HAVE you ever had one of those days when you wish the ground would open up and swallow you
whole?

It happened to me the other day, when I paid my first post-retirement visit to Tynedale Rugby Club to see them take on nearest neighbours Wharfedale from Yorkshire, and was flattered to be warmly welcomed by several alickadoos I had not seen since the watery wastes of last season.

I shook many hands, and was making my way to my usual seat in the press box at Tynedale Park when I was pulled to one side and advised that sitting on the opposite side of the aisle was none other than the great John Spencer.

I glanced across, and there indeed was the familiar face I remembered gracing the green baize when snooker was at its height in the late 1970s and early 80s.

He had aged a little I thought, but his broad Northern tones encouraged me to go across and have a chat with the potter from the depths of Lancashire.

I blethered on for several minutes about potting blacks, Hurricane Higgins, the other legendary toper Bill Werbeniuk and Whispering Ted Lowe before realising the lack of response might indicate the former world champion might want to reflect on the coming game.

I eventually reached my seat, and glanced at the programme for the first time and noted to my horror that the man I had been talking to was not the well- known snooker player I took him for, but the former England rugby captain of the same
name, who has been president
of the Wharfedale club for 38 years.

Not only that, but he had just been invited to be manager of the British and Irish Lions rugby team which will tour New Zealand next year.

It may be a good omen, for back in 1971 Spencer was a member of the only Lions team to win a series against the All Blacks on Kiwi soil.

To make matters worse, a quick check on the internet revealed that the John Spencer of Crucible fame had died a decade ago...

I resolved to go and have a word with the visiting president and apologise for my gaffe at the half time interval, but that intention was overtaken by events.

As the half time whistle went, I was approached by an elderly fan I had shaken hands with before the match – and noted that his right hand was heavily bandaged and still dripping blood.

Seemingly, I had gripped his hand with a little too much vigour for one of his vintage, tearing his skin and inducing a major bleed.

I felt terrible at inflicting injury on the old boy, but he assured me with a twinkle that he would survive.

It turned out he was one of my regular internet Scrabble opponents who would now be at a disadvantage because he would have to play left handed …

Recognising people has never been my strong point and many is the time I have walked along Fore Street with Mrs Hextol and been greeted by various people, who have stopped for a chat.

“Who was that, and why didn’t you introduce us?” Mrs Hextol would say, and I would be obliged to confess “because I have no idea who it was!”

I like to think I am also pretty good at quizzes, but never win the ones where there is a picture round.

They could feature photographs of my own family and I would still struggle to put names to pictures of my nearest and dearest.

The Spencer incident isn’t the first time I have been involved in a case of mistaken identity.

I was at an election count at the Wentworth centre some years ago when I spotted a former councillor with whom I had worked on a number of stories.

I walked up and gave her a friendly hug, and then noticed the look of sheer panic on her face – and realised it was a different person altogether.

I managed to convince her I was not some sort of election molester just before she summoned the duty constable.

Occasionally, the boot is on the other foot though, and on another occasion at the Wentworth I was enormously flattered to be approached by a lady who wanted my autograph.

As I was about to sign with a flourish, she rather burst my bubble by inquiring: “So what has brought Harold Bishop all the way from Erinsborough to Hexham?”