Imagine you’re an alien from Mars. Or, more realistically, from one of the 188 countries on Earth that don’t give a flying ruck about rugby. You land on Haddington Road last Saturday, wander into a watering hole, and ask the punters:
“What are the British and Irish Lions?” Would they be honest with you? Would they tell you it’s a bloated PR pantomime lasting two months, costing tens of millions to stage, and countless more human souls to film, filter, and post on social media? Or would they play along, nodding solemnly and telling you that being selected for the Lions is the absolute pinnacle of a rugby player’s career?
