Yep, it was that time of year when all right-minded farmers from Coatesville and surrounding districts made with haste to escort their flocks safeward under lock and key.  Shearing was postponed; dags, rather than being removed, were stapled up to provide the tempting orifices with extra protection. The Cantabs were in town and every sheep from Albany to Massey was forced to live in interminable fear for 48 frightening hours as hordes of expat-Poms, women-starved farmers and skin-heads with little or no racial tolerance converged to commit vile acts of ovine-reaming.

Consider this from Dave of Hobsonville (50 acres, flock of 165):

"You know what to expect but nothing can prepare you for it. I'd made sure I'd padlocked all the sheds and put out extra feed to tide them through the night. I'd settled into my $4000 leather couch to watch Gladiator on my new recordable DVD - as any Shore family would do on a Thursday night - knowing they'd arrived in town but thinking I'd taken all necessary precautions. Then it happened. It was all so fast. A distant rumble which grew louder and louder. Then it sounded like it was on top of the house. Then a huge crash followed by blood-curling screams of pain, the likes of which I'd never heard. We ran out to the shed and it had been reduced to rubble...(soft sobbing)...it was horrible...they...they're monsters, I tell you. Blood everywhere. They even got Bessie, the kids' pet lamb...what sort of ANIMALS would do that?"

Well, Dave, fret not, because although Bessie's innocence has been brutally rendered asunder, you may console yourself with the knowledge that you have played your own special part in a Harbour machine which is growing in poise, strength and determination with each passing week. In short, Canterb-a-a-a-a-ahry never looked likely. If anyone had suggested at the beginning of the season that we would be top of the table after round 5, having played the Neanderthals, The Scum and the Sheep-Shaggers, and that our defence would be the best (per capita) in the comp, he'd probably have been me, mid-July, at the Poe with a keg-load of ale in my gut and a crate-load of verbal shite in my mouth.  

He still is me, but now he's right. 

Compare the games of the players who mattered:

Mehrtens: sub on. Do nothing. Sub off. Sub on. Kick ball out on full from 22 drop-out.

Lord: win lineout. Do hard yards. Win lineout. Do hard yards. Win lineout. Do hard yards.

Blackadder: plod. Plod some more. Make a great tackle on Te Nana. Plod. Plod. Be loved by middle-aged Canterbury housewives. Plod. Be the shortest-live AB captain since...

Marshall: get arse kicked off the park - figuratively by Sharky; literally by...

Matua: steal turnover. Sprint to breakdown. Steal turnover. Sprint to breakdown. Steal turnover. Sprint to breakdown. Left jab.  Left jab. Duck.  Swinging right haymaker to jaw of former All Black halfback. Sit in sin-bin next to former All Black halfback. Ignore former All Black halfback's attempts to make conversation. Look way cool.

Sharky: run. Dart. Jink. Weave. Throw good old-fashioned Harbour miracle-ball which misses target by miles. Kick fairly well for a pleasant change. Lead us to glory. Cheers.

Apparently we're unbeaten for 2 years at the Fortress of Echoes (shove your House of Pain, mate). And still apathetic North Shore prefer to quaff crap Belgian beer at the waterfront on weekend evenings. If these part-timers start drifting to games now that we're actually winning, I can sense a hostile reception from some of the more devoted of our number. (We know who you are, you accountant and corporate fat-cat types.) Rumblings of discontent are afoot. And it's not the caterers' bacon and egg rolls.

Next week, harbourrugby.com are in Tauranga to get decently paneled in the sunshine.