I know, I know, don't knock it till you have tried it. No I'm not talking about some new Mathai (sweets) but a rugby game.

You couldn't blame me for being a teensy bit apprehensive, could you?

I remembered at college how rugby players were famed for drinking, bloodied noses and smashed teeth, cheer-inducing vomiting, the eating of live chickens and terrorising of Indian restaurant waiters. And that was just the women's team.

And whereas cricket conjures up the sight of crisp cotton, cucumber sandwiches and the gentle ripple of applause on a sunny green (unless Pakistan are playing of course and then it's total mayhem) rugby makes you think of people with no necks and thighs as wide as houses. Again I'm thinking of the women's team. (Only joking!)

I suppose I was worried that I was going to be one of the few, you know, Asians. And certainly the only one in a headscarf. I will look as if I got lost on the way to Wilmslow Road. How embarrassing.

Almost as bad as the time I cornered a possible future Prime Minister for an interview and delved into my bag for a pen and the only thing I could pull out was a lipliner. Anyway, I went with an open mind.

I got there in plenty of time. Queues were snaking through the turnstiles and I have to admit that I was getting some funny looks. Oh no, I panicked. I knew it, Lord Ouseley was right. There are two sides to our towns and never the twain shall meet, no matter how much free curry is sent to the other half.

But then someone came up to me and pointed out that I had been walking around with toilet paper stuck to my boot.

I started to enjoy myself. The atmosphere was friendly and fun. Ooh, it's a bit like the mela without all the drum beats.

At 2.58pm Gareth Gates came on and did a dance and the match started. But oh no, why didn't anyone tell me not to dress in red and black? As the opposition came on I realised I was wearing the same colours.

A slow torturous death was surely mine.

'That's Bull man,' my companion said. 'No, it's perfectly feasible that I get lynched, I said distractedly. 'No, that's Bull man', and he gesticulated to a man in a brown outfit.

But my doubts were swept away when fireworks lit up the sky and the match began.

The home side scored first. 'It's a goal!' I cried. 'No', said the boy in front, 'it's a try.'

'It's more than a try, he's done really well,' I retorted. Gosh, don't they know anything?

I had a desire to yell out 'Pakistan Zindabad!' but I restrained myself.

All in all it was a really good match. Who knows, I might even take my mother next time.