Jonathan Rice - Classic After-Dinner Sports Tales

BBC television news presenter, based in the Midlands.

Beginner’s Rugby

Surly 11-year-old: ‘I don’t want to play rugby!’

Harrassed mother: ‘Why don’t you? It was your grandfather’s favourite game, it’s your father’s favourite game, it’s a fantastic game, why don’t you want to play it?’

Surly 11-year-old: ‘Well how would you like it, standing around in the freezing-cold for hours doing nothing, then when you do do something, you get mugged!’

Warwickshire and England opening batsman, who played fifty Tests for England in the 1970s, scoring 3,612 runs at an average of 46.30. Subsequently became Warwickshire’s Chief Executive.

We were in Antigua during MCC’s tour of West Indies in early 1974. Next to the cricket ground was Antigua’s prison. Mike Denness, our captain, saw two chaps rolling the wicket on the morning of the match, and went over to speak to them.

‘How long have you been rolling the wicket for?’ he asked.

Back came the reply, ‘Twenty-five years, boss.’ They were both serving life sentences in the prison across the road.

Former Scottish flanker and captain. He toured with the British Lions in 1968 and 1971.

In 1969 I was picked to play for Scotland against France at Stade Colombes in Paris. We had a memorable weekend in the hands of the Scottish Rugby Union.

At that time the members of the Scotland Rugby Team were allowed one international jersey for the season and had to bring along a pair of clean white shorts and navy blue stockings for the game. If match jerseys were swapped with the opposition the player was then invoiced for a replacement jersey for the next match. Luckily my travel costs for the season offset my jersey costs so I broke even. The SRU fervently believed in the amateur status and implemented their beliefs to the letter.

On the Wednesday before the game I received an international telephone call at my home in Scotland from a representative of a famous German sports equipment manufacturer. The soothing and polished voice on the telephone, after the exchange of the usual courtesies, asked me if I would like to try out a pair of their super new boots for the game.

As I was broke and my boots were falling apart I replied slowly, trying to play hard to get. I did not give an immediate ‘yeees’ but hesitated, saying that I was not really sure but if he could manage two pairs I would consider trying them out.

‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I shall deliver them to your hotel in Paris.’

The next day the team left Edinburgh on a charter flight with the usual contingent of alickadoos and their wives all out for a wonderful expenses-paid weekend. The gin and tonics flowed as soon as the plane lifted off and we were on our way to Paris. I sat with the team in the rear seats dreaming of my new boots. I had told no one of the arrangement.

On arrival in Paris we made our way to the hotel in the team bus and checked in. I put the key in the lock and opened the door of my room. The far wall of the room was stacked with boxes of at least 60 pairs of gleaming new rugby boots.

The smooth German promotions manager appeared from nowhere asking if the rest of the lads would like a pair. Nairn McEwen my room-mate looked perplexed, fearful of the consequences. It was his first international for Scotland. The other players passing in the corridor could not help but notice the boxes of boots and soon the whole team knew.

We held an emergency meeting. Ian Robertson of BBC fame and Mike Smith the Cambridge wing, both considered two of the more intelligent members of the team, proclaimed that we should tell the manager. They reasoned that depending on the degree of alcohol consumed there was a possibility that he might notice that the team would all have polished new boots with three stripes on them next day for the game instead of the dirty old boots that was the usual turnout.

The manager was called and considered the situation with gravity. He huffed and puffed about professionalism and what the committee would think. He was swiftly given another gin and tonic and asked if he would like to try on a pair. His mood changed and he began to smile as he admired the way the shiny new boots fitted him perfectly.

Without further ado he gave the order – charge everyone who wants a pair 50p and that’ll be the end of it. With that he put the new boots under his arm and walked off down the corridor to join the rest of the committee for another gin and tonic, announcing his decision and showing off his new acquisitions.

Eventually all the committee and even some of the wives had a pair!

Nairn was aghast and was in shock, saying that he needed a bath to relax. After the bath it was time for bed and he asked me what I thought about Benoit Dauga, the French no. 8.

Nairn was about 5ft 6” and 12 stones, Benoit was around 6ft 8” and 16 stones of muscle. ‘Is he dirty? Is he fast?’ Nairn asked with concern in his eyes. I replied that Benoit was the fastest nastiest player ever to grace a rugby field. Nairn went quiet.

In the morning I asked Nairn how he had slept. He said he hadn’t slept a wink and had worried and sweated all through the night.

Scotland won the match beating France 9-3. We all wore our new boots, which were shown on television, and Nairn played like a man possessed. The three stripes became a marque of the sport and the SRU committee changed forever from the amateur to professional status. It was a benchmark in the annals of Scottish rugby football history and things have never been the same since.

Television broadcaster whose career has included BBC television newscasting, Crackerjack, This Is Your Life and The Antiques Roadshow, among many other credits.

One summer’s day in the early 1980s, I was sitting at a lakeside café in Italy (to be precise, it was Orta San Giulio, later featured annoyingly by Judith Chalmers in her list of great places to visit – thus spoiling it for us regulars).

As I sipped my Prosecco, I noticed a commotion in the water about one hundred yards out. Someone was trying to water-ski, and was failing spectacularly. After many attempts, he finally rose from the water and managed to stay upright for a few seconds. Then one ski flew off at an angle and the other one disappeared; by the laws of gravity the skier should have done the same. But he was so desperate to keep going that he held on to the tow rope and actually ran across the surface of the lake for about six paces.

When I eventually stopped laughing, I decided it was time to resurrect my own watersports career. So that afternoon, I went out with the hotel boat, and although it had been a few years since I’d last been on skis, I got up at once and in a few seconds was flying along. I had told the crew my intention was to do a bit of mono-skiing, so I transferred my weight to the left, slipped off the right ski and really started to move. Halfway across the lake, I came off and hit the water at a tremendous speed.

Now, if you are going to do that, you should try to land face forward or on your back, or even on your elbows – but not on your backside. Not at speed, not into water. A gallon of Lake Orta entered me through orifices I didn’t know I had. Through the pain, words like ‘enema’, ‘douche’ and ‘emasculation’ drifted into my mind. I had visions of sitting down to dinner that night, and streams jetting from my ears.

Luckily, there was no real damage. I just had rather a strange walk for a few days, which my family seemed to find amusing. I don’t think you should laugh at other people’s suffering.