The year is 1966. This is a true story of a Member of Parliament, a Scottish poet, a Beatle and my future father-in-law.
The MP was Bill Rodgers who first entered the House of Commons in 1962, representing Stockton-on-Tees for Labour. His political career included cabinet posts but he is best remembered as one of the ‘gang of four’ senior Labour politicians who in 1981 defected to form the Social Democratic Party, which eventually morphed into the Liberal Democrats. The other three founders were David Owen, Roy Jenkins and Shirley Williams. Rodgers ended his political career as a life peer and currently is retired.
Four years into his Stockton-on-Tees role, Rodgers gave a speech at a dinner in the Billingham Arms Hotel organised by the Teesside Caledonian Society. The speech caused an almighty stir. More than 170 members, including the Mayor and Mayoress of Thornaby, were enjoying a haggis meal and celebrating the life and work of legendary Scottish poet, Robert Burns. Rodgers, in a ‘lion’s den’ moment, declared to the Burns loyalists that the poet was equivalent to an 18th century John Lennon. There was nothing too inflammatory in that particular remark but worse was to come. Rodgers described Burns as a third-rate Casanova and a second-rate poet. He continued digging by saying that Burns’ poetry was totally incomprehensible. No doubt “jings”, “michty me” and possibly stronger murmurs spread around the room.
A short time later, at another Burns celebration dinner, this time organised by the Cleveland Scots Society at Sparks Café Royal, Middlesbrough, speaker after speaker referred disdainfully to Rodgers’ comments. The main address and toast were given by the President of the Society, Jack Woodcock, who fourteen years later would become my father-in-law. Jack was born and raised at Crail, on the Fife coast, and his wife, Margaret was raised in Glasgow. They moved south of the border when Jack accepted a job working for ICI at Wilton, North Yorkshire. They were proud Scots and enjoyed attending many society functions.
At the Sparks Café Royal dinner, Jack said this: “A recent critic sought to liken Burns to one of the Beatles as far as poetry was concerned. This does not even annoy me, it does not call for a reply, because the idea is so ridiculous. I can only feel pity, as Burns would have done for such a thought, particularly when it was expressed by one to whom we have entrusted our affairs. Such is the character of Burns that the impact of his poetry is as great today as it ever was, despite the increasing number of attractions in the world of entertainment and arts.” Jack proposed the toast to “the immortal memory of Burns”. He got a rousing cheer and a standing ovation. It was a telling rebuke in his speech that he never mentioned Bill Rodgers by name.
Burns once wrote this: “Critics! Appalled I ventured on the name. Those cutthroat bandits in the paths of fame.” No slurs over the years have damaged the literary reputation of Robert Burns. To many Scots all around the world, he will never be forgotten. Sláinte, Rabbie.
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