They're trying to repeat what they did when they convinced all the yoofs to drink Aussie lager. Everybody old enough to remember Barry McKenzie knew that Aussies would drink anything as long as it was cold enough.

I'll go along with your gargle, pint of each, thanks. But no wonder Trappists didn't speak. They probably couldn't.

However, cue for poetry.

BRAHMA - Ralph Waldo Emerson

If the red slayer think he slays,
Or if the slain think he is slain,
They know not well the subtle ways
I keep, and pass, and turn again.

(That sounds like rugby to me.)

Far or forgot to me is near,
Shadow and sunlight are the same,
The vanished gods to me appear,
And one to me are shame and fame.

They reckon ill who leave me out;
When me they fly, I am the wings;
I am the doubter and the doubt,
And I the hymn the Brahmin sings.

The strong gods pine for my abode,
And pine in vain the sacred Seven;
But thou, meek lover of the good!
Find me, and turn thy back on heaven.