Wellington 7's - From what I can derive from photos, patches of memory and voicemail, not to mention my imagination, this is how the sevens unfolded.
It nearly went pear-shaped from the get-go, after my Rocky Balboa costume arrived on my doorstep a mere 10 minutes before my sweaty dash through 30-degree heat to the airport.
Arriving sodden, flustered and without time for my customary pre-flight airport terminal Speight's it was stressful times.
At least my costume cost only $110 – the Chewbaccas apparently spent $700 on theirs!
The flight was magic. You have to hand it to Air New Zealand, always innovating, morphing your regular transit flight with one of the scenic variety.
We were looping Mt Cook, wing-dipping the glaciers and getting a full commentary on the lot. If the Swedish volleyball team had been on board it would have been pretty much perfect.
On arrival in the capital, I linked up with the lads and grabbed the hand trolley, as you do, and wandered off to liberate some beverages from the bottler.
Everything is central in Wellington, including us, perched conveniently 10 floors up overlooking the action centre that is the Taranaki St-Courtenay Place intersection.
It's a big two days – pace yourself lads. Noble intentions met with not-so-noble actions and we ripped into things early on Friday morning, but we were by no means the first to get going and – judging by the shrieks, wolf-whistles, squeals and carry-on coming from the street below – nor were we the best or, more appropriately, least dressed.
There was a cruise ship in town and the passengers must have wondered if the world had gone crazy while they were at sea.
Confused-looking tourists clicked away eagerly at the weird and wonderful array of costumes zig-zagging, weaving and some stumbling towards the stadium.
Young and eager-to-please females running the gauntlet past the Loaded Hog were rowdy, and raucous crews of likely lads observe proceedings like Statler and Waldorf in The Muppets.
If you're lucky, you catch the odd glimpse of an unclothed chest and, as we were very lucky, that unclothed chest belongs to a tidy young lass who then proceeds to end up in the harbour.
En route there were crayons, Pac-men, Chewbaccas, woodland fairies, dirty nurses and nurses who were dirty, good cops, bad cops and plenty of real cops policing the generally good-natured revelries.
This year's new editions to the costume scene were Tiger "sex addict" Woods, Avatar and, of course, the Southland Stags' Ranfurly Shield tribute.
The cougar phenomenon is still in full force, with a whole section of the ground dedicated a cougar den with fresh young meat thrown into the hungry cats from time to time.
They had a sick bay for those who had overindulged. It was populated mainly by 18 to 21-year-old females in some glamorous kits looking all but glamorous.
On the second day a screen was set up to stop us dodgy old men sneaking a perv at these unfortunate messes.
I think I managed to see about three games in between crowd-watching – including the game where New Zealand was bundled out by Samoa – and a great effort by a fleet-footed streaker who will now be used as an icon by the fun police to stamp out such entertaining behaviour in the future. Who knows what would have happened had he been delivered that short ball?
He along with the my mate Tim's uncanny ability to use the zoom on the camera to accentuate cleavage were my highlights of a great sun, skin and silliness-filled couple of days in the nation's capital.
Add it to your bucket list folks, but be warned it's not for the faint-hearted.
Pack Condoms, Panadol and a big wad of cash for stadium priced beers and snacks.
Subscribe to updates below