The Calcutta Cup, Scotland versus England in the rugby six nations for those
of you who
don’t know, is here again. Why the name? Well, it was, as logic would have it, created in Calcutta, in
the 1870’s when the local rugby club - which featured matches between Scotland and England –
realizing the climate wasn’t conducive to rugby and with interest in the sport waning locally, decided
to melt down their rupees and created this extraordinary trophy. Over one hundred and thirty years
later, Scotland and England are still battling for it on an annual basis. Thirty years on from the
infamous victory by Scotland, in 1990, taking the Grand slam at Murrayfield, against all odds, the
press is clearly clutching at straws. Their attempts to build up the excitement with quotations of war and hatred from players on both sides is all a bit pathetic really. In 1990, Jim Telfer, the Scottish coach, banned his players from talking to the press at all. A wise move I’d say. I watched the game this week, in its entirety. It’s brilliant. Maybe less so if you’re English, but as a spectacle it is brilliant. So fast and hectic. Less polished than nowadays but brilliant, nevertheless. They didn’t even go into the dressing room at half time. So many images and memories remain: The Scottish captain, David Sole’s slow march out onto the pitch. Bill Mclaren's iconic voice, John Jeffrey AKA, the White Shark, singing the Scottish anthem with gusto. The monstrous English pack. Two amazing tries, one by Jeremy Guscott for England and that try from Tony Stanger for Scotland, reaching up to the heavens to ground Gavin Hastings’ high bouncing kick. Rumours persist that he didn’t even ground it correctly. Modern TMO cameras if they existed then, scrutinizing everything, would have perhaps changed history? The try itself from a scrum on halfway had originally been England’s. A schoolboy error by the English number 8, Mike Teague knocking forward on the English scrum serendipitously handed Scotland possession. How history is made by the smallest of margins. They didn’t forgive us for that shock victory, but Scotland deserved it on the day. We didn’t beat England again for ten years. I’ll never forget watching that game in 2000, in The Rock pub in the West End of Glasgow with a friend from school whose name I won’t mention, but he did briefly become a rock star. The joy of victory after ten long years was palpable. We’ve done pretty well against England in recent years, but they’ll always be favourites.
1990, was also the first time ‘Flower of Scotland’ was sung at a Scotland rugby international. Prior to that, astonishing as it is, ‘God Save The Queen’ had been played at times for Scotland matches. Can you imagine? Anyway, that game was momentous for so many reasons, even beyond sport. There was hatred off the pitch, almost certainly stirred up by the press, as being part of the match, but it was there. Hatred in Scotland for a tory government that had imposed Thatcherism upon it, culminating in the poll tax. To what degree that was true, however, in a rugby context, is less sure. Murrayfield, in the western suburbs of Edinburgh, is hardly an obvious spot for being anti-tory, well in those days at least and three or four of the Scottish team were English born and many of the rest were private schooled. Furthermore, many of them knew each other from the British Lions tour, the year before. Thirty years on the political landscape in Scotland is dramatically different. The SNP are the dominant party these days, the union is at threat and the tory government are still deeply unpopular. That hasn't changed. Presumably the hatred is still there but it’s not so much of an issue in rugby as it was claimed to be in 1990. Personally, I try to avoid the hating the English cliché, much as I enjoy beating them at rugby. The reports of some of the abuse they get when they come to Murrayfield, if accurate are pretty disgusting and embarrassing. That said, for those eighty minutes I’ll be a rabid, undignified beast and if we lose, I’ll be distraught, but afterwards, I’ll remember that I live in England and some of my favourite people in the whole world are English. It is just a game after all, but at 4.45pm tomorrow afternoon, I’ll probably forget that for a couple of hours. That it’s just a game I mean. Probably? No, definitely. And for at least a couple of days, if we lose.
don’t know, is here again. Why the name? Well, it was, as logic would have it, created in Calcutta, in
the 1870’s when the local rugby club - which featured matches between Scotland and England –
realizing the climate wasn’t conducive to rugby and with interest in the sport waning locally, decided
to melt down their rupees and created this extraordinary trophy. Over one hundred and thirty years
later, Scotland and England are still battling for it on an annual basis. Thirty years on from the
infamous victory by Scotland, in 1990, taking the Grand slam at Murrayfield, against all odds, the
press is clearly clutching at straws. Their attempts to build up the excitement with quotations of war and hatred from players on both sides is all a bit pathetic really. In 1990, Jim Telfer, the Scottish coach, banned his players from talking to the press at all. A wise move I’d say. I watched the game this week, in its entirety. It’s brilliant. Maybe less so if you’re English, but as a spectacle it is brilliant. So fast and hectic. Less polished than nowadays but brilliant, nevertheless. They didn’t even go into the dressing room at half time. So many images and memories remain: The Scottish captain, David Sole’s slow march out onto the pitch. Bill Mclaren's iconic voice, John Jeffrey AKA, the White Shark, singing the Scottish anthem with gusto. The monstrous English pack. Two amazing tries, one by Jeremy Guscott for England and that try from Tony Stanger for Scotland, reaching up to the heavens to ground Gavin Hastings’ high bouncing kick. Rumours persist that he didn’t even ground it correctly. Modern TMO cameras if they existed then, scrutinizing everything, would have perhaps changed history? The try itself from a scrum on halfway had originally been England’s. A schoolboy error by the English number 8, Mike Teague knocking forward on the English scrum serendipitously handed Scotland possession. How history is made by the smallest of margins. They didn’t forgive us for that shock victory, but Scotland deserved it on the day. We didn’t beat England again for ten years. I’ll never forget watching that game in 2000, in The Rock pub in the West End of Glasgow with a friend from school whose name I won’t mention, but he did briefly become a rock star. The joy of victory after ten long years was palpable. We’ve done pretty well against England in recent years, but they’ll always be favourites.
1990, was also the first time ‘Flower of Scotland’ was sung at a Scotland rugby international. Prior to that, astonishing as it is, ‘God Save The Queen’ had been played at times for Scotland matches. Can you imagine? Anyway, that game was momentous for so many reasons, even beyond sport. There was hatred off the pitch, almost certainly stirred up by the press, as being part of the match, but it was there. Hatred in Scotland for a tory government that had imposed Thatcherism upon it, culminating in the poll tax. To what degree that was true, however, in a rugby context, is less sure. Murrayfield, in the western suburbs of Edinburgh, is hardly an obvious spot for being anti-tory, well in those days at least and three or four of the Scottish team were English born and many of the rest were private schooled. Furthermore, many of them knew each other from the British Lions tour, the year before. Thirty years on the political landscape in Scotland is dramatically different. The SNP are the dominant party these days, the union is at threat and the tory government are still deeply unpopular. That hasn't changed. Presumably the hatred is still there but it’s not so much of an issue in rugby as it was claimed to be in 1990. Personally, I try to avoid the hating the English cliché, much as I enjoy beating them at rugby. The reports of some of the abuse they get when they come to Murrayfield, if accurate are pretty disgusting and embarrassing. That said, for those eighty minutes I’ll be a rabid, undignified beast and if we lose, I’ll be distraught, but afterwards, I’ll remember that I live in England and some of my favourite people in the whole world are English. It is just a game after all, but at 4.45pm tomorrow afternoon, I’ll probably forget that for a couple of hours. That it’s just a game I mean. Probably? No, definitely. And for at least a couple of days, if we lose.
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