A wee cricketing vignette

Back in the 70's when summer's were long and the weather better I used to love watching the cricket coverage. I spent many long hours in my mate Kenny's back garden trying to emulate the likes of Ian Botham or the savage Dennis Lillee. The West Indian's just seemed like a breed apart and Viv Richards almost a deity.

The BBC coverage which included the inimitable Brian Johnston was superb. How I loved that droll old man with his dulcit tones, school boy humour and wonderful giggling fits.

I didn't play as much as I would have liked to in senior school, mainly due to my Hay fever putting me right off standing about cut grass for hours on end, but I did enjoy fielding when the pollen count dropped off and wasn't too bad wielding the willow. Couldn't bowl for shit though.

Later in life I worked down in Plymouth where I shared a house with a big mate from Bristol who turned out to be something of a Demon fast bowler. At 6'6" with a nasty attitude, it really was something of a relief to find something that he was half decent at ;-) although I always made sure I'd done the dishes before we went anywhere near the practice nets.

During the summer the works had a cricket team and we played all over South Devon, sometimes in the evenings at Tavistock, other times on a Sunday against the likes of Crapstone village church team (I'm not making this up!) - complete with cream teas and sandwiches made by the vicar's wife (honestly, this is true!). We played against taxi drivers associations, pub teams, other works or indeed anyone that fancied a game. The games were always played with tremendous spirit and we were made to feel welcome everywhere we went.

There was one unsavoury incident in the entire time I played cricket. It was after a mid-week game and Keith and I stopped off at one of our local pubs for a beer (warm & flat of course!) before heading up the road. In we walked and I could hear from the corner that most execrable of sounds, the drunk Scot holding court in an English bar, passing comment like he was god's gift to the world. And, lo, did he just not pronounce to his friends how a "pair of twats like that in their cricket whites just wouldnae happen in Scotland", and how that most stupid of games wasn't played in Scotland. The drunk in question was from Dundee - I don't know much about Dundee, but there's plenty cricket in Fife, thinks I.

Despite it being Keith's round I ordered the drinks, much to the astonishment of the weary listening to the imbecile. "Are you Scottish?" one gleefully asked. "You don't play in Scotland, or so we're told by our friend here". At this point Keith may have pointed out my weaknesses with ball in hand, but I was happy to inform our new friend that Paisley boasted no less than 3 cricket clubs at the time (only 2 rugby clubs) in question and although it was less likely than in Devon I had played a few games of pub cricket when studying there.

So, I've come across this strange attitude in Scots before. It bewilders me. It saddens me greatly. How from a position of ignorance we can project an image of hostility is perhaps to be expected from some bar room tosser, but from our elected representatives? How very sad indeed and about as far from my hopes for a fair minded, egalitarian Scotland as can be!