Rugby

No blogging here until Monday: it's Calcutta Cup weekend and I'm off to Edinburgh today for the festivities. It's an odd feeling this, the notion that England aren't the obvious and heavy favourites. Two average sides will meet tomorrow and it's quite possible they will produce the worst match of the championship. How grim that would be depends, naturally, on the actual outcome. It can't be any worse than the 1988 fixture which was, quite possibly, the worst game of rugby I've ever attended. Really, we should have a better anthem than Flower of Scotland. It's a pretty rotten and, in some senses, sentimental dirge. Just occasionally, however, it aspires to be something bigger and better than that.

This is optimism's optimum moment. Twelve hours from now everything will change. That's when, alas, France will most probably begin to take control of this afternoon's encounter with Scotland at Murrayfield. And yet, stubbornly and despite logic that dictates Chris Cusiter's boys have just a one in four chance of prevailing, hope still flowers. That's partly because no-one looked very good today. Beat France and all sorts of things suddenly seem possible. Unlikely? For sure, but this is the time for dreaming. Italy were an affront to rugby and a sad one too; Ireland were pretty poor on Saturday and I still think that David Wallace's best days are behind him (despite his rather strange Man of the Match award yesterday) and that Johnny Sexton is now a better fly-half than Ronan O'Gara.

He'd been ill for some time, so the news that Bill McLaren, the "Voice of Rugby" has died is sad but neither surprising nor shocking. For nearly half a century, from his debut in 1953 until 2002, his voice dominated the game. No other rugby commentator came close. Nor, in this multi-channel age, will any again. The voice - a mild Hawick burr - was only part of what made McLaren so distinctive. McLaren's commentary combined great colour with precision. He gave viewers a sense of the drama of the game and relished the physical confrontation that lies at the heart of rugby and without which it is, if not nothing, then a much-reduced game. He was a trusted, kindly guide who taught many of us much of what we know about the game. Above all, there was a rare warmth about Bill's commentary.

So, now that the autumn internationals have been completed, we can assess who's best advanced their preparations for the Six Nations this spring and, longer-term, the next World Cup which, while still distant, is now within sight. In descending order, then, of satisfaction (not quite the same as achievement), the rankings might go something like this: 1. Ireland: The only northern hemisphere side to survive November unbeaten, even if they were mildly fortunate to escape with a draw against Australia. Better than anything on the scoreboard, however, was the emergence of Jonny Sexton as a true international-class fly-half. Next projects: finding a fresh tighthead prop and a genuine open-side flanker.

Back in the days when the Edinbugh Evening News printed a "Saturday Pink" edition, it used to be said that there were two headlines on hand for whenever Scotland played England for the Calcutta Cup. Occasionally the sub-editors could scream "It's Bannockburn!"; more often they were left to lament "It's Flodden". The latter, as always when the game is played at Twickenham, seems the more probable result tomorrow. Still, talk of ancient battles is merely tabloid hyperbole. Other conflicts loom larger. Frank Keating had a characteristically lovely piece in the Guardian this week, recalling the terror of the First World War and the calamitous toll it took on rugby: The war had left rugby with a grievous inventory.

Another Saturday, another trip to Murrayfield. Frank Hadden is not a lucky coach; the Scotland front five was supposed to be the team's strength but Nathan Hines will miss the entire championship, while Euan Murray's rib injjury has kept him out until this afternoon's must-win match against Italy. Murray's an unusal rugby player. Not only is he a qualified veterinary surgeon, he's a born-again Christian. This would scarcely be worth mentioning if he were American (many NFL locker rooms, for instance, are well stocked with religious fervour and team prayers and prayer meetings are common) but in British rugby it's something rather different. You get a flavour of this from an interview Murray gave Scotland on Sunday's Tom English earlier this season: The seizure, he's spoken about.

Adapt and change or die is the mantra of the day. And not just in economics neither. Here, for instance, is the Australian rugby coach Ewen McKenzie, currently in charge at Stade Francais, arguing that the experimental rules used this season in the southern hemisphere be adopted in europe too: "I understand the debate, change is difficult," he warned. "But we are now in the entertainment business. Kids have all sorts of technology in their homes now so we as a sport have got to do things to make them get off their bums and come to watch our game, especially when the weather is cold. "That means you have got to keep thinking of new ways. The traditionalists will still come, but one day they will die out and will have to be replaced.

Winter sunshine.

Home. Monday afternoon. Oddly calm.

Looking west up the Ettrick Valley during the second half of Selkirk's tremendous 6-0 victory against Boroughmuir at Philiphaugh this afternoon. The defending Scottish champions were rightly favoured before kick-off but proved unable to breach the home side's line. A terrific game of rugby, however, played in great spirit by two committed, courageous sides. Great stuff.

Autumn. Mists and mellow fruitfulness and all that. The River Ettrick, as seen from the bridge at Selkirk.

There would have been more - and better - blogging in these parts recently if I hadn't been helping to look after my niece, Florence, lately. She was, alas, suffering from abandonment issues as her mother was in London. Even the pastoral delights of the Borderland offered but a temporary reprieve. Still, here she is on her way to feed the two Jacob sheep (Rachel and Leah, obviously) yesterday: All of which is a way of getting round to reminding y'all that you should check out the wee beast's mother's website. If you felt like commissioning a painting then you'd a) be smart, b) be rewarded with a fine picture and c) feel good about yourself. More details at Claudia's own website.

Skipper Neil Darling and his Selkirk team-mates celebrate after Monday night's Border League final victory over Jed-Forest, bringing the title back to Philiphaugh for the first time in 55 years. This caps the most successful season for the rugby club since 1952-53 when Selkirk were both Border League and Scottish champions (for the only time ever). Add this bauble to retaining the Kings of the Sevens title and winning promotion to Division 1 next season and it's been a cracking year. Hurrah! Watch it and weep, Gala... Photo © club photographer Grant Kinghorn.

Back from Ireland and, whaddyaknow, it's like summer has finally arrived here. By which I mean that temperatures have soared into the 70s. Regular blogging to resume soon. Meanwhile, here's a picture two of my mother's hens...

From Alasdair Reid's inquest into Saturday's Roman debacle: Rome is not exactly short of statues, but they could raise another one this morning to Dan Parks, the Scotland fly-half, whose woeful performance virtually gifted Italy their win. The official statistics showed that Parks had made seven errors in the game, the most significant of which was that he emerged from the dressing room in the first place. Too true, too bleedin' true.