I played rugby league from the age of 10 for the local team. Without showing off, I got quite good at it, captaining the town team and playing for Lancashire and all that business, until I found girls, beer and all of the other paraphernalia that you get involved with in your mid teens.

I was probably about 12/13 and was captain of the Sunday team that I played for when I hit upon the great idea that we should do the Hakka before each match to put the shits up the opposition from outposts such as Leigh, Culcheth and Widnes, amongst others.

I knew that my Grandad was a worldly wise sort of chap and I was sure that he’d be clued up on the Hakka related ins and outs that I sought.

‘The Hakka?’ He responded, when I asked. ‘Oh aye, I know all about the Hakka, lad’. He then proceeded to tell me the words (he even wrote them down for me) and show me the moves.

‘Gee lasha ba, gee lasha basha, with a jing, jing jingo. Alla ballah coolah, ah-coolah, ah-cooooolllllaaaah. Ya! Ya! Ya! Ya! Ya!’ (Yes, I still remember them).

I faithfully took everything back to the team at the next Tuesday training night and we practiced it, over and over.

Seriously, for the rest of that season, every Sunday morning, home and away we did the ‘Hakka’, according to Grandad Bert. Puzzled faces all around, on the pitch and on the touchline. ‘What the fuck are these little dickheads up to?’ It wasn’t a roaring success and we probably got dusted more times than we won.

I can imagine my Grandad pissing himself after I left, following our initial Hakka training session. I’m surprised he was able to keep a straight face when he was showing me the moves in his front room.

I took the time to watch the Hakka properly when I was a bit older and there was no real semblance to the words or moves that he showed me a few years earlier. Nothing at all.

Fucking great grandads aren’t they? Piss-taking bastard. He he.