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. Jonny was in his element on the pitch, relaxed and comfortable, this is where the man belongs. His mission is to educate, the scores of teenagers rapt in attention, basking in the glow of this great man, attentive and eager to the wise words this supreme kicking sage had for them. Jonny the missionary found a willing audience as he tirelessly preached the doctrine of 'Being your own Coach' to the youth of Hong Kong. The subtleties, he proclaimed; were to be found in the breakdown of the moments themselves. In educating oneself in the mysteries of that beloved oval ball, the path of the light behind that holy H shall be revealed. 'Another lefty!' he exclaimed, 'Don't worry we're special people' sayeth he to young Andrea Reine, aged 14 of the German Swiss International School, with a knowing smile. Dividing his time between young worshippers from the under-14s onwards to those in the Rugby academy who may one day ascend to the starry heights of international fame. He managed to find an affinity with his flock. Hong Kong's High Lama of kicking, Robert Naylor, found Jonny a modest and humble man, the two men mutually respectful of each other's position and rank regardless of secular differences. Naylor, too, is a believer in the doctrine of 'Being your own Coach' having received the knowledge from a travelling holy man. 'I've had kicking practice where I was taught about how to break it down,' said Naylor 'but some of these kids hadn't and it was a great way for them to learn.' Jonny, champion of the people, stayed behind after preaching to his young disciples, to fulfil the wishes of every last one (and I mean every last one) of his adoring followers by bestowing his sacred autograph, putting off a dinner date with 25 of Hong Kong's most influential business men who were to celebrate St Jonny's virtues upon a gigantic 140 foot boat hired at six-figure cost. The capitalists tried to snatch Jonny away from his people and Jonny had made them wait. The question is: can Jonny do no wrong? Could one ever fault Jonny? Is Jonny actually human? Yes! Yes! Yes! I was to find my burning bush answer after several hours, half a gigabyte worth of photos and one rain-soaked white shirt later. Sweet, sweet murmurings entered my ears - Jonny's exasperated marketing manager exclaimed 'You know what Jonny's problem is?' At long last, a reason to dislike him, words to make him so mortal, so touchable so ... and then there they were 'He's too bloody nice!'