No cause for applause

If you were at Murrayfield at the weekend you would have been part of the minute's silence observed in memory of Bill McLaren, a man who did so much to preserve the spirit of Rugby Union in his popular TV commentaries.

When McLaren was at the microphone it was a commentary, not a conversation between commentator and pundit interspersed with pitch-side analysis and interviews. As spectators we indulged in our own analysis and argument. Today all that is done for us.

If, on the other hand, you, like me, were part of the crowd watching England play Wales at Twickenham on Saturday, you would have been invited by the DJ-style announcer who is so in love with his own voice, to show your appreciation of McLaren with applause. I did not applaud. I applaud a great sporting moment, a fine singer a funny comedian, a great speech, but I do not applaud in death.

Come Remembrance Day when the clock strikes eleven I do not feel the urge to applaud in memory of the millions who died in wartime. I would not want to stand in the street in Wootton Bassett and applaud the funeral corteges for fallen servicemen and women in Afghanistan. In fact sometimes people don't applaud and sometimes they do. In this clip people maintain silence until (3.15 minutes on the clip) a big chap with a white shirt, black tie and tattooed arms begins clapping robustly and others follow.

The problem is that as a society we no longer know how to handle death. Respect has become an issue and we are angered by those who fail to show it: a minority in football crowds, for example. One way of drowning out the disrespectful minority is to applaud. Applause is an example of flocking behaviour that can be set off by a single individual - the same one, perhaps, who would start a Mexican wave.

This may be a feature of soccer crowds; but it does not, or at least did not, affect rugby crowds. Rugby crowds are still capable of observing a minute's silence - just. I say "just" because the rugby union crowd is changing, manipulated by commercialism.

Rugby matches used to be great singing occasions, as did football cup finals. I can remember when the Twickenham crowd sang Jerusalem during the game. Today they manage a few lines of Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. On the way to the England v Wales match, the England fans would sing a song, then call on the Welsh who never failed to do likewise. Not any more. As we made our way to the match on Saturday the only response from a Welshman came from one of our own group who sang a fine and and faultlessly delivered Land of My Fathers in his native tongue.

On Saturday a big choir came out on to the Twickenham pitch and sang Jerusalem before the game. But the crowd didn't sing along much. Perhaps some do not know the words but these could be displayed on the big screens.

Singing, sadly, seems to be on a decline on great sporting occasions - as opposed to abusive chanting which is something else. Some football fans may think it is amusing to compile a verse on the latest sexual adventures of John Terry, the captain of Chelsea. That is a reflection of the cruelty of people who don't know how to behave towards would-be role models who also don't know how to behave.

When England scored their last try that sealed victory in a closely fought match, a few of the crowd near me started up the mocking football chant: "You're not singing any more." That didn't use to happen. Traditionally there has been banter between fans at rugby matches but, for the most part, it is harmless stuff, not underpinned with the kind of tribalism you get in football.

Another thing - and I guess this is fairly harmless - there seems to be a growing fondness for declaring group identity at these matches in fancy dress. On Saturday I saw blokes dressed as bunnies, some in Elvis wigs and some with flame hair wigs. This trend seems to have been imported from cricket crowds. This eagerness to suppress our individuality behind such themed uniformity betrays a deep psychological need to belong (says this armchair psychologist).

More rugby old fart blogs on remarkably similar lines (I forget from match to match) can be found here, here, here and here.

England v Ireland with Statler and Waldorf

Let me tell you about Stuart who you may have met in two previous blogs – the trip to France and Camp Dick. I have known him a long time. He is one of life’s gentlemen, a beacon of values that are fading fast in the rest of society.

He likes things that are built to last, is suspicious of change and remains implacably opposed to what I might call the “disposable society.” Instinctively I know that Stuart would have no problems with a charge on plastic bags.

He is wearing the same Tricker's shoes he was wearing thirty years ago and has a Morris Traveller that is nearly as old as I am, that is still driven regularly, and that still works just fine. “The mechanics like to work on it because it has bits of familiar machinery that remind them of a real car,” he says.

We were sitting together high up in the east stand at Twickenham for the England v Ireland match. Stuart’s match commentary was fairly predictable, demanding that I take note of various nuances.

Rule changes

He didn’t approve of the move from the amateur to professional codes. Now he worries that Australian and commercial influences could further undermine the game he knows and loves. The Australians are favouring rule changes that will dilute the power of the scrum. Indeed some believe they would happily do away with the scrum altogether.

The danger here, says Stuart, is that we could be left with two teams of powerful running athletes, much as you have in Rugby League. This would be the beginning of the end for the slower, scrapping, forward who, he argues, has been the stalwart of club rugby throughout the history of the game.

So yesterday, when, after two or three phases of play, Stuart was spotting forwards such as Lee Mears and Phil Vickery, standing in ball-receiving positions, he was almost apoplectic. Why weren’t they in the rucks where they should have been?

Inflated prices

Meanwhile a couple of chaps in front of us were up and down like jack-in-a-boxes to visit the bars that are now open during the game. This never happened at one time but corporate greed now loses no opportunity to sell beer and pies at inflated prices while play is carrying on.

This meant that each of these two so-called supporters was missing large chunks of the game. But it wasn’t the beer drinking that upset Stuart. After the second England try, the man in front of him - a big bloke - rose out of his seat and started jigging from side to side. Stuart (who is not a large man – he played at scrum-half) tapped him on the shoulder and asked him to sit down.

The big man took umbrage at this and argued, with some justification perhaps, that he had not obscured our vision while the try was being scored. Then the big man’s friend joined in, shouting abuse at Stuart. It was starting to get ugly. Stuart was wearing a thin smile that had nothing to do with laughter. This was bad news for me since the first rule of mates is to stand by your mate. So I adopted the role of appeaser, saying “let’s calm it mate,” to the man who was not my mate.

Football supporter

But Stuart had taken against them. He didn’t like the way the jeans of the big man were hanging around his bottom. Neither did I. In fact the man was marked, in oh so many ways, as a “football supporter.” His hair was cropped short. He had too many gold rings on one finger. Indeed, he looked like he had never seen a piece of Tweed, never mind worn one.

Stuart does not approve of the behaviour of football supporters - you know the sort who bare their chest at matches - and is fearful that their ilk will invade our precious game. I share his fears. Fortunately our new friends did the football supporter thing and left before the end of the game. I noticed too, with some satisfaction, that they remained seated for the third England try.

By that time the match had been changed by a whole string of replacements. The game has allowed far too many substitutions. When fewer were allowed there used to be high scoring finales as the sides tired and made mistakes. Today the result is usually apparent within 10 minutes of the end of play.

Old farts

Of course such sentiments and criticisms mean that we and every other member of our small but happy group who go to the rugby internationals have become died-in-the-wool “old farts.” But if the older generation does nothing to educate the latest one, how will we preserve traditions of good behaviour?

As it is, few people know the words to songs anymore, not even Swing Low, Sweet Chariot. I struggle with some of the longer songs so have taken to using a song-sheet. Even this risks censure from those who think that knowing the words should be mandatory.

But I cannot hope to remember every verse of American Pie and there are times, such as during our post match singsong in the Prince Blucher, when you find someone who does know all the words and who needs a bit of help. Personally I prefer folk or classic pop themes, such as this one, to some of the baser rugby ditties, but there is a time and place for all things. It turned in to an excellent sing song (Simon, one of my fellow songsters provides a short history of Prince Blucher here).

Cheeky girls

So what about the game? Well, predictably the sports writers concentrated on personalities, overdoing the superlatives reserved for Danny Cipriani, and doing so in a way that belittled Jonny Wilkinson when both men played well and played well together. It was a vast improvement on the Scotland v England match that was ruined by the conditions.

I worry about Cipriani though. If you want to stay out of the tabloids, stay away from trans-sexuals and the Cheeky girls. Was this a sign of things to come? I probably came across him when he was a youngster when Robert, my middle son (now 21), was playing for Chobham. We often played Rosslyn Park where Cipriani played. Each of those junior teams had their star players and it’s nice to see one or two breaking through in to the international game.

Sadly the French did not beat the Welsh who can be insufferable in victory. At least the Welsh have a new hero in Shane Williams whose rugby is outshining that of Gavin Henson as much as Henson’s tan outshines the pallid (but authentic) complexions of his team mates. His skin is so orange I’m surprised he isn’t sponsored by Outspan.

Drinking vouchers

One last moan: the ticket prices at Twickenham have risen to ridiculous levels. My ticket cost £40 but the two middle-tier tickets I had for two of my sons each cost £68. When you have subsidised their drinking vouchers for the occasion it’s a costly day out.

On the other hand, at least going to the match means that we don’t have to listen to the discordant outpourings of Eddie Butler and Brian Moore, the Statler and Waldorf of sports commentary. We more than make up for that with our own.

Coming out - a passion for Scotland

Somewhere at some deep subliminal level, emotionally suppressed perhaps, I'm wondering if for much of my life I have harboured a secret and undefined urge to be Scottish.

It's not something I have felt comfortable talking about until now. But it's difficult and not altogether healthy to deny your urges. For many years I have wanted a kilt. I suppose I would adopt the clan Duncan which is the nearest approximation I can find to my name. I just like the idea of baring my knees in the heather, not to mention the freedom from restriction afforded to other parts. The "right to dangle" in the fresh air is enshrined in the wearing of the kilt.

I am too old to adopt the Scottish burr but for many years I have enjoyed celebrating Burns night with haggis, tatties, neaps and whisky. In fact I will be having haggis on my birthday as I did last year in a fishing hut by the side of the Dee.

There are parallels to be drawn between the Scots and Yorkshire people. Both are careful with their money although Yorkshire people are perhaps a little less dour. As P G Woodhouse once wrote: "It is never difficult to distinguish between a Scotsman with a grievance and a ray of sunshine."

Had I stayed in my native Yorkshire I'm sure the ties of allegiance would have been too great by now. But, having made the break from Yorkshire nearly 20 years ago, I am still struggling to find a sense of belonging in Surrey. I want to live somewhere where people talk in bus queues. In Surrey they don't have bus queues because they don't have many buses and, where they do, everyone keeps their own council.

Weighing up the pros and cons of Scotland I realise that I don't like everything about the place. I have a problem with the embedded Presbyterianism on the Isle of Lewis, for example. Anywhere that locks up its playgrounds on a Sunday has to be viewed with suspicion.

I've made three lists covering Scottishness: 1. People and things I like, 2. People and things I dislike, and 3. People and things about which I am ambivalent:

1. Likes (Scotland)

Kilts, hunting tartans, ospreys, salmon fishing, Deeside, ghillies, The Beano, People's Friend Magazine, The Forth Rail Bridge, St Kilda, Munroes, Dunkeld, Caledonian Macbrayne ferries, John Buchan, Melrose, Donald Dewar, Bill McLaren, Archie Gemmell, The Royal Bank of Scotland, Charles Rennie Mackintosh, haggis, malt whisky, the beech hedge at Meikleour, Highland cattle, Iona, Tobermory, Kirsty Wark, Muriel Grey, The Cullins, grouse, Malloch's, Caledonian Canal, Claymores, raspberries, Western Isles, Jackie Stewart, Robert Burns, bothies, Skara Brae, brocks, RAF Leuchars, Neist Point Lighthouse, Robert Louis Stephenson, Mrs MacDonald's cheese shop in Blairgowrie (the best cheese shop in Scotland), Stanley Baxter ("Izat a marra on yer barra, Clara?"), Dr Finlay's Casebook, Oor Wullie, golden eagles, Dougie MacLean, West Highland White terriers, Henderson's of Edinburgh, Harris Tweed.


2. Dislikes

The Loch Ness Monster, accordion music, battered Mars bars, Tennants 80 shilling ale, Stornaway, the Glasgow accent, Curling, seals, Mel Gibson, pebble dashing, The Forth Road Bridge, bridies, tartan trousers, The Scottish Wool Shop, jokey bad weather postcards, Scottish dancing, the Isle of Skye Bridge, Sir Walter Scott, Edinburgh Military tattoo , John O'Groats, Mary Queen of Scots, The Dandy, Fort William, Muckle Flugga, preserves, The House of Bruar catalogue, The White Heather Club, the Krankies, miserable ghillies, west coast midges, Mull of Kintyre (the dirge), Bonnie Prince Charlie, Monarch of the Glen, short bread, Caithness glass paperweights.


3. Ambivalent

Bagpipes, Billy Connolly, Sean Connery, Uig sands, tossing the caber, Edinburgh, Robert the Bruce, Sauchiehall Street, dour ghillies, Scotch eggs, Macbeth, Ben Nevis, David Steel, the Scottish Nationalist Party, The Bay City Rollers, Sir Alex Ferguson, Stirling Castle, thistles, Gretna, Scotch Broth, Jack Vettriano, Aberdeen Angus, Flora MacDonald, capercaillies.

Mel Gibson isn't Scottish you might say. Well someone ought to tell him and put us all out of our misery. The more observant will notice that ghillies appear in each list - well you get all sorts but I should say that I like most of those I have met. I should also say that I have never been to John O'Groats but I know I won't like it. I hate places where there is a white signpost pointing in various directions, saying how far it is to the North Pole or Disneyland. Also crazy cyclists gather there and that's a worry.

A few years ago we did try to buy a house in Melrose but were outbid. I saw another one on Harris but Gill drew the line at that one. I do worry about the midges and the dark winters but I like contrasts and I like windswept places. I worry about Scottish separatism. I think that seceding from the union would be a mistake and I'm not sure I want to be independently Scottish. Nor do I care for "English bashing" wherever I find it. Countries like Scotland and Wales need to grow up a little and get rid of their historic animosity towards England, just as the Irish have done. If separatism is the future, then I hope they will follow the Irish model where an English passport is not required and where even English dogs are welcome.