How many of us were taken to our first rugby international by our Dad ? Quite a few I should think.
My father took me to Cardiff Arms Park on October 2 1971 to see Wales play for the very first time against Canada.
Forty seven years have passed but that day still lives with me.
In those days of black and white television to be taken to a new rugby world where the grass was green and the Welsh shirts a blood red was a shock to the senses, the colours were all so vivid after a childhood of grey grainy pictures on a small television that doubled up as a cocktail cabinet.
Those forty seven years have passed in a flash, age has caught up with us all, but this weekend it caught up with one man in particular.
My lovely dad passed away at 2.30pm, a proper old fashioned kick off time.
Like a true prop he gave it all he had but this time he was on the losing side, and now it’s time for him to rest in peace.
As the 2018 six nations is about to begin the glorious irrelevance of rugby will be the great comforter that it always has been, and to all those of you who will going to Edinburgh, Cardiff, Rome, Dublin, Twickenham, Murrayfield and Marseille, enjoy every second, and if you happen to be going with your Dad, hold him tight and give him an extra hug from me.