held an emergency meeting. Ian Robertson of BBC fame and Mike Smith the Cambridge wing, both considered two of the more intelligent members of the team, proclaimed that we should tell the manager. They reasoned that depending on the degree of alcohol consumed there was a possibility that he might notice that the team would all have polished new boots with three stripes on them next day for the game instead of the dirty old boots that was the usual turnout.
The manager was called and considered the situation with gravity. He huffed and puffed about professionalism and what the committee would think. He was swiftly given another gin and tonic and asked if he would like to try on a pair. His mood changed and he began to smile as he admired the way the shiny new boots fitted him perfectly.
Without further ado he gave the order – charge everyone who wants a pair 50p and that’ll be the end of it. With that he put the new boots under his arm and walked off down the corridor to join the rest of the committee for another gin and tonic, announcing his decision and showing off his new acquisitions.
Eventually all the committee and even some of the wives had a pair!
Nairn was aghast and was in shock, saying that he needed a bath to relax. After the bath it was time for bed and he asked me what I thought about Benoit Dauga, the French no. 8.
Nairn was about 5ft 6” and 12 stones, Benoit was around 6ft 8” and 16 stones of muscle. ‘Is he dirty? Is he fast?’ Nairn asked with concern in his eyes. I replied that Benoit was the fastest nastiest player ever to grace a rugby field. Nairn went quiet.
In the morning I asked Nairn how he had slept. He said he hadn’t slept a wink and had worried and sweated all through the night.
Scotland won the match beating France 9-3. We all wore our new boots, which were shown on television, and Nairn played like a man possessed. The three stripes became a marque of the sport and the SRU committee changed forever from the amateur to professional status. It was a benchmark in the annals of Scottish rugby football history and things have never been the same since.
MICHAEL ASPEL
Television broadcaster whose career has included BBC television newscasting, Crackerjack, This Is Your Life and The Antiques Roadshow, among many other credits.
One summer’s day in the early 1980s, I was sitting at a lakeside café in Italy (to be precise, it was Orta San Giulio, later featured annoyingly by Judith Chalmers in her list of great places to visit – thus spoiling it for us regulars).
As I sipped my Prosecco, I noticed a commotion in the water about one hundred yards out. Someone was trying to water-ski, and was failing spectacularly. After many attempts, he finally rose from the water and managed to stay upright for a few seconds. Then one ski flew off at an angle and the other one disappeared; by the laws of gravity the skier should have done the same. But he was so desperate to keep going that he held on to the tow rope and actually ran across the surface of the lake for about six paces.
When I eventually stopped laughing, I decided it was time to resurrect my own watersports career. So that afternoon, I went out with the hotel boat, and although it had been a few years since I’d last been on skis, I got up at once and in a few seconds was flying along. I had told the crew my intention was to do a bit of mono-skiing, so I transferred my weight to the left, slipped off the right ski and really started to move. Halfway across the lake, I came off and hit the water at a tremendous speed.
Now, if you are going to do that, you should try to land face forward or on your back, or even on your elbows – but not on your backside. Not at speed, not into water. A gallon of Lake Orta entered me through orifices I didn’t know I had. Through the pain, words like ‘enema’, ‘douche’ and ‘emasculation’ drifted into my mind. I had visions of sitting down to dinner that night, and streams jetting from my ears.
Luckily, there was no real damage. I just had rather a strange walk for a few days, which my family seemed to find amusing. I don’t think you should laugh at other people’s suffering.
PAM AYRES
Very popular comedienne, poet and television personality who has been a keen member of the Lady Taverners for many years.
HOW CAN THAT BE MY BABY?
How can that be my baby? How can that be my son? Standing on a rugger field, more than six feet one.
Steam is rising from him, his legs are streaked with blood, And he wears a yellow mouthguard in a face that’s black with mud.
How can that be my baby? How can he look like that? I used to sit him on my knee and read him Postman Pat. Those little ears with cotton buds I kept in perfect shape, But now they’re big and purple and fastened back with tape.
How can that be my baby? When did he reach that size? What happened to his wellies with the little froggy eyes? His shirt is on one shoulder but it’s hanging off the other, And the little baffled person at his feet is me: his mother.
TREVOR BAILEY
One of English cricket’s greatest all-rounders, he played for Cambridge University, Essex and England between 1945 and 1967, playing 61 times for England. A true all-rounder, he was also a very accomplished footballer and subsequently a noted sports journalist.
I loved playing cricket and became very involved in every aspect, but once a county match, or a Test match, was over I very quickly forgot the runs, the wickets, the catches, the scores, the players and even the outcome. I just remembered the incidents that appealed to me. For example, I shall always treasure a few moments of magic at Chelmsford, when Essex met Sussex in the early fifties. The visitors had established a substantial lead and a declaration was imminent, when I happened to take a wicket with the fourth ball of my over. This brought Robin Marlar, who had been appointed captain of Sussex that year, to the crease. Before taking guard, Robin summoned his partner, George Cox, to the middle of the pitch for a discussion.
Eventually I was able to deliver my fifth ball, which happened to be straight and sent his middle stump for a walk, while at the same time the two batsmen were about to cross in the middle of the pitch, attempting to take a run to the keeper and give George the strike. The declaration was immediate and we all walked off the field with the entire Essex team in tears of laughter.
Another magic moment occurred in South Africa, when a quarter of an hour before the start of the First Test in Johannesburg in December 1956, Peter May asked me to open the innings with Peter Richardson. I immediately asked my partner if he realised that we were taking on the roles of high-class batsmen in English cricket history, like Hobbs and Sutcliffe, who had both possessed an ability and repertoire of strokes of an entirely different class to what we had to offer. The outcome was that we went out to the middle with Peter as Herbert Sutcliffe and myself as Sir John.
Our shouts of ‘Get back, Sir John,’ and ‘Come one, Herbert’ certainly surprised the opposition as I do not think that frivolity of this kind was quite their scene. However, it worked rather better than either Peter or I expected, as we made a good start and Peter went on to make a solid century.
JOHN BARCLAY
