Increasingly these days I find myself thinking back to cinematic images of vainglory from my younger years. It brings it home to me just how distant and lost these are when I try to cross a busy road. When once I would lope across like a panther these days I more resemble a spastic Bobby Shafto – the object of fellow pedestrians calling out to me, “You stupid old twat”. So memories tend to get brilliantined with passing.

 

Take my rugby days for example. I have got better as I have got older, as they say. In reality the description “he aspires to mediocrity” could have been invented for me.

 

I played in my twilight years (there never were any sunshine years) as a prop forward. These are the fatboys who trot from scrum to scrum, lean on their opponent and, from time to time, throw them a punch when the ref isn't looking. Or cop one in return.

 

Some games I never touched the ball from one Saturday to the next and, as for running with ball – we left that to the girls in the backs. So you will understand why I frequently revisit in my memory halls the only time I scored a try at senior level, by which I mean any game above the U13's.

 

I can't remember who we were playing but they must have been particularly crap because we were 40 points up on them and we were particularly crap. Anyroadup, we were attacking their try line and a ruck or maul formed (it wasn't important for a prop to know the difference) which we won. (In “Rugby for Dummies” it's explained that this is where a prop should be. In practice a fatboy like me would be found waddling up the field 40 yards away). So our scrum half whipped the ball away to our stand-off who, in turn, spun it like a rifle bullet to our inside centre.

 

Now I should explain at this point to anyone whose lives are pauperised by a lack of interest in rugby (I'm surprised you've got this far) that a conventional line-up for an attack like this would have had the outside centre next in line for a pass with the immaculately dressed winger on the outside of him. However on this occasion, Nudder, the loose head prop and I, his tight head, had ambled in between.

 

“Get out the fucking road!” I heard several voices shout. But too late as it happened because the inside centre had already arrowed a lovely spin pass to Nudder. I had every expectation that the useless bastard would drop it; it's what any good prop worth their salt would do. But he didn't. By some miracle he caught it. And he was just about to get clattered by one of their defenders when he decided to pass it on to me.

“Fuck me!” I thought. “It's coming!”

 

And that was when the course of this spinning, horizontal projectile was interrupted by the most bobbly, girly pass you've ever seen being lobbed towards me. And this, dear reader, is where Glory takes over from Narrative.

 

As the ball was about to flop to the ground a couple of feet in front of me I stooped like a falcon to gather it one-handed, raced 40 yards to the try line and dotted it down. (OK. It was about 2 yards). But that's not the point. The point is this.

Well, you get the point.

 

It wasn't easy being modest about it afterwards in the bar despite the helpfulness of team mates.

“Will you shut the fuck up!” I recall being their advice.

But I knew I had etched pure gold in the halls of my memory. It would never happen again.