(no subject)

[endlessrarities]

Last night, I made the grave mistake of watching the rugby.

Genetically speaking, I'm a mongrel.  I'm one eighth Scots Irish, two eighths English and five eighths Welsh.   But I was born and raised in Scotland, which means that most of the time, I consider myself Scots. 

It's only when the Six Nations comes along that the Welsh ancestry suddenly kicks in, and I become temporarily and very rabidly, Welsh.  My poor Scots husband can't understand it - he hates all team sports involving balls, whether round or oval.

The transformation isn't pretty, and for someone who's a quarter English, it's even more bizarre, because it's as if seven hundred years' worth of resentment against English domination (on both the  Welsh and Scots fronts) comes bubbling up to the surface.  I scream, I rage, as if victory through sport can make up for Edward I's atrocities in Wales and Scotland and the indignities of Flodden, the Rough Wooing, Culloden, etc.  

Last night, the inevitable scenario unfolded.  The English bulldozed their way through the Welsh defences, again and again.  The Welsh put up a stalwart fight, but couldn't deliver the goods.  I howled myself hoarse, to no avail, and history repeated itself, yet again.  The underdogs were crushed, and so was I. 

I guess I'll be backing France now.  Or Ireland.  'Cos the Scots haven't got an ice cube in Hell's chance, and if the English win the Grand Slam, the Calcutta Cup and the Six Nations Championship, we'll never hear the end of it.  Until the next time...

My apologies to any English readers.  It's not your fault.  It's the media.  They're so smug and self-congratulatory.  And so are the England coaches and the support staff (if it's any consolation, so are the Scots, who - like the English -  tend to fall into the 'it's not our fault we lost, they didn't play fair' school).  Anyway, I'm beginning to think rugger has lost its way a bit.  There's too much glitz and tawdry nonsense in the sport now.  They have this really annoying habit of playing rock music when someone converts a try.  Okay, the music was Kasabian's 'Fire', but while there's definitely a time and a place for Kasabian, an international rugby match is not it.  I much prefer to hear the echoing strains of Guide me oh thou Great Jehovah or the Welsh saucepan ditty (sorry, Welsh friends.  I can sing it, but I can't spell it!) ringing out from the stands.

The excitement has now waned, and I've returned to normality.  I don't think I'll watch any more of the Six Nations.  Wales v. England tends to be the high- or low point for me.

Today I went for a pleasant walk around Lochwinnoch, in search of the Dumb Proctor.  I've always wanted to see the Dumb Proctor, and today was the day when I finally realised that ambition.  Tomorrow, I'll tell you all about it.  But now I've got to get ready for horse-riding.

Good luck Scotland.  I know you're going to get well and truly gubbed by the French, but...  Good luck all the same.