Bucket Lists and Touring Woes

MY RUGBY UNION Bucket List is a fairly short one:

1. See Scotland win the World Cup

2. Beating New Zealand for the first time in the final is a bonus

3. See Cumnock beating Ayr in the National Leagues

4. Watch the Lions on Tour

Items one, two and three are pretty-much in the lap of the
Gods, but, I've got roughly four years to bring the fourth item to fruition. Some mid-way through my 79^th year, and with my health issues, the 2029 Tour, assuming I make it that far, I will be 82 when it kicks off, but, with careful planning and some help from The National Lottery, it might still be on.

I have fond memories of a day in Bay of Plenty, another in Auckland, while the lunch M'Lady and I enjoyed in The Duke of Marlborough in Russell, in Bay of Islands, on a day which ended with dolphins escorting our cruise ship out to sea, while the ship's pa system played Andrea Bocelli's 'Time to say Goodbye' – well that was some day.

The tour, should it happen, will have to be as a spectator. The general public appears to think, the life of a touring journalist is a fairly easy one. Get up; have breakfast; discover what batallion orders for the day are; watch training or the game; talk to the Tour Manager and Coach, perhaps a player: file copy: hit the bar at night – a glorified holiday with a wee bit of work thrown in. Aye Right!!

To the players, and more-so the Tour Management, you, the accompanying press-man, is a bit of an irritant. For all the unwritten rules of “Touring Omerta – what goes on on-tour remains on Tour” they, particularly “The Blazers” never fully trust the press, particularly if you don't have a distinguished playing career to fall back on. Mind you, I think the ultimate case of a pressman getting up the touring party's nose might have been the legendary (Anglo-Scottish) journalist who completely pissed-off one group of Lions by leading “The Jockeys' Championship” - the race to see which tourist could bed the most local ladies, until well into the tour; before being overtaken in the home straight as it were by a gnarled Welsh prop – whose eventual victory was challenged at the final tour court on the grounds of one or two of his conquests were clearly “sows” and bestiality should not count.

I must admit, this was in the misogynist days of last century and such behaviour and opinions are far from the thoughts of today's tourists.

Tours to Australia and New Zealand are far-easier to cover than tours to the Americas. The clock is in your favour. In the Americas, the games are being played right on print deadlines and coverage is always a race against time. I recall, back in the days before lap tops and the internet, dictating a match report back to Glasgow from Vancouver, working from a public telephone in a corridor, at what was around 1am Glasgow time. Fortunately, I had the great Tommy McGhee on the other end of the line.

Tommy was one of the great copy-takers, he could make sense of even your most-garbled sentences and he got me through it. On the same Tour, I was rudely wakened at 3am Canadian time to do a live piece, down the phone line to BBC Shortbread News back in Glasgow. Paid holiday my arse.

It's a lot easier now with lap-tops and the internet. Here I can throw in the legendary tales of the late Malcolm Brodie, the Scot who was for many years, “Mr Sport” on The Belfast Telegraph.

Malcolm's adventures covering the 1978 Football World Cup in Argentina are more a case of “O'Reilly's Corollary” than “Murphy's Law”.

[Murphy's Law says: “if it can go wrong it will”; O'Reilly's Corollary says: “dat Murphy always was an optimist”}.

Back then, telephone calls from Argentina to the UK had to be pre-booked and if you missed your slot – tough, apply again. Any way, Malcolm duly telephoned the Sports Desk back in Belfast at the appointed hour, was put through and began the conversation with: “Malcokm Brodie”, only for the bored sub-editor on the desk to reply: “he's in Buenos Aires” and put the 'phone down.

Malcolm then, after the final, got back on the 'phone to dictate his copy, beginning: “Ole, Ole, Ole”, only to be interrupted by the copy-taker telling him: “I got it the first time Malcolm”. At this point you feel like quoting the final line of “The Four Yorkshiremen” sketch – these young lads today, you tell them that and they wouldn't believe you.

When I look at some of the non-coverage from the current Lions and Scottish tours, I feel the journalists and pr men, with the safety belt of plenty of time on their hands, plus deadlines in their favour, really are treating the Tours as glorified paid holidays with the odd bit of work thrown in. Or maybe, the modern guys just don't care as much as we did.

Just had a thought for my proposed Lions Tour 2029. I could treat it as research for a travel book – I don't think I will be ready to go full-on holidaying tourist, even that far ahead.