I was at Rugby Park, Hamilton when we last beat the six-fingered in-breeders in 1994. It was my first down-country, 'south-of-Eden-Park' experience and nothing could quite prepare me for the occasion. I was on the North Harbour Supporters' bus with two other pals who, in the interests of anonymity, I shall refer to as Age and Fish. The North Harbour Supporters' Club is made up of people who do their very best to overcome their lack of militancy and passion (and their aged infirmities) by faithfully turning up to every game. By the time we three outsiders had reached Ngaruawahia we were onto our second dozen and had started singing "Who is Duane Monkley?" and (in keeping with the times of the water crisis, to show our knowledge of current events), "We Don't Want Your Pipeline". 

Then we arrived at the ground. I was afraid. Strange men with deformities not-of-this-world materialised, seemingly from the same cemetery; swandris with uneven humps crawled out of nearby manholes; thick-jawed, high-foreheaded pithecanthrepoids limped ungainly towards the gates, knuckles dragging on the ground; child-beasts scurried around the feet of cro-magnoms who were, at once, brothers, fathers and cousins to their own offspring. I sat in the sheltered corner of the ground as we won by a hefty margin (the score escapes me but I think we got in the 20s and they got about 9). When my feet were nestled back safely on terra-harba in the traquil surroundings of the Poe, I reflected on the indelible mental scarring I had suffered: I had heard of such beings but always believed them to be the stuff of ancient myths and Invercargill. 

I have returned there 3 or 4 times since both as a Chiefs 'follower' (we beat Queensland) and as a glutton for Ranfurly Shield Challenge hidings. I didn't really think we'd ever have what it takes to beat Waikato because there simply isn't anyone on the Shore whose biological make-up is still wedged firmly in the Paleonthitic Era.

By the time the heavens opened on Saturday at the Stadium of Echoes, nothing had changed my mind. Yet by half-time, something was awry: we were in front (lawn bowler Willie Wood compensating for his inability to perform the duties for which he was selected, namely kicking goals, by scoring an ugly try - sometimes something so hideous can be so beautiful). Then the sun came out and one just got the sneaky feeling that something special was in the offering, because we were gaining the edge in the tight and killing them in the loose. 

When Sharky caught them napping with a quick tap penalty for Parkinson to score out wide, the rapturous din inside the stadium was such that you couldn't hear a pin drop unless you were really close up to it. The next try by Gear - shit, that boy looks handy - gave us the buffer some of the more heartless Harbour fans needed in order to start personally abusing the Waikato fans and Roger Randle: "Ring ya bell", "No means no, Roger", "When you have to kick down the hotel door, Roger, it means she's not interested" and "You only ring when you're winning" (ok, not the last one, 'coz I only thought of it later). Wit had come to the Stadium of Echoes and it was funny.

Yet still we couldn't be completely happy. The mix-up which led to our taking a shot for goal instead of going for a 4th try, had those in the crowd with sufficient memories recalling the bonus points we didn't get against Taranaki and Auckland last year which cost us a semi-final berth. More disturbing was the manner in which the Waikato fans seemed to vanish into thin air. They virtually outnumbered us inside the ground but the speed at which the stronger members of their pack dispersed - leaving the weaker, more vulnerable degenerates to be devoured by the victory choristers - was truly wildlife at its most mysterious. We scanned the surrounding shrubbery and shook the trees but our genetically-disadvantaged brethren had gone. 

Next week we travel to Pukekohe, where the hordes are less hairy and slightly further up the food-chain but who are, in one of those paradoxes of nature, considerably poorer. Rest assured, we bastions of nouveau-riche, middle-class comforts will remind them of this after we've dealt out a 50-point hiding and before they pile their 17 children into the back of the ute and scurry back to their state houses.