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Edinburgh is a fine town to visit for rugby. Arriving at Waverley by train from London, one walks up a gentle stone ramp, directly into the middle of fun, new and old.
Pipers are piping (and walking briskly, to get away from the noise). Ask the man in the kilt if there is anything worn under it, and he’ll tell you: “Nae, it’s all in perfect working order.”
Steps from the rail, you can walk right into a pub, order a pint of lager with a dash of lime, and hear the barman tell you: “We don’t do cocktails.”
Scotland invented the phone. This may be why all the phone booths in Edinburgh have been converted into toilets: when you invent something, you’re entitled to piss on it.
They also invented hypnosis, chloroform and the syringe. Beware your neighbour in pubs! But never fear an angry mob in Scotland. Disperse them immediately by taking up a collection.
Binge drinking in Scotland has inspired a massive temperance movement. Signs saying “DRINK IS YOUR ENEMY” adorn bar walls. But next to them: “LOVE THY ENEMY.”
But let’s get serious. I went to see the Springboks attack the mighty fortress of BT Murrayfield; walking all over town, tasting malt in all its forms, climbing muddy hills, reviewing auld torture racks before they invented scrums, and eating every flipping piece of food on offer.
Hamish Watson of Scotland (Photo by Lynne Cameron/Getty Images)
As we all know, the game was a 26-20 cracker and came down to one repelled Scottish maul for a try, down the stretch, after a firecracker start. This failed late game Scottish escape brings to mind the weary Gaelic prisoner in Edinburgh Castle, asked by his jailer if he found prison life tolerable. “The walls are nae built to scale.”
The size and scale of the Bok forwards were indeed a major talking point of the Scottish fans surrounding us. RG Snyman in particular brought oohs and aahs from the locals.
“How can we compete in the lineout against that giraffe?” As we know, it was easy: just throw it to the canny flank named Hamish running through the gigantic gap between the tall trees.
“Half your props are South African, anyways,” I countered. “Ach, you sent us the wee ones,” said the woman next to me, who fed me homemade brownies in return for sharing my Tennent’s.
It’s true the Scottish pack was giving up a few pounds against the Bok behemoths. For once, that stereotype was true. As a writer in The Scotsman put it, it looked like South Africa was commemorating the passing of Marvel Comics’ Stan Lee by selecting a front row of Hulk, Thing, and Apocalypse with Galactus and Destroyer behind them, and the God of Thunder at number eight.
Snyman, the journalist observed, was “surely breathing thinner air.”
Most of the post-match reports from Scotland used monster truck metaphors, asked whether the dressing-room had undergone steel beam reinforcement, and advised seismometers for the Boks.
But to me, this lovely test match was more about speed: of foot, of thought, and pass. The first try was a strange diagramme: Man of the Match Handre Pollard knifing through and shooting it to lightning quick Embrose Papier who found Snyman who chicken wing offloaded to Steven Kitshoff, who Sonny-Billed to S’bu Nkosi, with a quick recycle and a dive-in try by Jesse Kriel.
Handre Pollard, a bright prospect for the Springboks. (AAP Image/NZN/SNPA, John Cowpland)
Scotland countered with a candidate for Scottish Try of the Decade, to which the Boks speedily replied, and then there was the cannon-fired Stuart Hogg burst and a little lineout magic trick.
It was only when Monsieur Poite lost the plot and carded Willie le Roux for daring to go for the interception of a long, loopy, floating Pete Horne pass (the rule being all about cynical negative play, but misinterpreted in this case to incentivise the defender playing more conservatively, and creating another tackle-ruck when we already have 400 a game, instead of creating a dramatic “try one direction or the other direction” risk), that the game slowed down to a bitterly fought 6-3 second half.
The visitors simply had to stifle and strangle the wily Scots to survive ten minutes.
The home team visibly tired by the end, which doomed their last big push against a larger pack. But it was the loss of Hogg to an ankle turn which seemed to hurt the most. He and Huw Jones seem to be the darlings of the adoring Murrayfield lasses, revved up by the pre-match light show.
The 65,000 Murrayfield assemblage is knowledgeable, committed, and yet respectful. The Bok placekickers received silence as they teed the ball up. All the tries were actually appreciated. Food was shared from Tupperware, and Famous Grouse from flasks. Nobody was a stranger.
We’ve read and seen so much about Rassie Erasmus’ resurgent Boks. The pack is highly mobile and skilled both at set piece and in the loose. The breakdown is done by committee, but it works. The omnipresent Pollard shone, Elton Jantjies is turning into a calming super-sub (I almost choked, writing those words), and the midfield, while still a blunt force instrument, is solid.
In the end, the Boks slowed the Scots’ ball down too much for the Scots to do what they wanted.
I prefer to rate the starting Jocks, using food comparisons:
Gordon Reid had to scrum against Frans Malherbe. Basically, it was a case of sheep’s pluck minced with salt, oatmeal, suet and onion inside a lining of intestines. Reid needs more marrow.
Stuart McInally was a lively hooker. He was like neeps and tatties, with butter and chives. The problem was he was up against High Veld ribs and chilli biltong.
Tighthead WP Nel had to deal with the Gingerman, the Ginga Ninja from Somerset-West. Nel ended up looking like salty Highland porridge, the kind you can pick up with your hands. Some might call it cold mielie pap, too.
Jonny Gray is the smaller of the Gray brothers. They both seem like strong salmon, with their colouring and flopping about and high energy and fresh young faces, without being that aggressive. The junior Gray was monumental in one mammoth maul drive by the Scots, which may have suckered them into going back to it one too many time, at the death.
The Scottish loose trio was supposed to be a full breakfast, with black pudding, lorne sausage, beans, brown sauce, and tattie scones, but in the end it was just bangers and mash, too easily cleaned off the plate, as the home team lost 13 turnovers, many of them to Thor and Mad Marx.
Greig Laidlaw is shortbread. That’s it. He’s been around since 1736. He’s the perfect accompaniment to a cup of tea. And he won’t surprise you or let you down.
In contrast, Finn Russell is a very modern fusion dish. He is a schizo-sushi roll with a quail egg on top, with goat cheese, basil, pecans, spinach and jalapeños on a bed of Antojito slow cooked shoulder and a pulled pork chilli burrito on the side, with coleslaw, homemade chilli jam and beetroot chutney. He looks like a talented footballer who could play four or five sports, but might need to focus on rugby fundamentals first.
Scotland’s Finn Russell (Photo: AFP)
Huw Jones is ‘tablet:’ sugar, condensed milk and butter cooked together until crystalised, with a shot of whisky. He’s a baby-faced killer, with sweet offloads, and delectable lines.
His midfield partner, Horne, is just a vinegar-doused fish mixed with fluffy chips and brown sauce. Punching above his weight; a good man to have in the squad—a bit like Ryan Crotty?
Sean Maitland held off Papier long enough to set Jones and Horne free on their miracle gallop. He’s an L and P drink, taller than you think, and a bit more sour, but effervescent and easy to down.
Tommy Seymour is a Scotch Pie, served hot or cold, it makes no difference. He’s double-crusted, and full of mutton. Ready to eat, carry, throw, or save for later.
Hogg is a battered Mars Bar, which is for some reason all the rage in Edinburgh. Stick a chocolate bar in the deep fryer. Bite it and all of the melted stuff oozes out and sparks a rush of endorphins.
All metaphors and jokes aside: go to a Test match at Murrayfield if you can: for the city, the people, the entertainment, and the ‘soul.’ It’s the best game day experience in Northern Hemisphere rugby, in my opinion; maybe even anywhere.
Well, Cardiff awaits…
Join The Roar rugby editor Christy Doran, former Wallaby Matt Toomua and a cast of regular and special guests as they look at the biggest issues in the game on The Roar Rugby Podcast. If you’re looking for great odds on the next game check out Aussie bookmaker PlayUp. Chances are you’re about to lose. Set a deposit limit.
