I was man of the match in a charity football game playing for a BBC Select XI against Lincolnshire's most famous sporting family – the Dunderdales – which featured on the local telly news.

And on Saturday I set a new personal best for watching sport on the box.

Starting with the England cricket team's one-dayer with Sri Lanka before ending more than 12 hours later with Jonny Wilkinson making the entire population of France cry into their croissants.

But my greatest claim to sporting fame is that my rugby playing career was ended by a man who went on to captain England.

On Saturday night I shall be glued to the telly to cheer on Jonny and the boys in their bid to lift a second successive World Cup – even though I'm not a big fan of the game.

This all dates back to the time when, as a football-mad kid, I suffered the nightmare of going to rugby playing Aireborough Grammar school.

I regularly found myself being picked for the second XV for no better reason than our games teacher, Fat Phil, reasoned that as a little fella who could kick a bit I'd make a great scrum half.

He was wrong, so very wrong. I preferred double Physics to 80 minutes of institutionalised thuggery.

Getting my head driven into the ground by a 15-stone teenage monster was not my idea of fun.

Finally, my dismal rugby career came to an abrupt end one very cold and very wet Saturday morning on the outskirts of Leeds.

We were getting hammered by a bigger, faster team. Fat Phil was shouting words of encouragement from the side which always began with: "Thornton, you girl . . .''

Late in the game, I got trapped under a pile of bodies. My face was submerged in one of the many standing pools of freezing cold water.

As the mud-laden forwards disentangled themselves to my horror I couldn't feel my legs.

Laid across them was a gigantic prop who was in no hurry to move. Still spluttering from drinking puddle, I barked at him to get his " big, fat **** off me.''

He did, then playfully cuffed me round the ear, questioned my sexuality and stamped on my ankle, before stomping off like a hippo with toothache.

That was enough for me. At the tender age of 16 I made up my mind to hang up my rugby boots.

I steeled myself to tell Fat Phil fully expecting a barrage of abuse. At break-time on the following Monday I knocked on his door with some trepidation.

Armed as usual with his packet of Rich Tea, my bombshell didn't even make him pause mid dunk. "You're dropped anyway. Young Melville's playing,'' he snorted.

Young Melville, two years my junior, was none other than Nigel Melville, who later captained the national side on his debut aged just 23.


Healthy advice from Ada (105)

Congratulations to Ada Carter who recently celebrated her 105th birthday.

Ada, who may well be the city's oldest resident, still has a twinkle in her eye.

And to prove it she gave the Queen a gentle ticking off off after the birthday card she received from Her Maj spelled her name wrongly.

In time-honoured tradition, an ET reporter asked Ada for the secret of her long life. She replied: "I don't drink, I don't smoke and I eat healthily.''

Good for Ada, but there's a small part of me that wishes she'd answered: "Drink til you fall over, smoke like a trooper and always order extra large fries with your double lardburger.''