Kenneth Roy Sunday’s great fiasco on the…

14.03.12
No. 526

The Cafe

I find writing about the subject of football rather strange. Yes, I once or twice attended Ibrox. It was, after all, my first homage to football in 1957 when my father brought the family down to Glasgow and I was taken to see Hearts play the great Glasgow Rangers. As the chaplain of the Victoria Infirmary it was, amongst others, my father who consoled and comforted the victims of the Ibrox disaster.
     But over the years my allegiances have turned to Dundee United, Arsenal and Wigan FCs. Less certain fortunes I had always thought, but that made their supporters more agreeable.
     On the eve of Rangers’ potential disappearance I have come round to thinking, this is what Scotland really needs. There is likely a knight who will charge over the horizon and save the day, but if he does not materialise, perhaps a new dawn will break. Then Glasgow Celtic should humble themselves and welcome home the remnants of the ‘Gers! Why not?
     Despite being a son of the manse and former missionary of the Kirk in Ghana, I came home and my first post was at St Modan’s RC school in Stirling. Then as a children’s reporter my panel members were from diverse backgrounds of class and religion and it really did not matter.
     So just imagine in five years time, if we have a true, not Irish, but Scottish Glasgow team of quality and success in Europe which all Glasweigans can support – yes, the Glasgow Celtic. This could be the opportunity for bigotry to be banished. Imagine the increased support, the enlarged new stadium.
     Now if you think this idea or thought is messy, let me leave you with a final thought. Such a powerful single Glasgow team might even be able to afford the likes of Lionel Messi.

Miller Caldwell

One has to wonder just what Donald Trump has to contribute to a Scottish Parliament inquiry on green energy. Are we about to roll over once again and grovel before the might of his arrogance and money?

Maureen Taylor

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Creel, Isle of Mull
Photograph by
Islay McLeod

Islay’s Scotland

Not Nashville

My game of tennis

with a few

Wimbledon girls

Andrew Hook

Melvyn Bragg’s current BBC 2 series on ‘Class and Culture’ has reminded me of my own first encounter with upper-class Britain and what its power could bring about. Growing up in Caithness, I was always aware that in the summer months it was a common experience to catch a glimpse of those we referred to as the ‘sporties’.

     Driving over the country roads in what we called their shooting brakes (‘estate cars’ I think is today’s term), we knew they were toffs visiting the county’s landed estates for the hunting, shooting, and fishing available across the empty moorlands of Caithness. But the notion that I could have any contact with these people never even crossed my mind. They could well have been men – and women – from some notional Mars.
     One summer in the late 1940s, however, all that changed. Back then, Wick did not have a lot to offer its young people in the way of entertainment. As a result, Rosebank was for many of us a hugely important spot. In the middle of the town, it had a bowling green (used exclusively by those we regarded as old men), an 18-hole putting course, and, most important of all, three hard tennis courts. For my social set of high school boys and girls, Rosebank’s tennis courts and clubhouse were a big deal. We could meet there, sit around, chat, drink lemonade, and play tennis. In the long summer days, Rosebank was the place to be.
      I was known as a keen and reasonably good player. One May or June day I was told that two girls, dressed for tennis, had booked a court and were asking whether I’d be willing to play with them as they were in need of practice. Surprised, and a bit puzzled, I thought why not. In a moment I was on the court with them, noting their white dresses and good rackets. I don’t think they even told me their names.
     All they wanted to do was knock-up with me for a few minutes. Then I had a spell of serving to them, so that they could practise their returns. Finally a third girl joined us, and she and I played a set against the other two. I don’t remember who won. That was it. I didn’t mind. I’d had a free game with decent enough players, and I’d had a decent enough time.
     Afterwards someone told me they thought the girls were visiting Stirkoke House: a kind of lodge on a landed estate a few miles outside the town. That was that and I thought no more about it. However, a week or two later in June, the Wimbledon Championships began. BBC television was covering the opening days and I was able to watch the black and white pictures. Suddenly I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. There they were arriving at Wimbledon all set to play: my two playing companions from Rosebank.
     Thinking about it, I suppose it must have been the girls’ championship in which they were competing. But all the same, there they were, playing at Wimbledon, the most prestigious event of the tennis year. Why them? Certainly not because of any outstanding sporting talent.
     The answer had to be concerning who they were, not what they were. They were the right kind of people from the right kind of background. Wimbledon was for young ladies. As late as the 1940s, social class – not sporting class – was what really counted.

Andrew Hook is a former professor of English literature at
Glasgow University