Hooptedoodle #467 - The Massacre of Murrayfield, 24th November 1951

 Another affectionate, though pointless, tale, prompted by an email exchange with a former work colleague this week.

The tale is one of sporting disaster; I have watched a few Rugby Union matches in my time, though I was never a fan - two of my older sons played rugby at school, so I had some partisan involvement for a while, but never a devout follower.

For one thing, I never fully understood the rules (not helped by constant change in that department), and I was alienated by the old militant amateurism of the sport. I knew two lads who were banned for life in their teens, because it was revealed they had had trials with (though never been paid by) professional soccer clubs, and I knew one who was banned because he had once taken part in the professional sprint race at Powderhall. Unforgiving. In those days, even a brief exposure to playing "the Other Code" - Rugby League rules - at school in the North of England, perhaps - could bring the sporting equivalent of a Papal Bull.

It all seems very odd nowadays, but the tradition was primarily one of being recognisably a gentleman - which had a lot to do with having attended the right schools, rather than necessarily being any good. Though, of course, if you were good as well that had its advantages.

The subject of my email discussion this week was a famous calamity for Scottish rugby. The South African Springboks visited the UK for a very successful tour in 1951, which included defeating the Scottish national team 44-0 at Murrayfield, a catastrophe which ultimately changed the history of the sport here, and remained a record margin of victory for a full international "Test" until 1986. [The effect was not dissimilar to the occasion when Ferenc Puskas and his soccer-playing chums from Hungary visited Wembley and humiliated England two years later. Shock. Horror.]

As it happens, I later met two of that losing Scottish rugby team. One was Oliver Turnbull, uncle of my first wife, who won his only two international caps at the advanced age of 32, both in 1951. Oliver was a great club player and local celebrity in the Scottish Borders; he captained a very good Kelso team. He was well past his playing days when I met him, and was a successful farmer near St Boswells.

This is the best picture I could find. Scotland team to play France in 1951 - Oliver Turnbull is in the middle of the front row, winning his first Scottish cap

 The other was at one time my boss in Edinburgh, Ian Thomson, a great character who in addition to his seven international rugby caps also had a successful career (amateur, of course) as a cricketer. Ian was surprisingly small for a sportsman, but he was a full-back of great speed and strength, and also a place-kicker of legendary repute - "a siege-gun left boot". I never saw him play - all before my time; he was some 11 years younger than Oliver.

On office nights out, Ian could be coaxed into telling us stories of his sporting days. He said that he didn't get as many international caps as he would have hoped, since he had a great rivalry with another contemporary full-back, Neil Cameron; Ian said he made a career out of being "the second best full-back in Scotland", but he also maintained that he owed a lot to having been the travelling reserve for the Springboks game. In those days, the reserve did not play unless one of the first XV was taken ill before the game - there was no concept of bringing on substitutes.

 

Ian Thomson, Heriots and Scotland, on the occasion of his first international, against Wales

After the Murrayfield debacle on 24th November, only five of that Scottish team ever played again for their country; Ian reckoned that he got a run in the team largely because he hadn't been on the field against the 'Boks. He had a nice, self-deprecating sense of humour anyway, so I am sure that he was selected on merit, but his theory is interesting.

My favourite recollection of his account of the 44-0 hammering is that he was sharing a room with Oliver at the team's hotel (which I think may have been the Caledonian, at the West End of Princes Street). The evening before the game, there was a bit of a session going on in the hotel bar, and Ian excused himself and went to bed. At about 2:30 am, according to Ian, he was woken by Oliver returning to the room, "well-refreshed and roaring". Oliver grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him violently, in his bed, yelling, "WE'RE GOING TO BLOODY MURDER THE BASTARDS, IAN - BLOODY MURDER THEM...".

And the rest, as they say, is history. Just Ian's affectionate story, of course, but it gives an interesting insight into the levels of athletic dedication these gentlemen brought to the honour of representing their country. I almost mentioned professionalism, but that would have been very inappropriate.

 

 

There is a legend of a disgruntled Scottish fan saying after the game, "We were lucky to get nil..."

Wee Ian died in 2014, aged 84. Uncle Oliver died in 2009, aged 89. Mighty characters, both of them.