We were running a training course in the Lake District for the Motherwell team, and it spanned a weekend. Most of the lads were Catholic, so we went to Mass at the local church. (I'm not Catholic, but little Peter Farrell - a bundle of fun and so short that he had a second career as a bonsai lumberjack - was devout, and prayed regularly for my conversion).
It was a dismal business. Although we arrived mob-handed and lowered the average age of the congregation by about twenty years, there were no words of welcome. The priest delivered his sermon and his parish announcements as if it was the Day of Judgment. And the hymns ... well, there was no musical accompaniment, so as they were sung they got slower and flatter, and the final hymn was a long dirge to Mary which kept repeating the phrase 'England, your dowry.'
Well, I could sense that Peter was uncomfortable at this particular demonstration of the faith that had his lifetime's allegiance, and he was wondering how I was going to react. He needn't have bothered - when we left the church, the first sight to greet us was that of Big John Clark poking Alec Sharkey in the chest and repeating: 'What the fuck does he fuckin' mean, England your dowry when his fuckin' collection plate's full of fuckin' Scottish pound notes?'
Take care,
Valerie.
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