I’m a long time out of it now, so whether modern-day woke-ism has overtaken it or not, I really don’t know.

But 50 years ago when I was an exceptionally mediocre rugby player post-match entertainment would be described at its kindest as “laddist”.

In those days even top tier rugby union at the international level wasn’t professional.  In the sport’s bargain basement where I wore my boots not only was it amateur in the literal commercial sense but unprofessional culturally.

Naturally, it all predicated on beer, not just after the match but sometimes before it too.

Training was for the girls in the backs; we fat boys in the forwards would usually sit smoking in the sports hall bar.  For a pre-match warm-up in the changing room, while some of the fancy dans bounced about or stretched, my speciality was to jiggle my belly while singing “The Laughing Policeman”.

On the coach coming back from away games, puerile rugby songs were de rigeur.  Big Bill Hambleton’s party piece was to expose his prodigious member by instalments while singing, “Ai Ziggy Zumba, Zumba, Zumba” as the rest of us chorused “Get ‘em down, you Zulu warrior”.  Apart from leaving us all with a lifelong complex of inadequacy, it was all good fun.

The end of season Rugby Club Awards Dinner outdid all of this and was nothing less than a Saturnalian orgy (less the women).  Food and beer were thrown about and there would be pools of vomit on the floor by the end of the night.  We could never book the same venue two years running.

When I say “less the women” this is not strictly accurate.  There were the dancing girls (read strippers (read prostitutes)).  They were always excellent sports and would provide a Platinum Service if a bucket was passed around for us to throw in an extra quid or two.  Versatile and obliging, the favourite game of the night was “Front or Back, Sir?”

Those Bullingdon boys didn’t have it all their own way.  They truly were the days, my friends.