Latest news with #Ravenscraig
Daily Record
12-05-2025
- Business
- Daily Record
What is left of Scotland's steel sector can play an important role for years to come
Scotland's steel industry is a shadow of its former self. Gone are the days when plants like Gartcosh and Ravenscraig employed thousands of workers. But that's not to say that's what left of the sector cannot play an important role for years to come. The Dalzell works in Motherwell is one of only two mills left in Scotland and specialises in the production of heavy steel plate used in military shipbuilding. But no finished product is leaving the site at present as its 140-strong workforce is either furloughed or on care and maintenance duties. Dalzell, like the Clydebridge steel works near Cambuslang, has been mothballed by its private foreign owners. Keir Starmer is right to ask questions on what happens next for steel in Scotland. The UK Government has taken steps to nationalise the giant steel works in Scunthorpe and negotiated a reduction in tariffs with the US on exports. The takeover of Dalzell and Clydebridge in 2016 by metals tycoon Sanjeev Gupta was facilitated by a Scottish Government-backed loan. With public money involved, the public has a right to know what's happening with the steel works in Lanarkshire. Labour and the SNP can't make this another blame game, similar to how the last months of Grangemouth's oil refinery played out. There is no reason why the Lanarkshire steel works can't play a part in a wider UK industry linked to Scunthorpe. But this will require grown-up cooperation between Holyrood and Westminster, not petty political point scoring. Legends united Football legends Graeme Souness and Scott Brown may have been on different sides of the Old Firm divide. But they're joining forces to back a campaign by skin charity DEBRA to help people suffering from 'butterfly disease' EB. This agonising condition sees skin blister and fall off at the slightest touch. Scots teenager Isla Grist is among the EB sufferers desperate for an effective treatment. To raise funds for research DEBRA are urging Scots to take part in a fundraising summer challenge. Graeme and Scott are among thousands of Scots taking up the challenge – which is being backed by the Daily Record. You can do any challenge – a run, walk, cycle, swim, dance, or anything else you fancy. So as the sun comes out at the start of a fine summer please take a look at Debra's website to see how you can join in. It's all for a great cause – and might do you some good too.
The National
03-05-2025
- Sport
- The National
A rugby festival where the game is only part of the story
Stuart Mitchell, a mathematician by profession (but today a primal man of meat and flame), repeats my question. From the raised embankment, he surveys the great sweep of the Dalziel Festival of Youth Rugby — the 33rd edition — in full, noisy, glorious swing below. His brow furrows for a moment before yielding to a wry smile. "Hunners," he answers, with the quiet certainty of a man who has seen it all before. At the half-barrel grill, smoke curling into the cool April air, Stuart's father, Les, tends to beef patties and sausages. His grandson, Euan, is front of house, conducting a roaring trade as he eloquently inquires of each punter: "Onions. Aye or naw?" Together, they'll fuel the thousands who come not just for the sport, but for something deeper. Here, amidst the laughter, the whistles, and the low roar of life, the three Mitchells embody a legacy that runs through the heart of this festival like grain through ancient wood. (Image: Euan Duguid) Because the Dalziel Festival of Youth Rugby is not merely a competition. It is a living ritual: a celebration of community, continuity, and the unspoken, unbreakable bond between generations. The day begins, as it always does, with a cadence as natural as heartbeat. The sun plays hide and seek with a mottled sky, scattering a soft, forgiving light across the pristine grounds. Senior players, some of them barely removed from their own days of mini-rugby, swap the club's black and blue strip for fluorescent vests and two-way radios, guiding cars with certainty and craic. Tents rise. Tuck shops brim with sweets of dubious nutritional value. And the pitches, roped out the night before with all the precision of a cartographer, take on their vibrant, expectant shape. The festival begins to hum. An electric, organic thing — alive with young players, coaches barking out instructions, parents straining their voices and their nerves. Nostalgia clings to the air like woodsmoke, but underneath it, there is something else: a current of growth, of hope. Of becoming. Dalziel RFC's grounds are more than a stage for this annual gathering. They are sacred soil, a living memorial to the young men of Dalziel High School who marched off to the Second World War and did not return. Once crumbling in the spectral shadow of the industrial inferno of Ravenscraig's Dantean furnaces, Cleland Estate has been transformed by the resourcefulness of the Dalziel High School War Memorial Trust. The thunder of steel production has all but gone. Here, though, one of Scotland's finest sporting facilities — well-manicured pitches and a place where memory and aspiration meet — has risen. It was on these fields that Alan Calder, Dalziel stalwart, conceived a simple, radical idea. Laid up in Stonehouse Hospital in 1990, nursing a rugby injury, he imagined a festival where ability mattered less than spirit, where victory was measured not just by scores, but by participation, joy, and belonging. From that vision, the first Dalziel Youth Rugby Festival was born in 1991. And though Alan tragically passed away in 2008, his spirit remains indelible here. His son, Graham, now shoulders the responsibility, orchestrating the festival with the same blend of passion and organisation, backed by a small army of volunteers: programme editors, referees, caterers, stewards, tournament coordinators — all united by something far stronger than duty. "Young players of today are the backbone of tomorrow's club rugby," Alan had said. (Image: Euan Duguid) You can hear those words in the roar of the crowd, see them in the sheer number of young bodies who flock here, and feel them in the heartbeat of the place. From Hamilton to Strathaven, Uddingston to East Kilbride — and even as far as Ulster, Sale, and Bowdon — the festival now draws teams near and far. Though it has grown into a landmark event on the UK sporting calendar, its spirit remains as it always was: local, familial, and deeply rooted. Still, the rugby itself, thrilling as it is, is only part of the story. The true heart of the festival lies beyond the tackles and tries. Beneath the noisy surface, quieter, subtler stories unfold. Connections are reforged. Histories are honoured. Lives, briefly, are knitted closer. One such thread this year belonged to James "Jambo" Hall, a former Dalziel player standing quietly at the touchline as guest of club president John Mathieson. Only weeks earlier, the otherwise healthy Jambo had been told he had incurable liver cancer after feeling unwell. Months left, if that. And yet here he was finding the courage and strength to show up, smiling, presenting trophies to the winners of one of the youngest age groups. The players, gleeful and oblivious, had no inkling of the heaviest of gravity surrounding them. But the older ones —Jambo's friends and family — knew. They knew. In that small ceremony, in that fleeting transaction of a trophy from one generation to the next, the true spirit of Dalziel lived and breathed. As the day ambles on, mums gather over trays of rocky road and chewy sweets — silent accomplices in the ever-thus erosion of the West of Scotland's dental fortunes. First-year pupils Maise and Heidi work the crowd, their raffle salescraft pure art: hawking candles and prosecco for the mums, beer and a Scotland jersey for the dads. Even Alan Sugar would have applauded the bait-the-hook-to-suit-the-fish technique. At the heart of it all is Willie "Tally" Talbot, master of ceremonies, microphone in hand, his running commentary weaving together score updates, gentle gibes and sponsor acknowledgements including local companies like Millburn Construction whose generosity keeps the show on the road. His voice is the soundtrack of the day, warm and unfaltering, another tradition as enduring as the festival itself. But this year, there is an absence too large to ignore. This is the first festival without "Big" Jim Paterson, the 6ft 6in bearded behemoth who devoted much of his life to nurturing young rugby talent. His fingerprints are everywhere: in the rise of the Schools Festival he so lovingly built, in the 1995 Digital Scottish Cup victory his S2 side delivered, and now in the newly inaugurated Jim Paterson Trophy, a legacy cast not in silver, but in memories and gratitude. Life turns, as it must. Babies strapped to mums' chests, toddlers kicking their first balls, first team players-turned- mini coaches, battered from a bruising league campaign in the attrition of Arnold Clark's West Region League Division 1, yet radiant with pride as they gently guide new generations. (Image: Euan Duguid) The cycle endures — gritty, generous, unbroken. The Dalziel Festival of Youth Rugby is many things. A tournament. A reunion. A rite of passage. And as the Mitchells flip their last burger, the final whistles are blown, and the sun sinks behind the stand, the spirit of the festival lingers, resilient and irrepressible. It will be back next April, as sure as spring itself, a little older, a little stronger, with absent friends and new life. And through it all, it remains what it has always been — a quiet reminder of what sport truly is. Heart, community — and ties that endure.
The Herald Scotland
03-05-2025
- Entertainment
- The Herald Scotland
A rugby festival where the game is only part of the story
From the raised embankment, he surveys the great sweep of the Dalziel Festival of Youth Rugby — the 33rd edition — in full, noisy, glorious swing below. His brow furrows for a moment before yielding to a wry smile. "Hunners," he answers, with the quiet certainty of a man who has seen it all before. At the half-barrel grill, smoke curling into the cool April air, Stuart's father, Les, tends to beef patties and sausages. His grandson, Euan, is front of house, conducting a roaring trade as he eloquently inquires of each punter: "Onions. Aye or naw?" Together, they'll fuel the thousands who come not just for the sport, but for something deeper. Here, amidst the laughter, the whistles, and the low roar of life, the three Mitchells embody a legacy that runs through the heart of this festival like grain through ancient wood. (Image: Euan Duguid) Because the Dalziel Festival of Youth Rugby is not merely a competition. It is a living ritual: a celebration of community, continuity, and the unspoken, unbreakable bond between generations. The day begins, as it always does, with a cadence as natural as heartbeat. The sun plays hide and seek with a mottled sky, scattering a soft, forgiving light across the pristine grounds. Senior players, some of them barely removed from their own days of mini-rugby, swap the club's black and blue strip for fluorescent vests and two-way radios, guiding cars with certainty and craic. Tents rise. Tuck shops brim with sweets of dubious nutritional value. And the pitches, roped out the night before with all the precision of a cartographer, take on their vibrant, expectant shape. The festival begins to hum. An electric, organic thing — alive with young players, coaches barking out instructions, parents straining their voices and their nerves. Nostalgia clings to the air like woodsmoke, but underneath it, there is something else: a current of growth, of hope. Of becoming. Dalziel RFC's grounds are more than a stage for this annual gathering. They are sacred soil, a living memorial to the young men of Dalziel High School who marched off to the Second World War and did not return. Once crumbling in the spectral shadow of the industrial inferno of Ravenscraig's Dantean furnaces, Cleland Estate has been transformed by the resourcefulness of the Dalziel High School War Memorial Trust. The thunder of steel production has all but gone. Here, though, one of Scotland's finest sporting facilities — well-manicured pitches and a place where memory and aspiration meet — has risen. It was on these fields that Alan Calder, Dalziel stalwart, conceived a simple, radical idea. Laid up in Stonehouse Hospital in 1990, nursing a rugby injury, he imagined a festival where ability mattered less than spirit, where victory was measured not just by scores, but by participation, joy, and belonging. From that vision, the first Dalziel Youth Rugby Festival was born in 1991. And though Alan tragically passed away in 2008, his spirit remains indelible here. His son, Graham, now shoulders the responsibility, orchestrating the festival with the same blend of passion and organisation, backed by a small army of volunteers: programme editors, referees, caterers, stewards, tournament coordinators — all united by something far stronger than duty. "Young players of today are the backbone of tomorrow's club rugby," Alan had said. (Image: Euan Duguid) You can hear those words in the roar of the crowd, see them in the sheer number of young bodies who flock here, and feel them in the heartbeat of the place. From Hamilton to Strathaven, Uddingston to East Kilbride — and even as far as Ulster, Sale, and Bowdon — the festival now draws teams near and far. Though it has grown into a landmark event on the UK sporting calendar, its spirit remains as it always was: local, familial, and deeply rooted. Still, the rugby itself, thrilling as it is, is only part of the story. The true heart of the festival lies beyond the tackles and tries. Beneath the noisy surface, quieter, subtler stories unfold. Connections are reforged. Histories are honoured. Lives, briefly, are knitted closer. One such thread this year belonged to James "Jambo" Hall, a former Dalziel player standing quietly at the touchline as guest of club president John Mathieson. Only weeks earlier, the otherwise healthy Jambo had been told he had incurable liver cancer after feeling unwell. Months left, if that. And yet here he was finding the courage and strength to show up, smiling, presenting trophies to the winners of one of the youngest age groups. The players, gleeful and oblivious, had no inkling of the heaviest of gravity surrounding them. But the older ones —Jambo's friends and family — knew. They knew. In that small ceremony, in that fleeting transaction of a trophy from one generation to the next, the true spirit of Dalziel lived and breathed. As the day ambles on, mums gather over trays of rocky road and chewy sweets — silent accomplices in the ever-thus erosion of the West of Scotland's dental fortunes. First-year pupils Maise and Heidi work the crowd, their raffle salescraft pure art: hawking candles and prosecco for the mums, beer and a Scotland jersey for the dads. Even Alan Sugar would have applauded the bait-the-hook-to-suit-the-fish technique. At the heart of it all is Willie "Tally" Talbot, master of ceremonies, microphone in hand, his running commentary weaving together score updates, gentle gibes and sponsor acknowledgements including local companies like Millburn Construction whose generosity keeps the show on the road. His voice is the soundtrack of the day, warm and unfaltering, another tradition as enduring as the festival itself. But this year, there is an absence too large to ignore. This is the first festival without "Big" Jim Paterson, the 6ft 6in bearded behemoth who devoted much of his life to nurturing young rugby talent. His fingerprints are everywhere: in the rise of the Schools Festival he so lovingly built, in the 1995 Digital Scottish Cup victory his S2 side delivered, and now in the newly inaugurated Jim Paterson Trophy, a legacy cast not in silver, but in memories and gratitude. Life turns, as it must. Babies strapped to mums' chests, toddlers kicking their first balls, first team players-turned- mini coaches, battered from a bruising league campaign in the attrition of Arnold Clark's West Region League Division 1, yet radiant with pride as they gently guide new generations. (Image: Euan Duguid) The cycle endures — gritty, generous, unbroken. The Dalziel Festival of Youth Rugby is many things. A tournament. A reunion. A rite of passage. And as the Mitchells flip their last burger, the final whistles are blown, and the sun sinks behind the stand, the spirit of the festival lingers, resilient and irrepressible. It will be back next April, as sure as spring itself, a little older, a little stronger, with absent friends and new life. And through it all, it remains what it has always been — a quiet reminder of what sport truly is. Heart, community — and ties that endure.
Daily Record
24-04-2025
- General
- Daily Record
Diamond couple who met in Wishaw café celebrate 60 years of married life
A Wishaw couple have a loving sparkle in their eyes as they celebrate 60 years of married life. Arthur and Sandra Murphy marked their Diamond Wedding Anniversary in the company of their large family. Arthur, 77, and Sandra, 76, first met over the juke box at Johnny Gallagher's Cafe in Pather. The couple, married when they were teenagers in love at St Thomas's Church on April 24, 1965. The first place they called home after tying the knot was a caravan in someone's garden before getting a house in Craigneuk, and then settling down in Rannoch Drive in Pather as the family outgrew their original home. The couple would go on to have seven children, Sandra who was named after her mum and is now 59 – was the first to arrive, she was followed less than a year later by sister Lillian, 58. The couple's first boy arrived next, Owen, 56, then came Winnie (Winifred), 55. Sadly, their sibling Elaine who was the next of the children died less than two years ago, aged 49. Arthur and Sandra had two more children, Lesley Anne, 48, and the baby of the family Alex, who is 45. Daughter Lesley Anne, joked: 'There was no telly back then. They had seven children in the space of 15 years. 'They lived in Craigneuk for a few years, Winnie was born in Craigneuk and Elaine was born in 1974 in Rannoch Drive.' Arthur worked in Ravenscraig where he was a driver sub-contracted to British Steel, but with so many mouths to feed he was also a butcher in a shop in Gowkthrapple. 'He worked double shifts as he had seven weans to feed,' Lesley Anne added. 'He had three jobs at one time I'm sure. 'When Ravenscraig shut down he became a taxi driver in Wishaw, so he is well known. 'My mum worked as a cleaner at the Law Hospital as well as looking after all of us. Our granny lived local so we spent a lot of time there.' The family would enjoy holidays to Arbroath as well as trips to Ayr. Arthur and Sandra still enjoy getting away a couple of times each year. Arthur and Sandra have 11 grandchildren, and five great-grandchildren with another on the way. The couple remain very independent but now live in a warden-assisted retirement complex in Overtown. Arthur enjoys gardening to wile away the time and Sandra has always loved the bingo and travels over to the one in Hamilton following the closure of the one in Wishaw. Lesley Anne puts the secret of their happy and lengthy marriage down to working hard for each other and for their family. She added: 'They are well-liked and have the best friends. They did it for the seven of us and we are so grateful.' The family are gathering in the retirement complex for a party to celebrate, before the diamond couple head over to Benidorm for a sunshine holiday. * Don't miss the latest he adlines from around Lanarkshire. Sign up to our newsletters here . And did you know Lanarkshire Live is on Facebook ? Head on over and give us a like and share!
