It was the night of a supporters’ club do at Edgeley Park, the ever-popular Meet the Referee evening.  The missus and I were looking forward to asking some testing questions about technical areas like offside at the ruck, binding in the scrum and whether London Bees’ flanker Lorenzo Dalcipolla is as big a pain in the backside as he seems.

    First up we had to get some grub so we called in at the Friary on Castle Street.  The sweet, honeyed smell of the chip fat drew us irresistibly into the cosy warmth of the café and we settled down to tuck into trays of fat, juicy chips.  While we ate, the conversation drifted to overseas players in the Premiership.

    ‘I don’t know how committed they are,’ she said.  ‘You sometimes wonder if they’re just over here for the money.  To put some cash into the retirement fund.’

    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ I replied, ‘when you see them playing they look pretty committed.  I think they give just as much as any English player.  And anyway the English players aren’t all saints exactly.’

    She struggled on a chip for a moment before choking out, ‘Ours all would be if Mallinder had his way!’  She’s a funny lass, with a bee in her bonnet about Big Jim’s recruitment policy at Northampton this year.

    ‘They’re professionals though,’ I continued.  ‘They wouldn’t be doing their jobs if they weren’t committed.  And anyway, when you see all the players together you can tell there’s a good team spirit.  They were having a right laugh when we saw them at the airport that time.’

    ‘You don’t think they’re a bit, you know, up themselves then?’

    ‘Ha, maybe some of them.  But most of them are really nice, down-to-earth lads.  You can chat to them anywhere, they always have time for the fans.  You remember what Jake McTalisker said at the supporters’ night the other week?  You’re an All Black 24 hours a day.  Once you’ve worn that jersey you have to live up to it the whole time.  It’s an honour that also comes with an obligation.’

    ‘And you swallow all that stuff, do you?’

    ‘Well, he seemed pretty serious about it, so yes, I do.  Are you finishing them chips?’

    I had to get some money before going to the do, so I nipped over the road to the cash machine, leaving the missus to eat up in the chippy.  The machine was being difficult so it took a little while to persuade it to cough up (nothing to do with the state of my bank account, of course) and as I waited I heard a shout from across the street.  I looked up to see the better half in front of the café, staggering backwards as a tall figure dressed in black started to run away from her.  In a glance I realised he had got her handbag in his arms and was making off with it.  It had been her who had shouted.

    I was in a bit of a dilemma at this point as the machine still had my card and hadn’t doled out the cash.  I didn’t want to get robbed twice.

    ‘Come on, you banker,’ I shouted, or similar words, but then when I looked back at the street I saw a bloke in a blur of royal blue whiz past in the direction of the thief.  Odd sort of uniform for a copper, I thought.

    By now I had my cash and quickly I ran off down the same way.  I didn’t have far to go as the bloke in blue had already caught up with the rather slow handbag snatcher and, just in front of Somerfield, I saw him make a spot-on try-saving tackle to bring the toerag to the deck.  Quick as a flash, as if trying not to get pinged for holding on, bluey was on his feet and then kneeling on the robber’s back.

    Panting like an emphysemic hippo I finally caught up with the action and started to gasp my thanks to the hefty-looking saviour.

    ‘Wow, man, that was brilliant, absolutely fantastic of you.’

    The miscreant struggled a bit but our man grabbed him by the neck and shoved his face to the ground just to remind him who was in charge.  When he had made his position clear, in a physical way, he turned round and I suddenly recognised the Sale top and the tanned, familiar features of the person wearing it.

    ‘Bloody hell! Jake McTalisker!’ I almost shouted, with everything coming out as an exclamation.  ‘I can’t believe it!  I can’t believe you risked a kicking just for us!’

    ‘Mate,’ said the hero of the hour, looking me firmly in the eye, ‘I’m an All Black.’

    The missus arrived and might have thrown herself on her knight-in-shiny-tracksuit if I hadn’t been patting him on the back myself.  We couldn’t believe our luck and, when the police arrived and he could finally let the villain go, we cornered him to extract a couple of autographs too.

    It was all coming to an end when, just as the police were leading the bloke away, he tried to make a break for it.  The copper’s grip on his jacket was too tight to let him get away but it did rip it open to reveal his shirt underneath.  To cap it all off the light-fingered lag was wearing a black-and-gold Bees jersey!  Just bloody typical that we would be one of their supporters: they steal the ball in the ruck, they steal championships at the end of the season, is there anything they won’t steal?

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