As I stumbled down Kings Parade clutching an 18-pack of Carling, arms shaking under the weight of my feminist guilt, and sweating more than I care to admit, I found myself asking: “How did I end up here?” On beer duty for my boyfriend’s rugby team, willing to haul lagers up to the pitches, all in the name of (somewhat mediocre) college rugby.

Instead of dwelling on my new position, I decided to view the day as an experiment. How would I find WAG life? Was there a little Victoria Beckham in me? And, ultimately, was this really how I saw my future?

The day went as follows:

12pm – An early rise for me, only somewhat consoled by the thought of a Queens’ brunch. Following my hash browns, I trekked alone to Mainsburys, ID in hand, ready to buy the crate of Carling. Naturally, I also purchased a four pack of Inch’s cider for myself, thinking the alcohol may numb the pain of watching my boyfriend dropping the ball (quite literally), and the bitter cold that the 30 sweaty men had decided to play in. I can confirm it did.

“This was where any Colleen Rooney-esque illusion came tumbling down” 

1pm – The dreaded walk, carrying said Carling, up to Barton Road. This was where any Colleen Rooney-esque illusion came tumbling down. Sweaty and grumpy, I shuffled up the road, putting in more steps than I think the rugby team ran combined. Luckily, I was aided by my two friends, who did not fail to remind me that the Martha of first year would be taking the absolute piss out of the WAG Martha of today. They have since been forgiven, seeing as they put in their fair share of Carling-carrying up to the pitches. Thanks guys.

2pm – Kick off. Now this is where the WAG life got that little bit sweeter. Bundled up in a coat and scarf, downing three ciders, and watching everyone else around you exercising is quite satisfying, I must say. Whilst beginning the game with Victoria’s nonchalant I-couldn’t-care-less style, I soon found my own take on the WAG life was a little more tipsy, chatty, and generally less aloof. I found myself cheering the team on, wincing at those more painful tackles, and desperately trying to understand the game unfolding before me (this sounds fair, until you learn I started playing rugby myself this year).

2:30pm- Incoming WAGs. About halfway through the game, more WAGs arrived on the scene and put me to shame. Unlike me, who was sitting on a bench about 10 metres from the pitch, they stood eagerly on the sidelines, cheering on their respective partners, and sending a few looks my way as me and my mates chatted (I have since been told we could be heard over the entire game of rugby). Whilst there was no Wagatha Christie style confrontation, I fear that, if I am to return, I may need to up my WAG game. Who knows, maybe I’ll push the boat out so far I actually stand up to watch the next match?

“I was ready to put on the WAG performance of a lifetime”

2:45pm- Up until now, the opposition had failed to score a point (or is it try? Or maybe a goal?). But, with 15 minutes to go, a stocky man barrelled through our lines of defence (my boyfriend included), and slammed himself down across the line. Now, of course this was a big moment for him, but an even bigger one for me. I was ready to put on the WAG performance of a lifetime, and inevitably, when my boyfriend looked over for support, I gave my absolute best consoling ‘oh it doesn’t matter’ look, sympathetically smiling as if I hadn’t just watched him get tackled to the ground. Honestly, just sign me up for the ADC at this point.

3pm – Game over, and a win for Queens’. The post-rugby tunnel, where the men sort of channel through each other and chant a few times, was alarming, as was the most manly version of Happy Birthday I’ve ever heard, which they sang for said boyfriend. Personally, I didn’t realise that song could be chanted, but I have since been proved wrong. Very.

4pm – Sitting on a bench, finishing off the Carlings, and just generally chatting shit. Perhaps my favourite part of the day, we de-briefed the match, watched as our fingers slowly went numb, and I was thanked for coming (five girlfriend points to me).

Looking back on the day, I have to admit, I really enjoyed myself. Whilst lugging the beers was a low point, the WAG life enabled me to put off uni work for another day, have a few pints, and offer my own commentary on a college rugby game. By no means will I be putting in a WAG stint every weekend (I have since failed to show up to the last game of the season after snoozing my alarm), but I foresee that once in a while, it can be a laugh.