Right, I must now confess, I am besotted, smitten, positively obsessed with Jonny Wilkinson - high priest of England rugby, ender of the famine which hath cursed the English since 1966, converter of the impossible, crippler of almighty giants clothed in green and gold, a man almost martyred to injury on that fateful November day Down Under.
I recall his worshippers, bedecked in the red and white of another monster slayer - St George - pleading, chanting, praying for a leap of faith 'Get up Jonny, get up, please!'
Tears of joy were shed when I saw this mighty man rise slowly but surely from the field, ready for his next challenger. It was in that moment I declared my pledge to the church of English Rugby with Jonny as my patron saint.
News had spread - the Man himself was to arrive on that Hallowed Ground by Jordan that is HKRFU's King's Park, I made my pilgrimage in hopes of enlightenment. Gripped by nervous tension, those clammy hands and that dry mouth, all in anticipation of meeting the man they call 'Wilko'.
I had not expected such a diverse crowd of onlookers - they were sportsmen, retirees, middle-aged suits, teenagers, toddlers, male and fellow overenthusiastic females alike.
Gracious Jonny had been giving interviews since 8am only having arrived from Singapore that morning. Cheerful, talkative and self-effacing, Jonny was happy to answer questions concerning his injury and rehab programme, that perfect drop goal, pre-season training and what he was to preach in our little SAR.