Frontrower Vez has been targeted, victimised and bullied. He’s had blood spat in his mouth after a tackle; and had rugby ‘fans’ shout everything from, ‘get the fat bastard man off the pitch’ to ‘put her face in mud, let her drown’. And that’s before the endless stream of social media abuse. Vez has considered, ‘not being here’ many times. This is what can happen when you’re a transgender rugby player. And, he says, it needs to change.

In 1492, Henry VII held a month-long tournament with minstrels, stilt-walkers, jesters and rope dancers, with revelry spilling from palace to Richmond Green – all to the sound of splintered lances and men crashing to the floor as jousting took centre stage. Less than 400 years later, a football club named after the town started playing ‘rugby’ on the very same ground. It was then that things got interesting.

“If nothing else,” probably thought Catherine of Aragon as she was handed her divorce papers in the castle, “at least I’ll put this lovely town of Ampthill on the map”. Sadly, she didn’t. That job has now been left, almost 500 years later, to four Tongans and a Welshman called Paul.

The beauty of the Yorkshire Dales has a tendency to lull people into a false sense of security. ‘What are we doing here?’ the opposition are often heard asking. It’s then, they know they’ve got them, and the tweed-covered faithful of The Avenue start to roar.

On an island famous for speed, the seeds are being sown for a new national rugby side. Helping them grow are Portuguese, Kiwis, Namibians and, for one weekend only, Bryan Habana.

Gareth Davis hadn’t expected to be told he was blind. He’d played county-level rugby, he loved the game, but his sight was going. He knew it, but didn’t want to acknowledge it. When he read it in black and white, that was it. What was he going to do next?

The chip van man at the Gnoll is trying to make things work. He’s going to give it another season and see what happens. The £14 electricity bill isn’t helping, margins are tight, but he’ll persevere, for now. Besides, it’s Neath v Pontypool today, so there should be a good crowd.

Just four games into the London Welsh revival, they lose 17-7 to UCS Old Boys on a ‘small, slanting, pitch’. It’s not in the script. Coach Cai Griffiths is philosophical about defeat: “I wanted to rip people’s faces off.” The journey back is going to be a long one. 

One-by-one, the councillors stood up to say their piece. Twenty, thirty, maybe forty of them. Some were for, some against. Some eloquent, some, less so. Then, the vote. All 123 councillors, a single vote apiece, to decide the future of Cornish rugby. It started with a single ‘For’, but then, one after the other, the ‘Againsts’ rolled in.  

It’s survived World Wars, industrial collapse and royal insults, but Coventry has always shrugged its shoulders and got on with it. Its rugby club is no different. Once, only hours from extinction, it now turns over £1.6m, regularly pulls in crowds of over 2,000 (in the third tier), has internationals both playing and coaching, and has run away with the league title. And that’s before we mention UB40 and Steps.

To prove it’s a proper rugby club, an RFU shield hangs on the door of the repurposed garden shed. It’s not the most obvious place to find the country’s most capped coaching team, but then a lot of great things are built in sheds.

‘We had to play Stornoway in the Western Isles. We took a 14-hour ferry, a six-hour bus ride and then another three-hour ferry. We lost. It wasn’t even a tour, just another league game. We’d left on Thursday night and got back to Shetland on Tuesday morning.’ 

A workforce of 70-somethings, salsa, spiritual healing, karaoke, quiz nights and the occasional funeral – when you’re Rotherham Titans, it takes more than just rugby to keep things ticking along.