Good brew and great game make ultimate pairing

The first kick for touch is the initial snap at the sheilas for talking. Another beer is cracked. File photo / NZME.

Test rugby. It is a brewery of restless mess, but at the same time the perfect realisation of New Zealand man. The build-up is the carefully weighted pour of the beer. The national anthem is the first sip, the haka the first gulp. The kick-off is the triumphant plonking of the dead soldier on the coffee table. As the first maul forms, you know you're in for a drink at the bar, even if you're at home.

The first kick for touch is the initial snap at the sheilas for talking. Another beer is cracked. Cracked in the sonic sense, you haven't smashed anything yet physically. But this is the great release of stress, as you pour the beer into the Korean glass.

The beer salutes the sky as it rises with the first up-and-under. The really good fullback swallows the bomb beautifully, and so do you.

Another bottle appears on the coffee table, or the bar leaner, as some irritating engagement or 21st goes on in the foreground. You take a considered look around as the first five makes his calls to his midfielders and outside backs, then you reflect on the clarity of your sobriety as you let the pail of ale sail down your ever-asking throat.

A clearance kick is made by the opposition's first five and the teams congregate for the second lineout as Credence Clearwater Revival's Hey Tonight blares indistinctly from the sports bar next door. The dregs of sobriety float away with the dregs of your third pint.

Some rude woman says something about speeches, and you tuck your teeth into the froth of your next hoppy candle of brew. At this stage the referee has taken centre stage on the screen, adjusting his sideburns and earpiece, summoning the help of his 12 apostolic officials on a potential forward pass.

You admire the audacity of the Fijian winger playing for the All Blacks who coruscates into the corner for a try on the replay screen, whilst the never-failing dark ale brings your mind to light, your flagrant indifference of not having eaten anything bar sensual bar snacks.

You spill some of your seventh beer on your worst black pants, as the opposition winger spills the ball in his own in-goal, to the rapturous delight of your team's dotting down No 7, who scores his 11th international try.

They cut to the sideline commentator who has a wine-like mike in his hand, as you pity the poor, mulleted priest on your left who is pouring wine down his gullet, and you pray he might one day drink beer. You say something about Bob Marley, and you find yourself alone, converting the try with your team's first five, your teammates having long since disappeared for no particular reason.

You head back to the bar, thinking you've accumulated as many pints as your team has points, and wonder how and why you're so clever.

The barman laughs politely at this practised pints and points joke. And for the first time in your life you don't mind hearing the Bee Gees' Stayin' Alive from the Sports Bar as you crouch, touch and engage your next beer.

Rugby, yeah, no, it's lovely.

Jem Beedoo is an Auckland songwriter.