The music blared, a pumping high energy dance track. The camera started high above the audience, swooping down and across the crowd, clapping in time to the boisterous music. All men, a variety of ages, all there to witness the newest Messy Mayhem video. Lights flashed and strobed.

'Rugby Rumble' appeared on the screen, in a comic book type face. An animated custard pie splattered the wording and dripped down. The titles faded and camera panned to stage right. There stood your host for the evening, David Sanders.

David was from the list of guys wanting to appear in a video, but without the body, age, or bravery to be a model. In the main they wanted to dish out the gunge on the models. David was one of them, and the telephone chat we had was enlightening. He had a history of being a hospital radio DJ, so was a natural selection. Unusually for a non participating person, he had an audition. Unlike normal auditions, he kept his clothes on. Instead I was interested in his ability to host the show. He was a natural. I was thrilled, the pieces were falling easily into place. It was almost like it was meant to be. The Gunge Gods were smiling down on us. I resisted the urge to fast forward to see the juicy bits, I wanted to watch it with fresh eyes, as the subscribers would.

"Welcome, welcome, welcome to..." he yelled enthusiastically to camera, he then rolled his R's, "Rugby Rumble!" He punched the air and spun on the spot. The audience roared. The music was still banging, under his introduction. The music and cheering faded and he faced another camera, changing his stance.

"Tonight you will see members of a professional rugby team compete in a variety of games to earn points for their teams. This may get..." he paused for effect, Ian in the control room, demanding a close up of his face, "MESSY!" he added in a dramatic voice. The crowd whooped. In reality it took several takes, and the audience had got bored of whooping. Chas had done a great job editing the audio.

"So, let's welcome our contestants!" Dave yelled, waving one hand out to welcome the incoming participants. The crowd cheered and whooped. Two suited middle aged men strode into shot and waved at the crowd.

"So who do we have here? Tell us your name, and where you come from". In the first take he adopted a Liverpudlian accent in honour of Cilla Black, who used to use the same contestant introduction in her Liverpool accent on her dating show 'Blind Date'. Much discussion had taken place in the control room, if that humour would translate to the audience. Analytics showed that the bulk of subscribers were from America, with the UK being second. The rest was made up of mainly European, although the data showed we had subscribers in Iceland, South America, the Far East, even Mozambique.
We wondered if the catchphrase could be copyrighted, and we would end up in court. We had stopped the show and reshot with Dave using his natural middle England accent.

"Hi, I'm Gerry, from London, I'm forty six and work in IT," said contestant number one, a tall, gangly black guy, short, clipped black hair, sensibly cut, business like. His glasses gave an air of intelligence. The smart suit sold us confidence of him being a successful guy in his field.

Camera pans to contestant two, " Hello, I'm Malcolm. I'm fifty, and I'm from Glasgow, and I have my own garden landscaping business". Malcolm was four or five inches shorter than Gerry, close cropped and balding, he looked a manual worker. Beneath his suit was a much fuller figure than Gerry had in his.

"Great and welcome!" David enthused. "You want to meet your teams?" He shouted. The crowd roared appreciation. "I said, you want to meet your teams?", he cried again.

Camera cuts to audience, responding with cries and cheers. Cut back to stage. Flashing lights resume, as does the thumping soundtrack, strobe lights strafe the stage and audience. Sparks fly from pyrotechnics as the camera pans back, as the backdrop of the stage slides apart.
The six players are revealed, in rugby kit, including boots, standing statuesque, some with hands on hips, others with arms folded. Ian commands a pan shot in close up. Mean looks are aimed at the camera lens as it pans along the line. I spot Mark first, jutting his square jaw out, hands on hips, puffing out that ridiculously developed chest. There's Sam, arms folded across his chest. His muscular forearms enhanced by his position. He means business. Further along the line, stands Chris and Jon, winger and fly half (see, I told you I would get the rugby terms eventually. I still don't really know what they do on the pitch but at least I can remember their positions now), looking great on camera. I hadn't realised how handsome these guys were. Beyond them, lastly, the two hulking shapes of Kevin and Jez, who at first snarls at the camera, then breaks the illusion by smiling. Now, he looks happy to be here. At the start I had been blinded by their over developed bodies. Now I could see them for what they were, great guys having a laugh and saving their rugby club at the same time. I could imagine a lot of my subscribers premature ejaculating at this point.

The music carried on its relentless drive and on cue, the team walked forward. They split into two groups of three and separate out, moving either side of their contestant. The music fades and the applause dies down. From the control room Ian calls for a wide shot and we see the teams for the evening set up. Dave stands centre screen, all dapper suit, in between the contestants Malcom and Gerry. Next to them, by their sides, their teams for the evening, three rugby players each.

"Let's meet the players!" Dave says. At this point Chas inserts a VT animation. Before recording we had filmed each player standing on a revolving platform, so the VT shows the player slowly spinning. Full view, in kit, down to boots. Imposed to the left of this image ran the players details. The crowd clap along to the beat. A new tune, equally as up tempo, driving the program forward.

Normally we allow models to adopt a stage name, not many want to use their real names. We had debated at length whether to allow the players to adopt names. I had pointed out the players real names are available on the rugby club website, so adopting a 'porn name' would be ridiculous. We decided just to replicate the information from their site. So there it was, a video writer tapping out the details, left of screen with the player slowly spinning around screen right. Full real name, date of birth, height, weight and field position. Sam was team captain for Gerry, and Mark was heading up Malcom's team. Each team had a man mountain, in the shape of Kevin in the Sam's team. Jez made it onto Team Mark. The remaining members were made up of the leaner fitter players. As a team they looked great, something for everyone. I was impressed at the symmetry and balance of the teams, and thanked the Gunge Gods once again for my good fortune.

With all six players introduced the screen returned to Dave. "Are you ready to play some games?" he announces with unbridled enthusiasm. Both teams and audience agree that they are ready, with shouts and screams.

Dave spins on the spot and faces the backdrop. He spreads his arms wide and slowly raises them up. The backdrop slowly rises as if under Dave's control and the first game is unveiled. A booming deep voiceover announces, "Tug. Of. War", each word said with impact and pause for effect. Spotlights swivel and focus their beams on the playing area. Two raised platforms stand six feet from the floor, between them a round, massive gunge pool. It was full to the brim, in thick green natrosol gunge. Suspended above the platforms is a rope, straddling the gunge pit beneath. A flag hangs from the middle. The clubs rugby crest. Nice touch there, well done Ian.

"This is a four player game, two from each side," David advises, "can the players step forward please"
It had all been planned in advance, who would be participating but we had asked the players to drag the suspense out. Confused looks at each other, a shuffle forward before stepping back or gesticulations to the audience, 'shall I, shan't I' type of thing. To their credit, these guys didn't have training, but did it perfectly. A shrug here, a stumble forward there, a quick retreat, an 'after you' hand sign. It was perfect. Eventually, with the audience baying for their preferred choices, Sam stepped forward, along with Jon, confirming his team. On the other side, Mark strode forward confidently, followed by Chris. As requested at the pre production meeting, the sides squared up, facing each other down, bumping massive chests. Dave stepped between, calling for them to save it for the game.

The screen flips and we see the teams in position, assembled atop their platforms, Sam and Jon one side, Mark and Chris the other. The slighter, leaner guys nearer the gunge pit, the more muscular team captains at the rear. Each team grips their side of the rope and pull it tight, ready.
Ian called for body close ups of the players bodies. We start with Sam, working up from boots, socks rolled down low, then up his massive legs. Blond hair visible but not obscuring the huge calves, the lines separating the muscles plainly. Up over the bulging quads and thighs then up to a pert round ass, encased in tight white shorts. Then over his top half, the muscles straining against the tight blue and white striped jersey. Massive arms, lean from training and uncountable bicep curls, strain bulging by gripping the rope. A slow pan up to his face, determined, handsome, blond hair, managed, but in a careless way.
Ian calls for a pan over Jon's face. The cameraman obliged, taking in the younger, darker, hairier Jon, who had grown a short clipped beard between my meeting with them and now. Jet black hair, a contrast to the fairer Sam. Down over hairy arms, muscles tensing as he held the rope taught. Down over shorts and onto legs, not as muscular as Sam's, but keenly trained, the lens picking up the dark body hair.
The camera followed the tension of the rope, across and into the hands of Chris. Large masculine hands moved onto tanned forearms, along bulbous biceps up to his face, determined, piecing brown eyes, under close cropped black hair. We was the most classically beautiful. A strong jawline, good cheek bones, deep, deep eyes that could drown you. Then back down his body culminating in a view of his legs, muscles rippling as he changed position, steadying himself. Finally to Mark. Like Sam, a specimen of size, a sculpture of masculinity. Both classic, and celebrated, every contour of muscle a statement. His chest a barrel of hard taught muscle and up over his thick neck to face. Square jawed, militaryesque. Cultured yet untamed. Stubble adorning the face of a focused man, eyes fixed pointedly on his opponents.

Mr Voiceover boomed "Competitors ready. Three.....Two.....One....". A large explosion echoed around the room, sparks flew from pyros and the audience jump to its feet, screaming for their heroes. And we are off. From my chair I grinned as the video played out. The players heave, leaning back against the strain, faces a mask of effort, and strain. The flag at centre of the rope bobs around barely moving left or right as the strength of each team is negated by the other.
Ian commands player close ups and we see close up of each player, their muscles straining as they pull against their opponents. Sam's team make ground, the flag jerks left and Mark's team step forward, resetting their position as they concede ground, a step closer to the edge of the platform, the gunge pit beckoning. We see a close up of Mark, face contorted in grimace as he strains, eyes pinched shut, his mouth a slit of determination.
The crowd howl in appreciation. Some of the team who hadn't agreed to appear were there in the audience for moral support. I saw Joe, his leg still in plaster, wearing a small smile, but seemingly confused by the audience reaction around him.
Chris is pulling hard, sinews on his neck standing proud as he attempts to rebalance the contest. Above the cacophony of the crowd he screams in effort, his feet slowly stuttering backwards, away from the gunge pit. Mark behind him heaves, sensing Chris' efforts. Camera cuts to the contestants, both Gerry and Malcolm shouting encouragement, fists pumping air, willing their team on.
Sam, being pulled forward, leans back, feet firmly planted, the studs from him boots digging into the platform. In front of him Jon is straining, head rocked back, mouth open, gritted teeth gnashing between bearded lips as he uses his whole body to resist the pull of his opponents. With strength starting to fade, he is dragged forward, his feet inching closer to the lip of the platform. His cheeks puff as he blows, gasping in lung fulls of air to feed his muscles the oxygen they crave. Sam feels the lactic acid building in his muscles, the pain inching up from wrists, through to forearms, his shoulders a fiery blaze of pain. He closes his eyes and strains, a bellow rasping from his lips as he tries to block out the pain. He pulls harder, jerking back in concerted bursts of power, trying to break his opponents spirit. Jon senses the change in tact and joins Sam, pulling when he feels his captain heave, releasing, a micro rest, then yank again.
The change in tension unsettles their opponents and they lurch forward. One step, then two, almost at the lip of the gunge pit. The noise from the crowd reaches new levels. They sense blood and will their team to push on, or fight back.
Mark and Chris regroup , pulling as one, but the relentless burst of immense force from their opponents keep pulling them forward gradually, relentlessly. Each player is suffering as the match continues, neither side willing to give up, the gunge pit the humiliating end to a contest fought with passion, before a baying crowd. The pain of lactic acid increases, moving up Sam's thighs. He ignores it, refocuses and pulls again. He hears Jon in front of him scream, a brutal guttural rising howl as he pulls one more time. Sam can see the sheen of sweat on Jon's neck, glistening under the studio lights. He gets glimpses from across the platform of his opponents fighting back, willing their tired bodies not to concede, to fight back.
One more, one more, Sam strains again, Jon joins him, his muscles screaming for a release, just to rest, just one second. He fights the thoughts off, and heaves again.
Chris fights their efforts, pulling back as hard as he can, but moving forward, slowly, irresistibly. The toes of his boots reach the end of the platform. He keeps going, fighting, fighting. He feels the strength starting to wane yet the pull from opponents remains steady, the rope starting to slip through his fingers and finally he sags, his body succumbing, the white flag of surrender raised. His body, sweaty, strained and spent relents and he reaches the lip of the platform and goes over, falling into the gunge, the splash sending waves of green over the lip and onto the studio floor. The crowd noise reaches crescendo. Mark, without his partner fights solo, but is futile and is pulled forward quickly. Despite being vastly out powered he fights one more time, but he's done. Defeated he topples into the gunge pit. More waves ripple from the tank, and both he and Chris are fully submerged.
With the sudden release of tension Sam and Jon topple backwards onto the platform, They lie prone, panting, chests heaving, exhausted as the heads of their opponents pop back up from the grunge. Unrecognisable, heads, shoulders , rugby kits coated with thick green gunge emerge, still panting, with eyes wide, the only colour to break the green. The clamber over the lip of the pit and jump to the floor. Green gunge drips from them, running down legs, over boots, pooling at their feet. The double over, hands on their knees, blowing hard, recovering.

I am recovering slowly too, my heart racing from watching that segment, seeing two fit guys plunge into the gunge, defeated from the game, their penalty a public gunging.

Back to the video and we have faded to the two captains stood side by side facing David, and the two contestants. Sam is covered in sweat, still panting as his body returns to rest, his heart rate slowing as his respiratory system recovers. By his side stands Mark still dripping gunge, his hair plastered flat under a sheen of shiny thick green gunge. His chest is rising and falling rapidly as he too recovers. Gunge drips down his face and he wipes it away with his arm. His jersey is plastered to his body, two mounds of pectoral muscle defined by the sopping top. Gunge runs down his legs, then socks, oozing slowly over boots, onto the floor.

"Ten points for your team, Sam, you gotta be pleased with that?" David asks, the audience showing appreciation with a ripple of applause. A graphic showing the current score table superimposes across the bottom of the screen.

"Yeah, yeah, that was tough, but," Sam breaths, through laboured breath. He places both hands on hips as he takes deep recovery breaths, "well done to Mark and Chris for making a battle of that. Ten points for Gerry is all that matters though, it's important we get off to a strong start"

The crowd applaud again and Dave turns to Mark, "What went wrong there, Mark?"

Mark wipes more gunge from his face, the thick gunge making slow progress down from his hair, dripping down his face as the interview continued. He wipes his face for a second time. For what it's worth he tries to wipe his hands on his top, but it is saturated in gunge, so only pushes the gunge around, failing to wipe his hand clean. He tries to shake it off instead. "We got out fought there. Fair shout to the boys, Sam and Jon. They worked well as a team to pull us in." He shifts his gaze from host to his contestant, "Sorry Malcolm, we let you down there mate"

"Plenty of time to get back in the game!" David cries, enthusiastically. "Onto game two!"