The Rugby Sevens can be a social minefield. Luckily, we’ve devised this handy troubleshooting guide to help you through the most embarrassing of pitfalls. You don’t have a ticket Who says that you need a ticket to get into the Rugby Sevens? With a little know-how, it’s easy to find your way inside. Try these options: •\tThe day before the Sevens, find out where the New Zealand rugby team is staying, and then camp out in the shrubbery outside until you see the laundry lady taking out their uniforms to the dry cleaners. Secretly tail her to the cleaners, and then just after she drops off their uniforms, bonk her on the head with a heavy gourd, steal her family heirloom watch and pawn it to buy a ticket from a scalper. •\tIf the security guard turns you away, look him right in the eye, and tell him his wife has just died in a tragic accident. That should give him a little perspective. What’s one little ticket-less admission in the face of a cruel and unfeeling universe? You peed your pants in front of your boss Job security is a luxury that many can’t afford these days, and there is nothing more damaging to your career than peeing your pants in front of your boss. If this happens to you, when your boss points it out, just simply tell him “actually, this isn’t urine, it’s a mixture of blood and semen.” This should stop any further questioning. You forgot to wear a costume The best way to establish a sense of camaraderie with your fellow rugby fans is to dress in a ridiculous novelty costume. If you’ve forgotten yours, then why not improvise? •\tPut Pimm’s jugs on your hands and feet and say you’re Clip-Clop, the Pimm’s Pony—the fanciful pony that spreads sunbeams, rainbows, orange slices and jugs of gin. Optional: charge $20 per Pimm’s Pony Punch (Donkey punch variant). •\tOr choose a nice, quick and easy costume. Get a little masking tape, a few cereal boxes, and a pair of solid-gold epaulettes, and viola! Tsar Nicholas II! •\tYou could always just take off your shirt and go as “Fat, Drunken Gweilo”—everybody loves the zany exploits of the “Fat, Drunken Gweilo,” such as when he drops pie on his stomach or wakes up delirious in a booth in Wan Chai surrounded by South Asian strippers. That crrrr-azy gweilo! You traded in your HSBC rights for a jug of Pimm’s You’re stepping up in the world. All the Lehman’s shareholders could get was a fistful of individual relish packets.