Lots of niggle. Back and forth. Chat whenever possible; players stood over the prone, nose to nose should the situation arise, wagging a finger if the chance allowed. It was chopsy at the Gardens for a Gallagher Premiership semi-final that had most rugby fans engrossed. It didn’t disappoint.

Ivan Van Zyl is the archetypal South African, the archetypal scrum half, the archetypal Saracen: the chin defined and jutting, the fists clenched and pumping, if anything is quicker than his celebrating a turnover, it is the spiralled delivery to his own backline. As brisk as he is bothersome, as bold as he is bullish. Saints would have to play well to keep him quiet and play well they did.

It was just a few minutes past eight, and we all knew where this was headed. This was two foes who had plenty to say and plenty to back it up. The mouth and the trousers. Anyone neutral was licking their lips. 

Two early Saracens penalties were surpassed by the finest of delayed passes. Furbank, who has found so much pleasure this season, picked the tiniest sliver of delight. Odendaal, who had already imprinted himself on the sweeping Saints move, benefited from George’s vision. Semi-finals always need a keen eye, but Northampton’s fullback was able to thread the smallest of peepers, to everyone’s disbelief. 

Back to Van Zyl, he was cackling about stripping the ball off fellow countrymen, but his team were coming a cropper of their own. They seemed to be being beaten by a familiar foe. It was like Saints were doing ‘a Sarries’. The most unwelcome of compliments. Two more Smith penalties allowed the single try to stand out. 

And then, before half time, a reversal of roles. Finn Smith with two fantastic consecutive defensive tackles in the Saints ’22. Then Tom Pearson, so often involved in the type of abrasive situation Smith had just availed himself of, punted the ball downfield. The Saints faithful were starting to enjoy themselves. Another penalty, sweetly struck from the home fly-half, on the stroke of half time, gave Franklin’s Gardens a contented smile to wrap around their interval pasty. 

The second half began in the mode of the first. Dominant tackles aplenty and the Black, Green and Gold’s front row enjoying their relationship with referee Christophe Ridley. And with such affluence and influence, Saints could build and find occasional corners. But Sarries’ defence and breakdown nous is their hallmark. Their ability to negotiate those contests, to wear down a side by doing simple things really, really well; it isn’t flashy or necessarily appealing, but it is ever so effective. Has been for over a decade. 

Speaking of which, the man most fans have loved to hate for the last ten-years-plus stepped up with a moment of magic. A moment he has always produced but (for some reason) just isn’t known for. Through the gap Owen Farrell strode. He doesn’t step with the same flamboyance as a Marcus or a Finn, but still produces the same size hole. And then the most perfect of grubbers. Farrell will leave the English game so much poorer. Despite bucketloads of evidence to the contrary, he’s never won over certain rugby minds in this country: ‘Faz’ the Fez with a parting shot as good as he could muster. 

It was a three point game and still Saints shaped to scored, shaped but couldn’t get past Saracens’ obstinance. Obstinance in the shape of a back rower as classy as they come. The combination of speed and strength Juan Martin Gonzalez possesses is the sort to which only Mount Olympus would lay claim. His tackle on an arcing Mitchell was as lung busting as it was pinpoint. 

But however good your guard, there are only so many punches you can endure. Saints’ speed, power and accuracy turns bruises into cuts. Their scrum started to open them up and shatter North London dreams; Smith’s boot was metronomic. And even though the visitors via Cinti did eventually get round the Northampton defence, one final maul wrapped up Saracens and all of their Premiership stars. All season Saints have been brilliant, and beating the team that have been the benchmark for so long, in the manner they did, is fittingly resplendent. 

Franklin’s Gardens stood as one and realised a new dawn. A semi final they should have won and did. That didn’t used to happen. They are talking the talk and walking the walk, wagging their fingers all the way to Twickenham. Waller, Ludlam and Lawes et al will get one final chance to don their halos and shout. It’ll take some team to shut them up.