Jan 01 2012
Uppies and Doonies
The crowd, muffled in scarves, gloves and Christmas jumpers, fell silent. Behind us stood the red sandstone glory of the cathedral, and in front of us, an empty street. Left, from Victoria Street came the menacing sound of tramping feet, echoed by the same sound from Albert Street, to the right. Two large groups of men strode forth, came to a menacing halt, and stared wordlessly at one another. AD, visiting Orkney for the first time, turn and whispered, ‘It’s like the Wild West!’ You could almost hear the Ennio Morricone soundtrack.
As the great bell of St Magnus chimed 1 o’clock, a hard leather ball was thrown into the mob and the scrum began. Ladies and gentlemen, I gestured to our visitors, welcome to the Ba’.
The origins of the Kirkwall Ba’ are spurious, to say the least, but my favourite explanation dates to the 15th century when the newly-appointed Earl of Orkney, Henry Sinclair, built himself a castle, against the strict instructions of the King of Norway. His justification for the edifice was that as Earl he was entitled to a residence as befitting his status; particularly as the Bishop of Orkney had a large grand palace across the road.
Thus began the rivalry between the Bishop’s followers ‘up-the-gates’, and the Earl’s supporters ‘doon-the-gates’. Over time, this antagonism would become crystallised in the Uppies and the Doonies. In modern times their rivalry finds its expression on the streets of Orkney’s capital, Kirkwall, every Christmas day and every New Year’s day, when the Ba’ is contested*. This particular 1 January was bitterly cold and threatening snow, and our visitors were bundled up against the persistent northerly wind.
‘The object of the game is to get the ba’ or ball, into your home territory,’ I explained as we blew on our fingers. ‘The Uppies have to take the ball ‘up’ into the town and touch it against the wall of the house at Mackeson’s Corner. The Doonies have to get the ba’ ‘down’ into the harbour, where it usually ends up in the water’. ‘And then they change ends?’ asked AD’s girlfriend, who hadn’t really been listening.
‘No,’ I replied in that particular tone of voice used for addressing small children. ‘And then the game is over.’ ‘And that’s it?’ ‘And that’s it.’
For our first-time spectators, the throw-up of the Ba’ was certainly a high spot. The honour usually falls to a ‘toon’ worthy, and on this occasion the lady councillor performing the task had allegedly practiced for several weeks in her back garden with a neep, in order to perfect the optimum trajectory. I can attest to her pinpoint accuracy as she threw it straight into the middle of the pack, earning a great cheer from the crowd.
An unlimited number of people can play the Ba’, and the form is a huge scrum with few rules. After the initial excitement, the play can grind to a halt very quickly, as the pack jams itself up against a shop or house.
We watched a crowd of 50 or 60 players grapple themselves to a standstill – the exertion evident in the cloud of steam hanging over them in the crisp air. AD remarked that not much seemed to be happening; no sooner were the words spoken, than the pack broke, the Ba’ shot out right in front of where we stood, and the men, fired up with territorial bloodlust, stampeded towards us . The effect, I would imagine, was not unlike the running of the bulls in Pamplona. The look of naked fear on AD’s face was priceless as we leapt for our lives.
As the poor lad’s heart slowed to normal speed, we watched the sweaty scrum jam itself up against Judith Glue’s gift shop. AD’s girlfriend peered over the crowd. ‘Won’t the windows break?’ ‘Look,’ I pointed, ‘they’ve all got barricades’. In fact, the barricades in the centre of Kirkwall had been up for over a week - huge wooden bars were bolted across the doors and window to present breakage.
During the pre-barricade days, one Ba’ scrum saw a young fellow pushed through the plate-glass window of a genteel café. Legend says the thoughtful lad reached backwards, grabbed a cake stand full of fancies and proceeded to hand it round the players in his vicinity. The protagonists’ mouths full of profiteroles and Empire biscuits, the hostilities resumed.
As our feet were numbing to the point of no return, we ran into Neil, who offered us a welcome swig from his hipflask. ‘Whit like the day, buddo?’ ‘Good, Neil, thanks! Happy New Year!’ and there were handshakes and kisses all round as we shared the 12-year old Highland Park single malt. Behind us, the pack broke as a Doonie make a break for it, heading off down St Magnus Lane. The lad in front looked to have smuggled it up his jumper, but that can sometimes be a ruse to throw the opposition off the scent.
The ba’ can actually go anywhere, on the journey to its destination. There are famous instances of it travelling over rooftops, through people’s houses, gardens and flower beds – once it was even smuggled in a car, although this was frowned upon as being not quite in the spirit of the game. ‘Awa’ the Uppies!’ cried Neil as the pack surged down the alleyway, followed by the crowd.
We followed the action down to Junction Road, and Neil explained to our visitors that once upon a time, you were an Uppie or a Doonie depending on which side of the toon you were born. In more ‘modren’ times, he said, most babies are born at the maternity unit of the Balfour Hospital, so now it’s more their family allegiance that says if they’re Uppies or Doonies.
‘That’s how I’m an Uppie,’ he said, ‘as me father was an Uppie. And I’ve heard tell of me uncle Geordie too – he was a lifelong Uppie, and this one time he saw his pregnant wife out shopping you see, deep in Doonie territory. He got her into the car and home, just in case’.
‘What are we then?’ our visitors demanded to know. Ah well, explained Neil, a visitor to the islands can assume partisanship by the simple method of determining how they first entered the town. If you come by ferry to Stromness and then make your way to Kirkwall, you are a Doonie. If you arrive in Orkney by plane to Kirkwall airport, you shall forever be an Uppie. ‘She,’ he said, pointing to me, ‘is most definitely a Doonie.’
‘We’re Uppies like you!’ they cried, and immediately the day took on a more competitive tone. We cheered the pack and AD’s girlfriend and I cast a critical eye over the male specimens on offer. The Ba’ dress code is not especially flattering - usually jeans, a rugby top, and a large quantity of gaffer tape round the ankles. Most players were between the ages of 18 and 35, but there were plenty older players too. Large muscular farmhands predominated, but we could see lawyers and teachers hurling themselves equally into the fray. Under the age of 18, players can play in the Boys’ Ba’, which is contested earlier in the day. For one year, and one year only, they held a Women’s Ba’ – it was never repeated as it proved to be too violent.
Taking part in the Ba’ is hugely strenuous and often physically punishing; bruises, sprains and exhaustion are common, broken limbs are not unheard of. We saw several rumpled young men dropping out of the game for 10 minutes whilst their wives and girlfriends administered bacon rolls and cans of Guinness. However, it is not, as some have portrayed it, a large free-for-all fisticuffs. There are very gentlemanly traits exhibited throughout, and during the game, if a player goes down onto the ground, the scrum abates and everyone stands back to let the man get back on his feet. Although there are no actual rules, there is widespread adhesion to ‘spirit of the game’ and using the Ba’ to settle old scores is very much frowned upon. There are, in the whole history of the modern game, no instances of death, although in 1954 an experienced player called Davy Tait took part in the Christmas day Ba’, felt unwell, went home and had a fatal heart attack. It was the way, his fellow Doonies agreed, he would have wanted it.
The spectators of the Ba’ play an important role in the game. The wives and girlfriends of the players shout encouragement, provide sustenance for the men as they peel off from the game for 10 minutes, and in extreme cases, have been known to add their own shoulders to the heaving mass, should they feel that the pack is weakening. When the Boys’ Ba’ is in full swing, the scrum is followed by a small crowd of teenage girls, done up to the nines, texting furiously. Across the country, as young people groan at the very notion of tradition or heritage, it is very heartening to see such enthusiastic support, even if it is the modern-day version of tribal initiation and display of physical prowess. More than one Orkney girl has chosen her life partner having seen him play in the Ba’.
AD’s girlfriend and I were not in the market, however, and by 4 o’clock the sleet was starting to fall. We wandered along to Bruce’s Stores, the only shop open during the Ba’, and waited for Mr DRagon and AD to get pies. Standing in the doorway were two of the elderly Posh Ladies, tucking daintily into hot mince rolls and flirting with the Red Cross volunteers. ‘Oh,’ they twittered. ‘We love the Ba’! We haven’t missed one since 1952!’ One of them claimed to have seen the shortest ever game – at 45 minutes, and they both admitted to missing the end of the longest game, which lasted for just over 8 hours.
At 5 o’clock we called it a day. Slush was forming on the kerbs and the wind had eased not a jot – our fingers and toes were frozen. Driving out of the town centre, we turned along Great Western Road to find the scrum dead ahead and coming our way, so I had to reverse hastily in the opposite direction. Heading for home and hot soup, we agreed we could not think of a better way to nurse our New Year hangovers than standing for 4 hours in the wind and sleet watching 100 or so men fighting over a leather ball.
Long live tradition, we cried. Long live the Ba’! Long live the Uppies and the Doonies! But mostly the Doonies!
*Except when 25 Dec and 1 Jan fall on Sundays, which they did this season. In this case they are played on the Mondays, ie 26 Dec and 2 Jan.
Photos can be seen here, on the Facebook page of BBC Radio Orkney



















