There's something about burly, handsome rugby players that gets my heart (read: knickers) in a twist. I'll respect any guy who can go into a scrum and show me his tackle...especially one with a stunning Scottish accent. I have a theory that all professional sport playing men exude more testosterone which attracts me - the Testosterone Bitch - to them like the desperate girl I am. Anyway, we went across to Lamma and lo and behold - there they were, in all their glory. It was like a man buffet - you're my starter, you'll be my main and hell yeah - I'll have you for desert!

In the usual Laura style I had thought of several opening lines to start conversation with said SexGods.
1. Fuck rugby, big boy...fuck me instead! - Terrible. No doubt it is this kind of attitude that will give me one of a) herpes b) genital warts or c) syphilis in the near future.
2. I know you've run out onto a pitch in front of 40,000 screaming fans wearing little else but skimpy hotpants and a tight shirt but can I have a private show? - I entertained this for all of 2 seconds before I realised I had reached the heights of lameness. Or I thought I had until I got to...
3. SHOW ME YOUR TACKLE, MATE!. Yes, it was very sad. Plus, the dribble is really hard to clean up.

The allure of famous people is something that mystifies me. Maybe I am really in love with airbrushing, a prime example of how technology can convert even the most fugly of people into Pammy looky-likes (this has saved many a Lauraphoto from being chucked in the bin). But famous people emit some kind of radiant glow. Narcissistic of me to want to bask in it? (Will it rub off on me?). Very much so. But who can ever say no to such fine specemins of male virility?