Paul Thomas: Blue-and-white supporter's scarf put out for recycling

COMMENT

Call me shallow, call me disloyal, call me - if you must - a rat leaving a sinking ship, but it's time to reveal my new true colours: I've transferred my rugby allegiance from Auckland to Wellington.

I don't expect this news to create a ripple at the beleaguered headquarters of Auckland rugby, or penetrate the collective consciousness of the three rabbits in the headlights who comprise Auckland's coaching triumvirate, deafened as they must be by the bullfrog chorus of the punditry.

Just for the record, though, I'm no fair weather fan.

I stuck with Auckland through thick and thin for four decades. I've followed their progress from afar, when that meant prohibitively expensive phonecalls home and combing the results columns of the Times for scores that sometimes appeared and sometimes didn't, depending on sub-editorial whim.

But times and circumstances have changed. I've lived in Auckland for just three of the past 25 years, and while I enjoy my visits, they no longer trigger a sense of homecoming that's reinforced by spotting a half-forgotten face in every cafe.

New Zealand is less Old Testament on this issue than Melbourne, where "Thou shalt stick with thine Aussie Rules club" is the Eleventh Commandment. Melburnians go to their graves supporting the club they backed as kids, often on their father's say-so.

Interestingly, the players are as adaptable - or mercenary - as professional sportsmen in any other code.

Back in the mists of time I was a Cantabrian, imbued with all the glazed-eyed fanaticism which goes with that territory. I was heartbroken when Waka Nathan scored his famous last-minute try to deny us the Ranfurly Shield.

Two years later, my family moved to Auckland, and being as fickle as the next child, I got right behind my new team. I was gleefully there at Eden Park when we squeaked a draw with Hawkes Bay to break the Bay's record for shield defences that had stood since the 1920s.

I was also there the following week when Wellington made the most of Wellingtonian conditions - stiff wind, driving rain, gathering gloom - to bring down the curtain on that great era.

I can still see the tall, elegant figure of Mick Williment thumping over a monster penalty, which raises the question: why can I remember moments from rugby matches of 40 years ago while the swag of information I absorbed at university has faded away?

All that remains are a few inconsequential scraps and perplexing names - who or what was Gustavus Adolphus? - like the debris bobbing on the surface after a plane crash at sea.

Throughout this period I was leading a double life.

For domestic purposes, I was a normal, well-adjusted Kiwi boy who supported Auckland. When it came to international rugby, though, I cheered for Wales and the British Lions out of loyalty to my Welsh father.

It was the worst of times to do so. The All Blacks were as strong relative to the rest of the world as before or since, and British rugby was mediocre.

When the 1966 Lions and the 1969 Welsh team were trampled under the churning hooves of gaunt, steely-eyed New Zealand forwards, my so-called friends rubbed it in with a vengeance.

They say time heals all wounds but I'm still sceptical of the notion that New Zealanders are humble in victory.

It should have been payback time in 1971: the Lions beat the All Blacks, trounced the provinces and showed you what attacking back-play and scrummaging were all about.

By then, however, it was too late: I was at Auckland University, which was under the sway of a rabble-rousing larrikin named Tim Shadbolt, and my contemporaries were preoccupied with events in Southeast Asia.

Most of my so-called friends were too busy discovering sex, drugs and alcohol to care about the comeuppance being dished out to the All Blacks.

And those who weren't befuddled claimed they were over the whole competitive thing and just wanted to see a good game.

When I eventually got to the land of my fathers, I discovered the validity of the old All Black saying that you never beat Wales, you just score more points than them.

The Welsh are more than happy to replay over a few drinks any game you care to nominate - but you'd better come prepared.

After a gruelling night on Felinfoel bitter (the English, with good reason, call it "Feelingfoul"), I saw the light.

The only Lions I support these days prowl the Cake Tin.