I once almost killed a Canterbury rugby supporter.
I'm reminded of this dubious episode from my past as the Highlanders prepare to head north to take on the Crusaders this weekend in the Super Rugby quarter-finals.
Otago rugby fans have endured a litany of heartbreak and misery at the hands of their old foe for many decades; I'm hoping this weekend doesn't see a repeat, or at least nothing similar to that match nearly twenty-five years ago...
It was 1994, I was about 16 and went on a roadie with a whole group of footy mates to Christchurch to watch Otago challenge the Cantabs for the Ranfurly Shield.
Clad in cliché-ridden blue and gold boiler suits and hard-hats with Speight's stickers plastered all over them, we made our way to Lancaster Park, revelling in that unique atmosphere that can only be found amidst throngs of people all marching expectantly to a sporting event.
Those with a passing acquaintance of rugby history will recognise the occasion; the infamous David Latta penalty in the dying minutes of the game that gifted Canterbury the match.
Of all the heartache and close calls suffered by Otago rugby fans over the years, this is the one that hurts the most. The game was ours, we could feel it!
But after being urinated on, having various items of debris hurled our way and abused in a manner that would make a sailor blush, we decided to head for the hills as the last cruel rites were being administered by Andrew Mehrtens and the noble cause was lost.
That proved to be more difficult than it should have been as we were punched, kicked and spat on as we jostled our way through the terrace crowd in an effort to get to escape from the ground.
We spied an exit in the form of a concrete staircase and made as swift a beeline for it as circumstances would allow.
But one final hurdle awaited us as we inched closer to the clearing; on a landing above the stairs was a group of particularly nasty Cantabs who took full advantage of the high ground and rained down hellfire and brimstone on the hapless Otago boys - everything from full beer cans, to food and bodily excretions were hatefully hurled in our direction.
By chance I looked up and among the melee of distorted, gnarling and gnashing Canterbury faces was a scarf dangling down in a tempting fashion.
Always one for a souvenir, I leapt up and managed to grab it before running down the stairs. I wasn't aware when I latched on, but the scarf was still wrapped around the neck of one of the devilish Cantabs.
I heard him gargling for help as he tried to free himself with one hand, the other still holding a projectile - so I pulled harder and managed to run down about eight stairs, dragging him half over the railings, before I either lost grip or the scarf broke; not sure which one.
Needless to say, I felt mildly perturbed as I we wandered around Christchurch, our resplendent uniforms now sodden, smelly and ripped and their owners forlorn and despondent.
And yet the abuse continued!
Over the ensuing years, the Canterbury rugby supporter has changed very little. It is still, by and large, a humourless and nasty creature with a tendency to readily take offence at a perceived slight against its beloved Red and Blacks, in much the same way as a Dunedin person takes a bad weather forecast personally.
I'd like to think the mighty 'Landers can make it third time lucky this season against their northern neighbours on Saturday, but history tells us it's likely to be a bumpy road ahead.
One positive; Aussie Angus Gardner is the man with the whistle, not that Colin Hawke guy... now if he was wearing a scarf...