Bearded Bowlers

I was somewhat taken aback when idly flipping through the hundreds of hopeless channels available on the old 46 inch Plasma, to see some shots of a Scottish Bowling Federation championship. For years I have believed SBF members to be chaps with a proper sense of neatness and authority, blazered, flannelled and clean shaven. Imagine my surprise to see the men as Steve Irwin look-a-likes and the ladies in racy white summer frocks, worst of all beards were very much in evidence. What has happened to this pillar Scottish urban and village life, what next, coloured balls?

The old Governor used to claim that the summer started with Wimbledon and the silly season started with the release of rusticated Oxbridge undergraduates and the recess of The House of Lords, and he should have known as he was very familiar with the former! However it is true that Glen Trollaigh only seems enter the Bog Myrtle scented, Cleg slapping, dog days of summer well after the Solstice and the nights are fair drawing in. This year the poor chaps at the All England Lawn Tennis Club must be in a bit of a spin after spending zillions over several years to fit Centre Court with a tin top, to have seen nary a drop of rain. However the Old Man was a bit off the mark with the silly season which seems to start earlier and earlier with the passing of each year, mainly fueled by charity runs featuring men with underpants on their heads and girls with bras on the outside of their clothing, all very commendable but about on a par with people throwing themselves of large hills on mountain bikes, another manifestation of the silly season if ever there was one.


Talking of underpants, the boundless lunacy of "irresponsible campers," as we now must respectfully call the lads and ladettes who spoil the peace of Glen Trollaigh and recklessly leave piles of poo for the unwary land manager to stand on, now includes tearing off all one's clothes while shouting at the top of one's voice and trying to throw the empty 40 oncer further than your buddies. I am not sure what they wear to get home, or even if they have a home to go to, for the cast apparel is discarded at the campsite along with all the other rubbish. If it were brightly coloured scanties one might be a bit more sympathetic, however it has fallen to me to liberate three pairs of ghastly boxers and two pairs of jeans from the riverbank over the past days, while innocently searching for a fish. Still one can be secure in the knowledge that China will churn out millions of replacement garments in the time it takes yours truly to scribble this nonsense. Yours aye, Archie, The Baron Trollaigh.

PS. The blog police at GHQ have shopped me to the All England Lawn Tennis Club and I have been asked to withdraw all comments about the new Centre Court roof and point out that it has in fact been put to good use. All-be-it to force Andy Murray to play on till midnight in an attempt to exhaust him whilst sticking to the new rule book. I am very pleased to say that this conspiracy did not dent young Murray's splendid efforts and he has played to his seed level. One can almost hear the howls from the treasurer's office as he or indeed she signs off the largest prize winnings ever won by a Brit, to a Scotsman! A.T.