End of an earache

"In our country, true teams rarely exist . . . social barriers and personal ambitions have reduced athletes to dissolute cliques or individuals thrown together for mutual profit . . . Yet these rugby players. with their muddied, cracked bodies, are struggling to hold onto a sense of humanity that we in America have lost and are unlikely to regain. The game may only be to move a ball forward on a dirt field, but the task can be accomplished with an unshackled joy and its memories will be a permanent delight. The women and men who play on that rugby field are more alive than too many of us will ever be. The foolish emptiness we think we perceive in their existence is only our own." - Victor Cahn


It finally came around; the day I've been looking forward to and dreading for a while now. Today marked my last game as manager of PRFC's 2nd XV. We were up against GHA 2A at Braidholm, and we even got to play on the main pitch. The team have been pretty buoyant this week, with Frank Nitti, the team's new enforcer, insisting that the only acceptable result would be a win to see me off in style. Well, the win didn't quite emerge, but they certainly achieved the second objective. Stylish was exactly how I'd describe today's performance.

A word first of all about Alan Gibson, 2nd XV Coach. Alan had this team thrust upon him two seasons ago and I have to say he took it well. He works as hard as anyone at improving things and has something of an uphill task, as anyone involved with rugby outside the top echelon will testify. He's made my lot better and I appreciate that.

Rather than a traditional match report, I'm just going to waffle on about some stuff, and particularly some players, so be warned. It's a truism in rugby as much as anywhere that just when you think you've seen everything, life ups and proves you wrong.

Such was true today when our first hero, appropriately in the number one shirt, one Italian Stallion, the ravishingly good looking Michael Di Duca, announced around about the 60th minute that he would need a temporary replacement (bear in mind this conversation was taking place at a distance, so it was conducted loudly). When asked if he was bleeding, he replied, " Naw, I just need a shite", and left the field of play without further ceremony. Luckily his emergency was resolved quickly, poor Sean Butterfield arriving in position just in time to come back off as a considerably lighter Michael arrived back. At this point, the tears were blinding me.

Jingles, ah Jingles. GHA had just enjoyed a purple patch, scoring 5 tries in 6 minutes, when our heroic hooker spotted their modus operandi. He stepped up into their back line and beautifully intercepted a floated pass, taking off in a  southerly direction as fast as his chunky legs would carry him. Unfortunately, he had around 70 metres to cover, with a GHA centre catching him fast. Jingles reached a position around ten metres short of the line, hesitated, waited for the centre to catch up and executed a beautiful hand-off to the face. Sadly, he didn't see the juggernaut arriving from his blind side. However, with Paisley on the front foot, the ball was quickly recycled and the move ultimately led to the last try of the game, finished by the man himself.

TB. These are two letters which sum up my love affair with PRFC. Craig Thomson is his Sunday name, but he'll always be TB to me. He's spent the last couple of years since coming out of retirement lurching from one medical emergency to another, although his body never quite seems to get the better of him. Still recovering from a bad ankle injury, he nevertheless managed to score two tries today, so there's life in the old dog yet.

Spud. The illustrious, elderly, likeable, tough, irritating-in-a-way-that-only-scrum-halves-can-be, metal-detector-setting-off, Calum Walker played at full back today, which given how much metalwork he carries around with him is probably unfair of us, made his name a scrum half, and like the even older Grant Murney, has learned a few cute tricks along the way. It's always good to watch an opposition scrummy blowing off steam at the ref because Spud's pissed him off once too often.

Zane Grey. Only just returned to the fold, we've missed this Zombie Viking Vlad the Impaler. He's shaved the beard off and lost a shed load of weight, but he's still scary. Someone recently clotheslined him around upper lip level, and the immediate opinion of most Paisley spectators was , "Don't shoot Mongo. You'll only make him mad." The new, leaner version of Zane is having a ball. I'm not going to say anything about his style of play, except to say that he does it with the biggest cheese eating grin on his face I've ever seen. He clearly missed this sport, and it missed him.

Colin May. Over the last few weeks, Colin has done more than anyone to make my life easier. He's been a maniac, badgering, cajoling, threatening and schmoozing players to make sure we've got a team for a Saturday. Oh, and he's played a lot of rugby too. So far this season, he's played at 9,10,12,13,14 and 15 to my recollection, although I have to say I like him best at scrum half. He captained the side for the first time today and did a great job. He also gathered the guys in for a post-match huddle in my honour and insisted on a tunnel just for me. That felt good.

James MacRae, one of our islanders, had a ball today in the lineout. James is a flat out player, no nuances, no subtlety, just in-your-face toughness. Robbie Druce, back for a short holiday from Loonland, showed he's still got it. He's quick and he's a terrific tackler. Scott Sutherland, Lurch, the biggest Jean Valjean I've ever seen, has a weird running gait, but I shudder every time he runs into some poor bugger. John McLellan, the Galloping Giraffe. Like Scott, you suspect the seismometers at Paisley Observatory start making scratchy noises every time he collides with, or rather, runs over the top of, any defender not smart enough to run away or purchase an elephant gun. Ross Warden made what has become an all-too-seldom appearance today, up from Fareham for a visit. It's a joy to see this elegant runner, with his silky skills, finessing through the opposition like Mikhail Baryshnikov (Google it, you philistine). Who am I kidding? He's a big bastard who likes nothing better than doing steam roller impressions. You're beginning to see a pattern here perhaps? David Guthrie, or Davie the Jannie as he is known in polite circles. Davie took the game up late and has constantly surprised spectators. He attends training almost religiously and leaves everything he has on the field of play. He's his own biggest critic, and he needs to cut himself some slack now and then. Sean Butterfield, the social monster, party animal. After only two seasons in the game, Sean has become established as one of the first names on the team sheet. He's got some decent pace and he's strong. That'll do for me. Then there's Simon Keatley, the slightly built, elusive centre from Northern Ireland. He lines you up, cocks the hammer and pulls the trigger. Boom! Another tackle in the stat bank. Last, but by no means least, there's Shaun Brittain. He covered the width of the field today to make a try saving tackle. It was very impressive. The saying, "He puches above his weight.", could have been written about Shaun.

Now these guys are just a sample of the players on the field today. Over the three years I've been in charge, I've worked with some great players. Youngsters like Calum MacLeod, a prop forward who's solidly built, strong, dependable, yet can run faster than most back lines; Colin McKay, flanker-turned-winger, with a burst of speed and an absolute desire to be all that he can be; Mark McKinnon, a back rower who is built of granite, with absolutely no fear and whose jumping in the lineout is as good as any lock's; Murray Sutherland, Lurch's wee brother (although I use the word 'wee' loosely in this case), who works as hard as any member of the team and is another one of those lads who displays an intense joy in his game; Martin McKellar, all silky skills and an excellent kicker from hand; Andrew Gibson, a scrum half still developing his trade but showing every sign of being a cracking player; combine these players with the younger ones yet to emerge from the junior ranks and the future is bright.

Of those not quite in the first flush of youth, I offer a sample; Grant Murney, returning to playing in his forties, becoming a mentor for young players and the scourge of his opposite number in many games, is someone I owe a lot to. He knows why. Fraser Ross, Fraz, our regular captain until his trip to New Zealand to get married this year, has been a rock. He can play and has played in most positions on the field and appears to be able to handle any of them well. He is also one of the best on-field motivators I've seen. Paul Mallam, captain since Fraz went to NZ, has done a marvellous job. He takes the captaincy seriously and has done everything I asked him to. David Dodd, Mr Paisley, has helped us with some training and some of his usual brand of shoot-from-the-hip motivation this year. On the occasion of Doddsy dropping to the 2nd XV, there's always an air of expectation. That's the effect he has. If I've missed out anyone, it's senility rather than spite, honestly. Would I have played to watch these guys play. You bet.

As for those who are not playing staff, but have helped or influenced me, I'd have to start with Malcolm Dodd, who offered me the post of team manager in the first place. Malky befriended me when I first brought my son Iain to the cub 20 years ago, and has remained my friend ever since. His wife Kathy, has been the mainstay of the kitchen, cleaner and enforcer of discipline as long as I can remember. Grant Sweenie, head coach for the last two seasons has done everything he can to help me and I appreciate that. Taz, Fairley, Worzel, Davie Jack, Nelly, Marky, Pascal, Max, drunks, degenerates every one, and every one my family, I've loved every minute of it. To my absent friends, Tom Blair and Craig Grumoli, I miss you and will do everything I can to ensure the continuance of the club you loved.

I began with a quote from Victor Cahn, who summed up rugby as well as I might if I had his talent. I leave you with one from a great soldier and a terrible human being.

I don't know what effect these men will have on the enemy, but by God, they terrify me.

Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington.

We're lucky.

Having just had the devastating news that we've lost Brenda's mother suddenly, you'd think that I'm all out of ways to make something positive of our lives right now. I'm going to try. I think I'll use a list of reasons to be grateful, if you'll bear with me.

I'm grateful I knew Carol for around ten years. It wasn't all plain sailing, but we quickly warmed to each other and she showed me nothing but love and respect. Of course, we didn't agree on everything, but does anyone with their family? The point is, we didn't let any differences get in the way of that love and respect we shared for each other.

I'm grateful that she looked on me as a son, and my sons as her grandchildren. She genuinely cared for them and always showed an interest in their lives.

I'm grateful for her cheerful demeanour and the sheer exhilaration she seemed to find, especially in the last few years. She had an extremely engaging smile and a wicked laugh.

I'm grateful for the generosity she showed us, right down to insisting that, when we called her, we hang up and let her call back. I suppose that's what mothers do.

Most of all, I'm really grateful that what turned out to be Carol's last few years were so filled with fun and happiness. I really think she was happier than she'd ever been and this is because she married Dick. They were immersed in each other and always found something new or exciting to do together. I've seen a picture of the two of them together at High School and it just seems right that they ended up together.

We won't forget Carol, but if ever a life was to be celebrated, this was it. Of course, we'll miss her terribly, but I'm absolutely sure that, when we think of her, it'll almost always be with smiles on our faces. We love you, Mom.

Craig Grumoli

On Saturday 9th February, Paisley RFC will mark the passing of the year since our dear friend Craig Grumoli left us. It may sound like a cliché, but it really doesn’t seem that long. We have a framed picture of Craig grinning at us whenever we enter the clubhouse, looking smug, as only he could, in his nice new club shirt. It serves as a suitable reminder, prompting as it often does many tales of poor unfortunates who have been ‘Grumolied’.

It’s hard to take anything positive from the loss of such a presence from your life but, having known Craig as we did, I we’re all grateful for having known him. It isn't quite so difficult to celebrate his life because it was such fun when he was around and every story sustains the sense of fun. Occasionally I still visit his Facebook page and find that someone has left Craig a message. Strangely, that makes perfect sense to me. He still provides enjoyment for us, simply in the act of remembrance.

So, if it’s all right with you, Saturday night won’t be one of grieving for me. It’ll be a night of laughter, chronically bad renditions of ‘Macho Man’, maybe a tear or two, but above all it will be the celebration he deserves. Thanks Craig for the fun you’re going to provide and thanks again for being our friend.

Of course, it's our fault.

I've just read the report by the Metropolitan Police Service and NSPCC into the abuses carried out over almost 50 years by Jimmy Saville and I find one reference particularly objectionable. That's the reference to Saville having 'effectively groomed the nation'. The reason for my ire is that this would imply that somehow we were taken in by Saville, and this can only serve to share culpability. Over the period of his abuse, Saville was in fact reported on several occasions by victims who were often dissuaded from proceeding with their accusations by a police service or CPS unwilling to go ahead based on lack of evidence, or, more worryingly, advising victims that they might unleash a 'media circus'. One of his last victims was told that Saville's lawyers would tear her apart.

With this background, we, the public, were hardly 'groomed' by Saville. We weren't taken in because we didn't know. Nobody told us. Even the rumours failed to reach the media in large part. So no, don't lay blame at our door. Saville worked for the BBC, where allegations were rife about him and others accused of abusing their position and celebrity. What exactly did the BBC do? Yup, you guessed it. Saville's crimes were reported to different police services and to the CPS. What did they do? Right again.

I'm not looking for blood to be spilled, just the truth, unvarnished, to be told. That doesn't start by attempting to spread the culpability. Time for some humble pie.

Gladys Delarm

An era ended this morning. Gladys Delarm passed at the age of 102 in South Carolina. She was my wife Brenda's maternal grandmother and had lived a long and fruitful life. I got the chance to meet her at last around eight years ago and wasn't disappointed. She was an amazing woman, full of surprises and had an impish air about her. When I met her, of course, she was merely in her mid-nineties, apparently showing some signs of deafness and dementia. Or so I thought, until I made a mistake playing a card game called Skip-Bo. Gladys was all over me like a rash. She was as sharp as a tack. From a French Canadian background, she hailed from Camden, New York and was something of a local celebrity having reached the age of 102 earlier this year. She had spent the last few years with her son Mick and daughter-in-law Kriss, latterly in Taylor, South Carolina, where the climate seemed to suit her.

Brenda doted on her Gram, as did most of the family. Her daughter Carol, Brenda's mother, would always try to spend time with Gram when passing through going to or from Florida, where she spends her winters. I'm personally glad that Brenda spoke to her Gram on the phone only last week at Thanksgiving. I hope that in time Brenda will tell some of the may stories of her Gram, because they're worth listening to. Meanwhile, this is truly a life worth celebrating. Goodbye Gladys and thanks for the memories.

Cancer, schmancer

I spent last night helping to man the phones at one of ScottishPower's call centres supporting the Channel 4 'Stand up to Cancer' campaign. the task was simple; to accept donations. I'm not sure what I expected, but it was an eye opener. By the end of the evening, I'd been through something of an emotional roller coaster, but I'd do it all again. One thing that did strike me was that an awful lot of help came from people who couldn't really afford to be all that generous, yet gave as much as they could. A large proportion of them were pensioners, and almost everyone had a story to tell about cancer.

One gentleman of over 70 had just had the all clear after having 27 lymph nodes removed and having had a course of chemo. He was crying as he spoke of watching the programme. "Kids shouldn't have to suffer that.", he said. A lot of this was tough to listen to, but I console myself with this thought. If it was hard to hear, it's a damn sight harder to live. Thanks if you contributed. Be well.

Pie in the sky?

Numbers. Just numbers, for now. The Earth receives around 12.2 million watt-hours per square mile per year. This equates, worldwide, to 274,000,000 gigawatt years. Another way of putting that is that we receive 8.2 million quads (quadrillion Btu). With me so far? Now, the earth's population, use around 400 quads to serve all our energy needs. So, is it possible that we could eventually serve all our energy needs from solar radiation alone? Yup.

It's not easy. We're up against lots of problems. There are definitely some huge technological hurdles to be overcome, but we are a race which managed to put men on the moon using technology less powerful than your mobile phone. Of course it's possible and if we all want it badly enough, it's likely. Don't let anyone tell you it can't be done.