Nicky Woolf Goes Way Back
What are the first things you think of when you think of the ‘60s? Sex? Drugs? Rock’n’Roll? The same three, but in a different order? Now, if you will, imagine being one of the gentry in the ‘60s. Life for the toffs didn’t change as much in the ‘60s as it did for the disaffected, baby-boomer, up-and-coming optimists of the middle- and lower classes. While the younger and less landed citizens of Britain were finding new and exciting pastimes such as free love, cheap psychedelics and ambitiously optimistic philosophies – resulting in such affecting and poignant lyrics as “I am the Eggman / I am the Walrus / goo goo ga-joob,” – life for the upper classes changed very little. The butler still brought tea and scones for breakfast, the labradors still needed walking and the grouse still needed shooting. When you own half of Staffordshire and have shot most of its wildlife, time weighs very heavy on your hands.
Of course, the pastime of those with more money than land and a lot of both was then what it was a hundred years ago, and what it still is to this day – getting roaring drunk off expensive brandy and making expensive and dramatic wagers. In 1964, while students at the brand new University of York bopped to the Beatles, and students at the equally spanking Lancaster rolled to the Stones, the two Universities’ Vice-Chancellors, Lord James of Rusholme (York) and Sir Charles Carter (Lancaster) had nothing more to do than attack the ’56 Glenfiddich together and discuss their relative students’ merits.
It must have been about half past two, the candles were low and so was the whisky, and it was perhaps Lord James (one likes to think) who belched politely, shuffled his whiskers, and said those immortal words: “I bet my lot are sportier than your lot.” The rest, as they say, is history.
The first Roses tournament was a rowing race and, even though it was not on home turf (the lake, unfortunately, isn’t deep enough; and Goodricke Bridge is just low enough to decapitate all the competitors as they speed underneath), Lord James’ York emerged triumphant. The Carter-James Trophy was smelted from purest gold and handed to the victorious rowers, and Carter demanded a rematch to be held the very next year. Thus, Roses was born. What a time to be alive, eh?
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