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Chris Wheal retired from playing rugby after breaking his right wrist in October 2003 (which followed knee ligaments, nose and right ankle – still with a plate and seven screws in it – in previous years.

In 2004, he took up refereeing with a vengence, joining the London Society of RFU Referees.

Here is the first of his diary of matches, called, for now at least, Balls and Whistles:

Saturday 18 September 2004.Kings College Hospital 2s – 67 Bromley 4s – 5.

“Gentlemen, If you have any constructive criticism about my refereeing, then please discuss them with me in the bar afterwards. However, on the pitch, I am God, or as close to God as you are going to get. That means I expect to hear nothing louder than silent prayer. If I do hear anything else, you will be treated to hellfire and damnation. If you do not understand my sermon, ten minutes under the posts should give you time to contemplate it.” And so began my refereeing career one rain-splashed Saturday afternoon in September 2004.

I’d only signed up with the London Society of Rugby Football Union Referees earlier in the week yet at about 4pm on Friday was asked if I could referee the following day. I’d taken my foundation exam two years earlier but only officiated when injured, preferring to play. A broken wrist had put paid to that and I had reluctantly accepted retirement. But I was determined to retire only from playing and not from the game itself.

I had an auspicious start. Kings College Hospital’s second team were hosting Bromley’s fours in a friendly. Kings was one of the founders of the RFU in 1871 and one of only eight of the 22 founding cubs still going. Their extravagantly wide and lusciously grassed pitch had been the arena in which I had torn my knee ligaments some three years before, so I knew the ground well. I had played against both teams before.

I thought I’d treat the front row and half backs to some additional preaching from the pulpit. To the front row, I explained that I had been a prop myself so, apart from being omnipresent, I knew what I was looking for. And if I didn’t see exactly what the problem was I was going to penalise the tight-head because it is nearly always his fault. Both tight-heads seemed to think this fair. I asked the fly-halves to keep their players back ten metres, particularly at lineouts, and I asked the scrum halves if, just for a change, they could put the ball in straight.

The game was a walkover for Kings, whose backs would have outclassed higher Bromley sides with their pace, passing and support play. I was only just over bronchitis and had spent the past decade propping, which meant keeping up with the medics was a challenge. Although Bromley grumbled, they remained in high spirits and scored at the end (well I made it the end by blowing full time a few minutes early).

My howler in the first half was to give a 22-metre drop out to Bromley when the Kings winger, who had circled the Bromley defence from the half-way line, dropped the ball instead of grounding it when he tried to do it casually and one-handed. I should have awarded a five-metre scrum. I blame a playing career in which whole games could pass without ever having the ball in my hand and a five-metre trundle was the longest run I ever made. On the rare occasions I went over the try line with the ball clasped to my belly, my whole body weight touched it down. This was never a law I had needed to worry about before.

The society had sent an injured but experience ref to watch, help and assess me. At half time he managed to whittle down his criticisms to two useful pointers. He also agreed to run the touch. This was lucky because the lineout is such a tangle of laws that a barrister would struggle to fathom them. I had only ever been a forward, so what hope did I have?

I blew for a lineout infringement, explained confidently my reasons and realised, belatedly, that I could not remember what to award. My colleague bent his arm from indicating a lineout into the free-kick sign and mouthed the words “15-metres”. I duly bellowed my ruling with all the authority my reffing training had invested in me.

My debriefing after the match was interrupted by the medics drinking what appeared to be almost pint glasses full of neat gin and vodka, plus races in which the opposing teams drank some obnoxious fluid through the trunk of elephant-shaped beakers, then threw up into buckets held by their supporters to the cheers of their the onlookers.

But I was hooked on refereeing. Being called “Sir” was a big improvement on “you fat bastard!”

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