I can assert the one thing I do not seek amongst my Christmas gifts is a book about cricket. The ritual that purports to be a sport leaves my brain numb.
I was terrified of the rock- hard ball at school when I was at the wicket and appalled by my i
nability to catch it when I wasn't. I think my hostility to cricket started my generalised hostility to all forms of coercion. Nobody, I concluded, could want to play voluntarily.
Yet a talented young Peebles man has sent me his extraordinary new book 'Slogging the Slavs'. A graduate of the Peebles team, he has made a discovery which amazes and intrigues me – and given Mr Bell's writing flair (short sentences are the trick), I laughed. I could not have imagined I could ever blend cricket with amusement.
He has discovered on his perambulations away from the Borders that there is a comical underworld of semi-illicit cricket played in Eastern Europe. He plays in ice cricket tournmaments in Estonia, finds thriving college teams in the Crimea and a Croat military challenge cup. He even found stray Indian cricketers bowling around Poland, and in the Czech Republic cricket has a mesmerising role of defying the Russian threat.
The action off the pitch, or should that be field – well, cabbage patch in many cases – is equally straining my credulity but it seems all to be true.
This is the funniest Borderer's book I have encountered.
I was amused to learn that 'Monty Python and the Holy Grail' was due to be filmed at Hermitage Castle, the gaunt monstrous fort near Newcastleton. At the last moment a Historic Scotland official decided comedy was not in keeping with the 'dignity of the fabric' of the Borders pile. The result was the film was made at Doune Castle, privately owned, which is now earning a sizeable income from Python fans who want to see the location where the brave knights sought their noble quest. This bureaucratic timidity is not why Historic Scotland gets the Treasury to shunt so much money their way, but I fear the mysterious force termed 'political correctness' may be about to block another device that would attract more visitors.
Hermitage was the home of the not very loveable Earl of Bothwell, consort to Mary, Queen of Scots, who bafflingly loved the rascal.
By an odd route, none of it to his credit, Bothwell died in a jail in Denmark where his mummified body remains. This was on display as a macabre curio but etiquette has since withdrawn his remains from tourist view.
Now his lineal descendent, Alastair Buchan Hepburn, wants to bring his ancestor's body back to Scotland. There are diverse possible destinations but I rate Hermitage by far the best.
There are protocols about the respect for human remains which should not be disregarded but Bothwell was so vain in life I cannot doubt he would have favoured his remains intriguing or horrifying us in the 21st century.
The Earl of Bothwell did little for the Borders in life. Could he be a powerful boost in death? I hope so.
