SEVENS INVADER: Unruly behaviour at the Wellington Sevens. IMAGE: Stuff

A COUPLE of weekends ago the annual international rugby Sevens tournament was held in Wellington, and I bet even Wellington’s reliable rain and strong winds struggled to clean the vomit off the streets.

The event is like a tornado, scooping up supposed rugby fans the length of the country and afar then dumping then somewhere in the middle.

The Wellington Free Ambulance has just announced it plans to set up a permanent triage centre near Courtenay Place aka Party Central to cater for drunken disasters, with ideas to “counsel” repeat binge-drinking offenders.

During the Sevens I worked as a bar tender, although I was privileged to be serving a cordoned group of rugby-appreciating and relatively responsible drinkers; most others were not.

Walking along the concourse about an hour after New Zealand had won the last game (although it would have made no difference if they hadn’t, seeing as blurred vision seemed to strike about 4pm) could be likened to negotiating a mine field.

Using army-worthy abilities, I leaped over piles of vomit, holding my arms out to steady myself, then pulling my arms inwards to avoid a group of giant babies, then quickly dodging a Lego man getting frisky with some other species.

Of course there were lots of intimate encounters with masked strangers; however, there were also break-ups, of which I was witness to.

It seems events such as the Sevens - with the Sevens completing trumping all others in terms of alcohol extremism - have become modern disasters, which are not dealt with with the same effectiveness as natural disasters.

Organisers of the Sevens bribed punters to arrive early with hefty prizes that brought involuntary sighs from myself and many other workers.

Organisers had to pick someone from just 20-odd bums on seats, not from what should have been thousands.

Those thousands were likely drinking as much as they could before entering in order to avoid the more expensive stadium booze. Although once amongst fellow revellers, it seemed most gave in to both peer pressure and their inner 16-year-old.

The ones that suffered most were not the drunken messes, suffering from over-exposure and liver failure, but the players, the genuine rugby watchers and the families in the “low alcohol” areas, who were all victims of thrown bottles, food and slurred abuse.

One player was even tackled mid-game and in possession of the game ball.

These events seem to be excuses to spend the savings and lose the dignity.

While the costumes were breath-taking, the sport admirable from the point of view of a non-follower, the music intoxicating enough without any additives, the event was probably not remembered by thousands of severely drunk partiers.

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