Paul Rendall, the Judge, an outstanding rugby International of the 80’s and 90’s with whom I toured all round the world, lost his battle with MND last week and died aged 69. Here are a few memories and undoubtedly a tribute.

The Judge fixed me with an avuncular almost friendly eye. ‘Mr Halliday, for having the audacity to suggest that my time was up and should be replaced as Judge, I ask you to finish what is in front of you.’ Post-match on the England tour of Australia and Fiji, pre–World Cup 1991, found guilty in the Players court through the prosecution of Brian Moore and condemned to consume a cocktail that Diageo would definitely not have recognised. Not only that but had to help Jerry Guscott finish his birthday cake which may have soaked up some of the alcohol but nothing else to recommend it. I learnt my lesson.

Paul was part of the England front row which contested 5 minutes on the Scottish try line without pushing them over or winning a penalty try in the Grand Slam Crunch match of 1990. Something to do with the Scottish scrum collapsing and a reluctant referee. It was momentous and we lost the game, but pride was also at stake. He spent much of the evening in a morose mood and cried on the shoulder of our (female) liaison officer who tried to comfort him – the only time I saw the Judge shed tears.

On the day before the Rugby World Cup Final in 1991, I and a number of my fellow backs were loitering on top of a scrummage machine while the lads were doing their final heaves. Suddenly, we jumped from our places as what sounded like a rifle shot rang out. Roger Uttley stopped the scrum immediately and we all stood looking around. Then the Judge was spotted leaning on the machine with a leg up. He had torn his Achilles tendon. He grinned ruefully and opined in his wonderful cockney twang – ‘Well Lads, I will have to leave it to you tomorrow then, I ain’t going anywhere (other than to hospital).’ He didn’t want to make a fuss, typical of the man.

Like most backs, I wasn’t part of the inner sanctum who sat at the back of the bus – Dooley, Winterbottom, Teague, Moore and of course Paul himself. On match days they always wanted to know whether Rory Underwood and I had completed the Telegraph crossword which we did religiously. It was something of a pre-match omen – not that they could help at all. Unfortunately for Jason Leonard there were no colouring in clues.

I had many nicknames, and the Judge had one he always used, Hallybumbum, which I shall reluctantly reveal in the spirit of this tribute. We did respect each other very much; his club Wasps was often the hurdle between Bath and league and cup success. No holds barred – ever – and Gareth Chilcott, our cuddly hard man, had nothing but praise for him. I didn’t encounter him much on the field- in those days any self-respecting back either ran past or through prop forwards.

Judge, you were the catalyst for the first ever reunion between the 91-92 Grand Slam team after more than 30 years to raise funds and show solidarity. So many great names in one room, all for you. That’s a measure of your status in the game and how much you were loved.

As we promised Doddie and as we promise you, we will fight on to find a cure for MND, especially on this day of all days. We remember with smiles as well as sadness your great contribution on and off the field. 

RIP big man.