Emmaprovement Continues...

Few people can say that the first place they visited was a rugby game. A few days after I was born, my mum drove me straight from the hospital to the rugby pitch to where my dad was playing. My dad loves telling the story of how - when my mum and I arrived - the players stopped the game and toasted my arrival to the world with champagne.

You'd think, considering this - and the fact that my father once played rugby for Ireland - I'd be one of those rosy-cheeked Fulham girls standing in a field every Saturday, cheering on my Hugo or Harry as he scored a try (it is a try, isn't it?).

But I don't even know anyone who plays rugby. The closest I come is my friend, Piller, who plays waterpolo, but I rarely go to his games anymore. Over the years, I've dated my fair share of his team and truthfully, you begin to respect men little less when you see them in speedos and a helmet. They look a little like 70s porn stars, after a tragic brain injury.

But Piller is constantly trying to get me to date sportier guys. Jocks, basically. He recently had a go at me about a guy who was sponsoring my drinking habit.

Piller: What position do I play in waterpolo, Emma?
Emma: I don't know.
Piller: I'm the striker. Do you know what that means? I'm the one that scores goals. Scores. The. Goals. I put the ball in the net. That's what you are looking for in a man. Not this Mike guy.
Emma: He owns his own hedgefund. I'm hardly downdating.
Piller: Whatever. You are the position you play. You know what Mike would be on my team?
Emma: What?
Piller: The waterboy.
Emma: Piller, He had a sports scholarship to Penn State.
Piller: For what? Chess?

So when I was invited to interview Jonny Wilkinson last week at the O2 Scrum in the Park - a joint venture with O2 and the England Rugby team - it sounded like a great way to meet my next boyfriend. And make Piller jealous.

Piller was pretty choked I got to meet Jonny, but he was man enough to take the time to talk me through the England team. We were supposed to come up with some specific questions, but we got sidetracked trying to choose which of the England players was the next Mr Cheevers.

Whatever, I think, I'll just wing it.

So, bright and early Sunday morning (2pm), I head out to Regent's Park. I'll just ask Jonny about his favourite tailor, I think. Or what he likes best about London. Or how he started playing rugby. We'll just have a chat. Jocks love me. I look like a rugby wife. Hell, I'm rugby royalty, really.

Now, I've interviewed quite a few 'personalities' in the past, and I rarely get nervous. But, when I arrive, it quickly becomes apparent that I'll be doing a group interview with five other journalists. Sports journalists. The PRs are very fierce about the fact we can only ask one question.

I can't very well tell the whole group my daddy played for Ireland, which was my planned opening line with Jonny. What's more, there's another girl in the mix.

Now, I'm not proud of this - but if it was just me and a bunch of sports writers - I'd be the one Jonny would be looking at, and I could probably ask whatever stupid questions I wanted, as long as I giggled a bit after. Now, I can't. Worse, she's curvy, smiley, and is showing more cleavage than me. Bitch stole my look.

Jonny comes in, looking tired. I feel like a sycophant, which is silly. I'm not a fan. I don't even know anything about rugby. And, my daddy played for Ireland. It's like we're related. Cousins, once removed, or something.

Of course, Busty starts the questions: something about his recent injury. The other journos are scribbling away, taking careful notes; I'm just desperately trying to come up with a reasonably intelligent question. All I can think about is inappropriate sexual questions about him and the team members. I have to stop myself from snickering. I cough.