, me and Kiz reckoned they'd been to Mexican wave evening classes.

I can't quite express what I feel about it.

It's disrespectful, both to the competing athletes and others who want to take in every minute of the game.

It indicates that sort of pretend interest in the sport belied when the attention span can't sustain the (all too short) forty minute sessions.

It's pointless.

When it stops, and that section of the crowd get booed? Well I'm happy to be in that section copping the flack.

It's just very, very wrong.