In 1986, women's shoulder pads were big. The Bangles were wanting you to 'Walk Like an Egyptian'. Everyone was re-enacting 'that's not a knife, that's a knife' scene from Crocodile Dundee … and those horrible pests of the press were allowed into the Australian dressing room - no matter whether the team had won or lost.

So we were accustomed to witnessing amazing scenes. Players struggling to overcome tears after losses. Great temper tantrums. Inhibited characters suddenly believing that: "I am the King of the World." And wacky celebrations. But nothing like the Eden Park dressing room shortly after the Wallabies became only the fourth team to defeat the All Blacks in a home series, and the first Australian line-up since 1949.

We walked in, and for a moment it appeared as if the players had not just realised what they had achieved. They appeared stunned. Then it hit them and a line of naked players assembled to get the rare opportunity of drinking champagne out of a very foreign object - the Bledisloe Cup.

Nearby an emotional coach Alan Jones grabbed me, and exclaimed: "This is bigger than Quo Vadis… bigger than anything." Amid the din, captain Andrew Slack described the victory as of far greater importance than the 1984 Grand Slam. Wiping the tears of jubilation (or was it champagne spillage?) from his face, Slack said: "We are involved in a piece of rugby history here." A drained Simon Poidevin sat on a bench. He said slowly: "Now I can live in peace."

The overwhelming sense was relief, and that they had been properly rewarded for overcoming one of the most frustrating, tense and obstructive tours the Wallabies had ever encountered. They had felt robbed by a refereeing decision in the Second Test in Dunedin, where Derek Bevan was not convinced Steve Tuynman had scored. Tuynman, the most gentle, reserved of figures, was adamant that he had.

After winning the first Test in Wellington, they believed the Bledisloe Cup should have been handed to them in Dunedin. Jones was inconsolable. The players infuriated. David Campese went in a meltdown - demoralised after Jones had criticised him after another lacklustre Test performance. Campese had been informed by Jones that: "I told the press you were the Bradman of Rugby - now you've let me down.' Jones had told the press that his second Test mistakes "stuck out like a lighthouse in a lily pond".

So the lead-up to the Auckland decider were delicate times.

On the Tuesday before the Test, the Wallabies had to play the third-division team Thames Valley in Thames, a ramshackle town about 100 kilometres from Auckland. It was an old-fashioned ambush. By this time anti-Australian jokes session had become a popular routine on numerous New Zealand radio stations, with Jones in particular being lampooned, often viciously.

The press arrived in Thames earlier than the team, and we were herded into an appalling fire trap of a hotel. The hotel proprietor said the last group of men to stay at his dump was on their way to the Auckland wharves to fight for freedom in Gallipoli. We weren't certain if he was kidding or not.

We were herded down a corridor, and pushed into our gaol cell. There was only an iron bed; a wash-basin; a coat-hanger on the back of the door; and a Gideons Bible, which to judge by its battered state had been used as a door step for several decades.

At the team hotel, it was even worse. Jones was seething. Some players were forced to climb through windows to get into their hotel rooms, while others discovered when they stretched out on their beds that almost half their body hung over the edge. Others discovered that after climbing through windows to get in, they had difficulty getting out of their rooms, as the window had jammed, and they could not move the wardrobe, which was pushed up against the door. There was also only one toilet block and a handful of showers.

Jones called a team meeting, and all decided to leave town immediately in search of some proper accommodation in Pukekohe. The only hitch was that the team's bus driver had had too many drinks at a function organised by us - the Australian media corps - and was unable to drive. Jones said he would drive the bus, but the driver would not hand over the keys. So everyone had to stay put for the night.

Just after midnight, deafening air-raid sirens started up from underneath our hotel, prompting us to flee the fleapit. We were eventually told there was no point for alarm as the siren had been used to lure emergency workers at the other end of town.

Dawn broke and there was anger in the air. The locals were peeved to hear the Wallabies had fled that morning to Pukekohe. A local newspaper headlined its front-page report: "Prima donnas walk out."

Onto the game, and the Thames Valley players were given the task of upholding the pride of the local folk and punishing the Australians for downgrading their town. The general mood was summarised by a sign, which hung on the fence at the rugby ground. "No room is big enough for your mouth Mr Jones."

Gordon Bray soon discovered the visiting press were not to get any favours, as he had to call the game for ABC Radio from the back of a furniture truck. At least the makeshift broadcasting box was better furnished than his hotel room.

Australia soon found the home team, made up of bushmen, farmers and quarrymen, wanted to make an immediate impression, primarily on their backs and faces. The back of winger Peter Grigg looked like a jigsaw puzzle after the Thames Valley forwards rucked him for several seconds. Brett Papworth ran out to replace the injured Glen Ella and found himself an easy target. A broken nose was the result. Michael Cook discovered the pain of getting kneed in the face, while Brian Smith received threats that he would be lynched if he came over the fence. The Wallabies somehow won 31-7.

After that afternoon of brutality, the Auckland Test was a doddle. The Wallabies opted for all-out attack, playing marvelous football, which Mark Ella, working for ABC Television that tour, described as some of the best running rugby he had seen from any side.

The Wallabies' defence was as crucial, with one telling moment.

All Blacks hooker Hika Reid was bounding towards the line but Wallabies prop Enrique 'Topo' Rodriguez sized him up, grabbed him, and back slammed him to the turf. The buzz went out of the Auckland crowd. They had been effectively back slammed as well. It was the moment when the Wallabies knew they were about to be properly rewarded for surviving this crazy New Zealand tour.

And that night, they almost left the Bledisloe Cup behind.

Nowadays, the Cup is surrounded by security guards, treated as if it is the crown jewels. In 1986, it was a bit of a novelty, and renowned for being a prop for some lewd acts.

Some hours after the Eden Park triumph, the press corps headed to an Auckland club for the traditional happy-hour spoils. After the usual fines and speeches, it was time to move to another room for the official dinner.

The players were near exhaustion. As we left the room, several Wallabies looked wearily at the Cup, which was sitting in the corner, and confessed they did not have the energy to pick it up and carry it to the function. Soon the room was empty, leaving prop Gregg Burrow to carry the wooden base and since there was no one else ME to carry the cup.

It was a weird moment, walking through the main bar of the club, cheered on by hundreds of New Zealanders when the cup came into view. While everyone seemed confused as to who was the bespectacled person in the cheap drip-dry blue suit carrying the silver monstrosity, I became overwhelmed with the moment, shook the cup vigorously above my head, yelling: 'Eureka Eureka."

The crowd responded as I disappeared into another room. I put the cup down and kept very quiet for the rest of the evening.