Full Contact
Thighs, Travelodges and the Women’s Rugby World Cup. Part bruised, part bewildered, always hungry. This is the story of how rugby made me a fan for life.
By Frankie Smith
Photography via England Rugby
I’ve never been one for subtlety. I’m loud. I’m tall. I take up space. I’ve got thighs that could anchor a scrum and a laugh that’s been described as “audible from the car park.” But for most of my life, I tried to shrink. Not physically, obviously. That would require industrial machinery. But socially. Emotionally. I ducked out of group photos. I avoided gym classes. I spent years pretending I didn’t care about sport because I didn’t think I was allowed to.
Then I found rugby. Or maybe rugby found me.
It wasn’t a dramatic conversion. No lightning bolt. Just a slow, steady pull. I watched the Red Roses on telly. I went to a couple of Ireland matches with my dad, who’s Irish and still refers to Twickenham as “enemy territory.” I tried touch rugby with a local club. I even braved one full-contact training session, where I got flattened by a woman named Bex. She hit me like a freight train. I made a noise somewhere between a squeak and a dying cow, lay flat on the turf blinking at the sky, and thought: I’m in love. Not with Bex specifically, although she did wink at me afterwards, but with the whole thing. The bruises, the chaos, the sheer ridiculous joy of it.
I didn’t become a player overnight. I still haven’t, really. But I became a watcher. A fan. An obsessive.
And then the World Cup came to England.
Sixteen teams. Thirty-two matches. Five weeks of rugby across the country. From Sunderland to Bristol, Northampton to Brighton. The tenth edition of the Women’s Rugby World Cup, and the biggest yet. The BBC had full coverage. The crowds were massive. The final sold out weeks in advance, with 82,000 people heading to Twickenham, a world record for a women’s rugby match.
I work in cars. That’s all I’ll say. It’s showroom-adjacent, vaguely mysterious, and yes, it means I drive all over the country. Which turned out to be very convenient. Because I went to four matches. Each one different. Each one brilliant. Each one part of a journey I didn’t know I was on until I was halfway through it.
The first was England versus Samoa at Franklin’s Gardens in Northampton. I went with Liv, who I met at a rugby social in January and now share Travelodge rooms with like we’re on tour. And when I say “on tour,” I mean trying to get the kettle to work while eating crisps on the bedspread. England won 92–3. It was a demolition. But what I remember most wasn’t the score, it was the crowd. Families. Couples. Women in matching shirts. The atmosphere was electric, but also warm, like everyone was in on the same joke. Liv and I spent half the match shouting and the other half trying to work out how England’s maul was so unstoppable. It’s still a mystery. I think it involves witchcraft. Or possibly hidden hydraulics.
Next was Ireland versus Japan, same stadium. I wore green. Liv wore red. We bickered like siblings. Ireland won 42–14. It was scrappy and brilliant. My dad came too, wearing his ancient green jersey that’s seen more Guinness than grass. He spent the first ten minutes muttering about refereeing decisions and the next thirty shouting at me for not clapping loudly enough. At half-time he told us stories about watching Ireland in the 90s when women’s rugby wasn’t even televised. He couldn’t believe the size of the crowd. Neither could I. It felt like history, but louder and with better snacks.
unstoppable
And the crowds have been huge. The opening match in Sunderland drew over 30,000. The semi-finals in Bristol were packed. The final at Twickenham? Sold out. With 82,000 tickets, it’s on track to become the second-highest attended Rugby World Cup final ever, men’s or women’s. It will also smash the record for a standalone women’s rugby match, previously set at 58,498 during the 2023 Women’s Six Nations.
Match three was England versus Australia in Brighton. England won 47–7. It was one of those matches where everything clicks. Ellie Kildunne scored a try that made the entire stadium gasp, the kind of audacious run that makes you wonder if she has rockets strapped to her boots. Amy Cokayne powered through defenders like they were made of foam. Marlie Packer, all power and ponytail, charged about like she owned the place. We sat next to a group of teenage girls who screamed every time Zoe Harrison touched the ball. It felt like the future, shrieking in real time.
Between matches, Liv and I talked about everything. How women’s rugby has grown. How the BBC has covered every game, without tucking it away on some graveyard channel. How grassroots clubs are suddenly bursting with new sign-ups. How the players are becoming icons. Not just for their skill, but for their presence. Their confidence. Their refusal to shrink.
I’ve started training again. Nothing serious. Just a few sessions with a local women’s team. I’m still learning how to fall properly without looking like a flailing toddler. How to pass under pressure without panicking. How to breathe when someone twice my size is running at me. But I love it. I love the bruises. The banter. The feeling of being part of something. I still haven’t worked out how to keep mud out of my ears, but I’ll get there.
The fourth match will be the final. England versus Canada at Twickenham. Saturday 27 September. Kick-off at 4pm. Liv and I have tickets. We booked them months ago, before the semi-finals, before the pool stages, before we knew who’d make it. We just knew we had to be there.
England have been dominant. They beat the USA 69–7 in Sunderland, Samoa 92–3 in Northampton, and Australia 47–7 in Brighton. They crushed Scotland 40–8 in the quarter-finals and outlasted France 35–17 in the semis. Megan Jones scored the final try. Ellie Kildunne came back from concussion and scored twice like she had a point to prove. Amy Cokayne and Abbie Ward were unstoppable in the maul. Zoe Harrison landed five conversions as casually as if she were kicking a ball about in the garden. They’ve won 32 matches in a row. It’s a world record. They look like a machine, but you can still see the personality shining through.
Unmissable
Canada have been just as fierce. They beat Fiji 65–7, Wales 42–0, and Scotland 40–19 in the pool stage. They crushed Australia 46–5 in the quarters and stunned New Zealand 34–19 in the semis. That win ended the Black Ferns’ 11-year unbeaten World Cup run. Justine Pelletier has been electric at scrum-half, darting about like she’s on fast-forward. Sophie de Goede, their captain, leads with power and poise, but also with a grin that makes her look like she’s enjoying every second. They haven’t lost a match all year.
The final is going to be brutal. Beautiful. Unmissable.
Liv and I are planning our outfits. She’s going in an England shirt. I’m wearing my Red Roses top with an Ireland scarf, just to confuse people. We’ve booked a Travelodge near the stadium. We’ve mapped out the pubs with military precision. We’ve packed snacks. And by snacks, I mean an entire rucksack stuffed with Pringles, Percy Pigs and a hip flask. We are ready.
But it’s not just about the match. It’s about what it means.Women’s rugby has come a long way. The 2025 World Cup is the tenth edition. Hosted across England. The coverage has been brilliant. The crowds have been massive. The energy has been constant. The players are no longer hidden or patronised. They are front and centre, smiling in post-match interviews, signing autographs, and showing girls in the stands that you can be strong and joyful at the same time.
They’re icons. Not just for what they do on the pitch, but for how they carry themselves. Marlie Packer leading with fire, Kildunne smiling like she’s just pulled off a magic trick, de Goede commanding Canada like a conductor with a baton. They walk tall. They celebrate each other. They lift each other up. They make space for women like me, women who are loud and strong and unapologetic.
I used to think sport wasn’t for me. That I was too big. Too awkward. Too much. Now I know better.
Rugby is for everyone. For every body. For every story.
And this World Cup? It’s proof. Four matches. One final. A thousand memories. And the beginning of something brilliant.
Find out more about the Rugby Women’s World Cup here.
Find out more about England Rugby here.
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