Ah harsh Link, great singer. Sang with Harold Melville and the Blue Notes. Also wrote âIf you dont know me by nowâ, cant find any decent clip of it on Youtube.
No one have Dennis Hopper? On deaths door by all accountsâŚ
God rest him
From BBC:
Voice of rugby Bill McLaren dies
Bill McLaren, known as the âvoice of rugbyâ, has died
Commentator Bill McLaren, known popularly as the âvoice of rugbyâ has died at the age of 86.
Mr McLaren, from Hawick, retired in 2002 and received an OBE, CBE and MBE for services to the sport.
He began commentating even before his 10th birthday by copying the voices he heard on the radio.
He went on to earn the respect of players, fans, and spectators by being the best-researched commentator rugby had ever seen.
[quote=âBandageâ]God rest him
From BBC:[/QUOTE]
Is he the lad from Jonah Lomu Rugby?
I donât know?
He was the voice of rugby football, as far as Iâm concerned. He actually made rugby football watchable at times and showed it wasnât exclusively for benders and toffs.
RIP.
He was great commentator, very knowledge and showed a real passion for the game. RIP
He was indeed. Bill Beaumont was co-commentator. Best Rugby game ever.
âOoh, a crunching tackle there-thatâll put him in Ward 5.â
âI hope not Bill, thatâs a maternity wardâ
[quote=âPikemanâ]He was indeed. Bill Beaumont was co-commentator. Best Rugby game ever.
âOoh, a crunching tackle there-thatâll put him in Ward 5.â
âI hope not Bill, thatâs a maternity wardâ[/QUOTE]
Heâs digging like a demented mole in there
Cracking quotes there, they played a clip from him on the 4 o clcok news on Today FM, the voice of rugby. RIP Bill.
Very sad news. He was a true voice. A voice of alot of our childhoods really.
That Lomu game was cracking.
That was a class game
[media=youtube]KvWcEcmjtds&feature=related
âItâs hot, itâs humid⌠and its stickyâ
This was a class game:
[media=youtube]am4VyllGygY
Friday January 22 2010
THE greatest moment in Bill McLarenâs broadcasting career came at half-time at Twickenham in 1982 when a streaker ran across the pitch. âUuagh!â he chortled in the half-Lallans that was his first tongue, âthereâs a young fellow there, and heâs so excited heâs taken his shirt off, heugh heugh heugh.â
The âyoung fellowâ was in fact 21-year-old Erica Roe, the owner of two very large breasts; so large, indeed â chest-measurement 42 inches, bra-size 34 FF â that they had great trouble keeping up with her. Even when she stopped running, her mammaries only ceased bouncing several seconds later. Schoolboys interested in physics â and there are many â would have cited them as a perfect practical example of simple harmonic motion. But Bill McLaren never noticed either of them. Having spotted the âyoung fellowâ without the shirt (for of course, only men are to be found on the rugby pitch), his mind returned to rugby from which it seldom strayed.
It was good that Bill died so soon after Ciaran Mac Mathuna. They belonged to different lands and different cultures, and Iâm sure they never met, but they had this in common; they were utter gentlemen, and masters at broadcasting, who brought love and detail and passion and human regard to everything they did.
They were of an age and if there is a hereafter, well, they are seated there chatting away, enjoying the paradise they so richly deserve.
Bill, like Ciaran, embodied a mythic world to which I am a stranger and of which I merely got glimpses.
The McLarenite myth was of the Scottish Borders, of stone walls, and handsome farms, and cattle marts and vets in old Rovers, and men in tweed hats, puffing pipes beside the fireside in a country inn.
It was rugby on a Saturday afternoon with 30 stocky men called Murray and Gordon and Dougie and Scott, with their windswept Harris Tweed-clad wives shuddering on the touchline.
It was a sinless world of decency and deliberation in which word given was a word kept. The ethos of rugby extended to all their lives: the underlying principles called upon a man to be upright, gallant and true to himself, his club, his family, his country. This is a myth. It is also an aspiration.
I know nothing about Bill McLarenâs politics, but I would guess that he belonged to the old-fashioned Scottish unionist tradition in which the word âunionâ was pre-eminent: loyal to Scotland, loyal to Britain, loyal to his king. His caste and class officered countless regiments in uncountable wars, and never said a word about what they had gone through.
He himself had served as a forward observation officer in the Royal Artillery, which called on him to report on the fall of shellfire, with perhaps a little more accuracy than he was to display during Erica Roeâs performance 40 years later. He passed through the cauldron of the battle for Monte Cassino, after which he said rugby didnât really matter.
Oh, but it did. It mattered because it was the outward sign and foremost representative of an entire value-system.
He loved the sport, both as a broadcaster and as a schools rugby coach. He must have been an inspiring teacher for boys, who are a ruthless judge of character and detector of weakness but are shrewd respecters of innate decency and loyalty. No boy in his charge would ever have let down his side because, worst of all, it would be letting Sir down: and in the crunch you just knew that Sir would never let you down.
His television audiences knew that about him too: it was the salt-of-the-earth, with-you-to-the-last bullet, silent, sober, undemonstrative decency of the wee-dram lowland Scot whose rare extravagances are confined to Burnsâ Night and Hogmanay.
These were the virtues embodied by Bill McLarenâs exact contemporary, William Reid VC, whose wife only discovered by accident, long after they were married, that her husband had won the Victoria Cross (actually, one of the most astonishing of the Second World War).
Any pub showing an Irish international rugby match in multichannel Ireland in the 1980s always plumped for the BBC version, solely because of Bill McLaren. And that, in turn, was because he was immensely knowledgeable, immensely enthusiastic and most of all, immensely fair. Indeed, were he to be commentating upon a Scottish team versus an Attila the Hun XV, he would still be balanced and objective even though in defeat the Scots were to be eaten by hyenas. No wonder that most partisan of all crowds, at Cardiff Arms Park, hugely applauded him at his last rugby match, and held aloft a banner: âBill McLaren is Welsh.â
No he wasnât. He was rugby â as it should be, and maybe once was, but never will be again. If I have a criticism of him at all â and I seriously do â it was of his infuriating and typically Scottish thatch of enduringly brown-hair. Indeed, I intend to have a stern word with him about it: in due course, that is, but not just yet.
- Kevin Myers
Irish Independent
[quote=âThe Pukeâ]Friday January 22 2010
her mammaries
[/QUOTE]
I hate that word⌠There are so many better referencesâŚ
Anyone have Salinger?
I wouldnât imagine anyone had Howard Zinn. Another hero to bite the dust.
British designer Alexander McQueen (emphasis on the queen part) committed suicide today.
i expect bandage or WTB or one of the other ball shaving, hair conditioning freaks to come along shortly with a tribute thread
The only reason you donât shave your balls is so that you can distingush them from your head 