Results & History

The first confirmed Silver Rudder race took place in 1956. It has been held sporadically though the years, as the fortunes of the two clubs have waxed and waned. However, some believe that the Silver Rudder was contested as early as 1883, as the newspaper article below - anonymously e-mailed to silverrudder.org.uk - suggests. However serious doubts have been expressed as to its authenticity. It may, in fact, be a thinly disguised rip-off of the report of the first Edinburgh/Glasgow Boat race.

Silver Rudder Results

1956	Saint Andrew BC		1963	Saint Andrew BC
1957	Clyde ARC		1964	Saint Andrew BC
1958	Clyde ARC		1978	Clyde ARC
1959	Saint Andrew BC		1998	Clyde ARC
1960	Clyde ARC		2006	Saint Andrew BC
1961	Saint Andrew BC		2007	Clyde ARC
1962	Saint Andrew BC		2008	Clyde ARC

Series Total: Saint Andrew BC 7,  Clyde ARC 7

Bent Rigger Results

2007 Clyde ARC

2008 Saint Andrew BC

 Edinburgh Herald, January 2nd 1865

For some time back a number of the citizens in Glasgow and Edinburgh have been anxious to institute a yearly struggle for supremacy in aquatics between representatives of their great cities, and some days ago the matter began to take definite shape, and was arranged that such a contest should take place in thirteen-oared out-riggers. The prize was agreed as a ‘Silver Rudder’. The merits and demerits of each rowing man in the two metropolises, or properly metropolii, was discussed, crews were carefully chosen and moustache cultivation began.

The location of this inaugural ‘inter-city’ or ‘city-linking’ match was hotly debated. After much consideration, the Union Canal was all but fixed upon, but as by this choice one crew would have to draw in strokeside oars and row bowside only, a change had to be made. It was at length agreed that the course should be on the river Clyde, the distance being two miles, six and a half furlongs, or fully Twelve Cubits.

Both crews were meantime hard at work practising. Many changes had been made in the first selection of crews as this or that man showed himself more or less fit by virtue of his moustache. Saint Andrew settled upon a gracefully streamlined handlebar style, whilst Clyde adopted a stiffly waxed yet untested aero-tache.

To those keen on wagering, it was obvious that that while the oarsmen were about equal in point of weight, the pie-munching coxswain of the Saints boat, Mr Chalk weighed 50lbs 3oz more than his counterpart Mr Cheeta (or ‘the Shaved Monkey’ as he is sometimes styled), the Clyde coxswain. Nonetheless, Patrick Power Bookmakers & Sons had the eastern crew as the favourites in the betting at 6 to 4 as their style of pulling was much admired. And their rowing wasn’t bad either.

The weather on Saturday was all that could be expected for a boat race, the wind being pure raging, the water spitefully in spate and the heavens alternating between soul-sapping drizzle, cruel hints of sunshine and torrential rain. Shortly after the hour appointed for starting, some 100,000 spectators were gathered on both sides of the river. Every window which afforded even the most distant view of the river was occupied by a cluster of eager onlookers and sharpshooters, and the roof of the West Boathouse groaned under the weight of two daring pigeons desirous of the best view.

Then, accompanied by a terrific cheer and Clerk of the course, Mr G Parsonage ESQ (of the fledgling Glasgow Humane society), the crews appeared at Belvedere straight, resplendent in rowing garb of coloured tweed vests, hessian neckerchiefs, modified knickerbockers and silk mittens. The wild roar continued as the boats passed the Keltics Parc, and the crews were heartened to hear an unseen choir reassuring them in angelic tones that they would ‘never walk alone’. Other minority sports should take note of this novel method of gathering support. 

The excitement of the multitude rose to fever pitch as the crews sat ready and further increased when the word “Go” was at last given (by person or persons unknown), and most oars went in more or less together, one crew even had two consecutive members rowing in time! After a furious start of seven halves, three one-quarter, two arms only, one body lean, ten seven-sixteenths and STRRRRIDE the beautifully crafted clinker boats almost imperceptibly broke the start line and sped, or rather inched, towards the far, far distant finish.

After the first few strokes, Clyde, rating beyond the limit of their abilities, took the lead by nearly half a length but this position was soon overhauled, as St Andrew, or Andy’s to their intimate supporters, began to creep ahead and soon had their bow in front. It seem’d that the flexibility of the groomed handlebar whiskers was better suited to cross-headwind conditions that the contoured wings of the aero-tasche, and the poor relations of the West boathouse got a little flurried. But Mr Cheetas screeching soon had them in trim, and strenuous endeavours were made to cut Edinburgh down.

The greased shorts of both teams began to smoke with effort, and more than one competitor was observed to debrief in an attempt to utilise the cooling breeze to be enjoyed around the sewage works. The Burghers dropped back when Mr McWong suffered an injurious entrapment. When he stopped rowing to stoop to free himself from this predicament, the Glaswegians got a length up.

Passing under Polmadie bridge of foot, both crews avoided most descending breize blocks and grape-shot, but a traffic cone severely rent the buoyancy of the Clyde shell. The umpires instantly consulted the SARA Rules of racing before realising it would be well over one hundred years until the relevant regulations would be in force. The resulting fracas as Clyde’s bowman debarked to offer battle to the delinquents cost them their advantage as the Canal-based collective surged into a commanding lead, giving the Weegies, now three lengths in arrears, their wash.

Mr Gildea, at the corner opposite the yet to be founded Glasgow RC, called on his men with a cry of “Adepto is sursum vos, adepto is vox sursum vos!”, and a fresh effort was made to overhaul the leaders. The gap was lessened dramatically, but Mr Morrice in turn roused up his crew, exclaiming “Vestri matris!” and was soon on the way doing many strokes a minute. The lead changed hands several times over the course of the straight towards Kings Bridge, and the exultations of the masses grew more desperate as blades clashed like sabres and the bows of the boats jousted for primacy. Such excitement has never been seen in a rowing match before and many assert will never be witnessed again. The crews then easied a while to drink tea and tend wilting moustaches.

When the restart was at last called, the crews strained with every muscle to be first in the queue for the Hillhead Polytechnic BC steps. The locals reached the slip first. It was all the Saints could do to sigh meaningfully, glance at their pocket watches and roll their eyes; but the Amateurs would not be rushed, and one even had to return to the cludgey whilst his crew waited in the boat, chatting. Seizing the initiative, the visitors swiftly stole towards the steps of the Workhouse Rowing Club  and pushed off in a flash. Howling in outrage, the opposition followed suit, leaving their stroke man Mr McEwen languishing in closet with a dog-eared copy of Razzle.

The last furlong was raced through the nigh-impenetrable gloom of an Industrialised city, lit only by floating gas lamps and the light of the moon shining weakly through the inky black smog. Some could only grip their handles in their teeth, others too exhausted to row leapt off the boat like lemmings, sinking forever beneath the foetid waters of the murky Clyde. The remaining handful of crew, powering their battered and leaking hulls with broken blades but unbended spirits passed the finish line in what appeared a dead heat; and indeed this result will be recorded for all time, as the finish judge, the umpires and the crowds had all gone home.