G'bye, sport

From my eyrie 29 storeys above the rucks and mauls of the busy streets below the famous vista unfolds - Opera House, bridge, harbour and the dizzy Manhattanscape of the CBD (Central Business District). This man-made furniture is scattered with casual artifice on to nature's arrangement of sparkling inlets and headlands. Traffic zips along the Bradfield Highway on the Harbour Bridge, and boats cut foamy trails in the green-blue water. A diorama of concrete and steel, sun and sea forming and dissolving continuously.

From my eyrie 29 storeys above the rucks and mauls of the busy streets below the famous vista unfolds - Opera House, bridge, harbour and the dizzy Manhattanscape of the CBD (Central Business District). This man-made furniture is scattered with casual artifice on to nature's arrangement of sparkling inlets and headlands. Traffic zips along the Bradfield Highway on the Harbour Bridge, and boats cut foamy trails in the green-blue water. A diorama of concrete and steel, sun and sea forming and dissolving continuously.

For me, Sydney is in the final with Rio de Janeiro in my personal world championship of the most graceful city I have visited. The other world championship being decided here is of no interest to me. It is one of those cosmic jokes that I find myself accidentally in the temporary capital of Planet Rugby. I am in the right place at the wrong time.

It's everywhere. From the moment you disembark you confront a rogues' gallery of thuggish faces on posters - Martin Johnson stands in front of Big Ben bearing the caption "Transported to Botany Bay", an overmuscled Italian stallion is labelled "True Blue", and the Australian beefcake proclaims "I am the man from down under".

Even before the baggage belt I spy excited huddles of men unable to tear themselves from TV sets scattered around the concourse - all glued to the spectacle of men grappling with men. In the cab the radio commentator is in a frenzy about Australia's showdown with Scotland. My cabbie is indifferent to my indifference and pours forth a stream of rugbish. The whole city seems to have taken a testosterone overdose.

Except Chinatown. Maybe this is because China has yet to produce a world-ranking rugby team but it's business as usual in the warren of restaurants and grocery stores. Brunch is at East Ocean on Sussex Street. It's long had a reputation for great yum cha (dim sum) washed down with some of the rudest service in the southern hemisphere. I am with surf bum/doctor of philosophy Sean, and his wife Magda. They are in a state of shock when some of the staff smile at us, the restaurant is apparently under new management. Over a feast of prawn parcels, crispy pork and slithery dumplings we set up the Sydney Rugby Resistance.

Sean says: "It's hard to ignore it - but I'd rather be out on the waves. I prefer sports that pit you against nature rather than... blokes." Magda has also been underwhelmed by what she's seen so far. She finds the squat Neanderthal look so many players affect a bit of a turn off. But AFL (Australian Rules football) is another matter: "Those boys have muscles but they also have necks."

We head out west to Bondi where the annual Sculpture by the Sea exhibition is under way. The event, now in its seventh year, has become a prelude to Sydney's summer. The sun is high, and Bondi is heaving with swimmers and surfers. Magda shudders, claiming the water is still cold enough to give her an "ice-cream headache". Up on the headland the sculptures and installations are drawing a festive crowd. Children run among delicate glass creations, a dog cocks its leg on "The Vessel of the Horizon" - described by its creator as "an experiment with the horizon, its light and its ubiquity to the sea".

We walk on via Mackenzie's Bay to Tamarama Bay. Many of the works have topical themes. The most overtly satirical is "Package Tour" - raw materials include a real tank with a sun terrace, barbie and potted plants. The asking price of A$60,000 (£27,000) is also, I suspect, satirical. There are no topical references to rugby.

Tamarama has been adopted by Sydney's sizeable gay population who parade their buffed pecs on this beach. Inevitably it's been renamed Glamourama. Its ethos could not be further from the blood and guts of the World Cup - nevertheless the rugby is beginning to register, in particular the new body-hugging kits worn by France and England have secured gay approval. I learn that Jonny Wilkinson and Wallabies captain George Gregan are picking up a panting gay fan base.

I am bundled along to a dinner party in Bronte. My host Chris, a TV production designer, as luck would have it created the rugby World Cup set for Channel 7. He says the event has yet to really catch fire, "Everything seems smaller than the Olympics. That was a wild party for the whole time." From the balcony we survey the tree line where flocks of rainbow lorikeets (if Howard Hodgkin designed birds...) compete with kookaburras to make the most exotic noise.

Two quarter-final games flicker on the TV - France v Ireland followed by England v Wales, neither of which is played in Sydney. The drums are beating. From here on all the big games are coming to town.

In the CBD the World Cup 2003 logo winks at you from ads and banners lining every street. Rampaging hulks in green and gold (the Australian colours) dominating the Mulberry shop window collide with an ethereal Bulgari babe advertising expensive geegaws. Tiaras and testosterone. The scrum of corporate sponsors falling over themselves is funny. Coca-Cola is selling souvenir bottles - "Collect all four. Only $4 each". Holland - not hitherto known as a great rugby nation - has the beer franchise; Heineken is a "world wide partner". And the prize for most bizarre slogan must surely go to Visa: "Love Rugby. All it takes is Visa". Tell that to England coach Clive Woodward.

TV monitors in public spaces and shopping arcades are running last week's rugby matches on what seems to be an endless loop. My head is being trampled. I claim cultural asylum by buying tickets for a Sydney Symphony gig at the Opera House.

But first a quick spin around the harbour. "There is no speed limit in Sydney Harbour," grins skipper Kevin. "You could build a boat that does 200km an hour and drive it up and down the harbour all day." His 700-horsepower boat, the Oz Jet, does a more modest 80km/h - much of it sideways. We are sheathed in red plastic ponchos, strapped in and restrained by a safety bar. The boat grunts to life, a deep ominous rumble of bass.

We push forward at a stately pace along Sydney Cove, the Opera House slides past and my palms have gone clammy. As we clear Bennelong Point the bass notes rise to a howl and the boat takes off. We batter the waves, the spray crashes down on those sitting at the back - then a sudden jerk and we are sliding sideways past the Botanic Gardens, past Garden Island and on. Just off Clarke Island, Kevin makes a circular gesture with his palm and the boat flies into a violent 360-degree spin - the equivalent of a handbrake turn on water.

As the spray and the screams subside I look around and everyone is laughing hysterically. We take off again. This really is a great way of not seeing the harbour. At Point Piper we get a snatch of the millionaires' palaces lining the water's edge, Shark Island disappears in a blur, so does Bradleys Head. Then we return, making out the ant shapes of people doing the climb on the Harbour Bridge above.

We thunder through, below and round Luna Park - another 360-degree power slide and then back to the Opera House where the famous shells appear to have collapsed in a heap - or maybe it's just me.

I stagger up the steps of Australia's most famous landmark for my date with the Sydney Symphony Orchestra. From the inside it is obvious that the Danish architect Jorn Utzon's audacious shell superstructure is no more than a tent under which the auditoriums have been sheltered. They are in effect buildings within a building. When you peer upwards from the various foyers, the gaps separating the outer from the inner skin are clearly visible - evidence of the bitter rift between visionary architect and state government which never quite got what Utzon was up to. It ended in tears with Utzon walking out. Three other architects had to finish the job, and sadly the interior shows all the signs of design by committee.

In my haste to flee the rugby I have forgotten that I know even less about classical music. But the concert is mesmerising. These are the last few weeks of Edo de Waart's tenure as the orchestra's boss after 10 huge years. Richard Strauss's Four Last Songs take on added poignancy in this charged atmosphere. The performance is glorious. Not simply as respite from rugby, but because it is the metaphysical opposite of rugby. The Strauss songs speak of yearning for rest, serenity, acceptance and dignity in death.

But concerts are a game of two halves. And at half time the spell is broken when I glance up at the Harbour Bridge from the foyer. And there between the central spans is a hundred-foot-high rugby ball painted in flashing lights. The drums are beating louder. The beating of fists on chests is rising to a crescendo. A monster of much hair and hormone is about to devour this city. But here comes my chariot, my 747 is swinging low. It's come - to take me home.

TRAVELLER'S GUIDE

Getting there: a dozen different airlines can get you from Britain to Sydney. Fares for the next couple of weeks are as low as £600 return; for Christmas and New Year, they more or less double; in January and February, expect to pay around £700-£800.

Staying there: Sankha Guha was a guest of Tourism New South Wales. He stayed at the Shangri-La Hotel, 176 Cumberland Street, The Rocks, Sydney (00 61 2 9250 6000, www.shangri-la.com) which has double rooms with breakfast for A$450 (£189); and the Southern Cross Suites on Harbour, 38 Harbour Street, Darling Harbour, Sydney (00 61 2 9268 5888) where a room is A$165 (£69) with breakfast.

Being there: Sculpture By The Sea: 00 61 2 9130 2828, www.sculpturebythesea.com

East Ocean Restaurant: Haymarket, 421 Sussex Street, 00 61 2 9212 4198

Oz Jet: 20A Waterview Street, Putney, 00 61 2 9808 3700, www.ozjetboating.com

Sydney Opera House: 00 61 2 9250 7777, www.sydneyoperahouse.com

Compare Travel Insurance - 5 day Euro cover from £4.33 and Annual worldwide policies from just £43.08