Years ago, Engineering News publishing editor Martin Creamer told me I could write about anything in this column, as long as it was not offensive. So, the World Cup rugby. Not the recent event – the one in 1995.

I have lived my life following a plan. I have stuck to the plan and have hit most of my goals. Not all, but what is a plan worth if it does not have a bit of ambition?

I have my business and my dogs, I can cook and play bridge, I can fly a helicopter, I have a house and a Mercedes. I had a beautiful lover (who died, not part of the plan). I have seen most of Africa, caught tiger fish and trout, learned to ride a horse and I write a column. All good.

I made my plan when I was 25 years old. One item was that I would stop smoking when I was 40. Thus, I went to a smoke enders course and, in 1995, stopped smoking. A great weight lifted. I felt great. And then South Africa, readmitted to world rugby in the 1995 World Cup, beat Australia in Pool A. We were pushed but Joel Stransky (fly-half) scored a try, four penalties and a drop. Wow! I went for a run through Cape Town to celebrate. I ended up running the length of the Companies Garden. Heaven. The Boks then played Western Samoa who, well, we beat. Hardly surprising. The next match against France was tough. South Africa won by four points. And then it was us against New Zealand. In Cape Town, it was a challenge to find a place to watch the World Cup final on TV. The pubs were booked out. Finally, I found a small restaurant on Main road Rondebosch and squeezed in. There were students, security guards, vagrants, businesspeople, waiters . . .

The day arrived. Anthems and then . . . a Boeing 747 flew low over the stadium, almost close enough to touch. The stencilled underside of the plane read ‘Good Luck Bokke’. It was piloted by Laurie Kay. I loved it. It said: “We are Africa! We can do this!”

The game progressed. The Bokke were 9-9 at full-time. We were into extra time. And then Stransky scored a drop goal. The restaurant erupted.

And then Nelson Mandela, wearing a Springbok rugby jersey and baseball cap, presented the Webb Ellis Cup to South African captain François Pienaar to cheers from the crowd.

Not reported on, but factual, was that Cape Town went mad. Never since has the city gone so wild. There were so many people in Main road that it was closed from Salt River to Wynberg. And they were nearly all drunk. A religious group dug out the fireworks normally kept for their celebration and rockets and star shell blew into the sky. Ronderbosch common caught alight but the fire was quelled by residents, many swigging from wine bottles. A black university lecturer, a black restaurant waiter and I danced along Main road, doing a Zulu ingoma dance. We had no sticks so we used some lengths of conduit I had in the boot of my car. We danced from Rondebosch fountain to the Mowbray police station, where the police turned us back. Finally, I ran out of steam.

It was, all in, the best celebration of my life. We had beaten Australia. We had beaten France. We had beaten the All Blacks. We had beaten apartheid. We had Madiba. I drove home over the railway bridge into my suburb, Pinelands. Just after the bridge, carefully hidden, was a police road block. I stopped. A police officer asked for my licence. I showed him. “Tell me, sir,” he said, “have you had anything to drink?” I told him yes, I had had plenty. He asked me where I lived. I told him, not far.

So, he said: “Sir, do this for me: put your car into second gear and drive home in second gear. Thank you.”

I got home and fell asleep, smiling.