THERE are a lot of things that

can get lost in translation. Occasional readers of this column, for instance, will vouch for that . . . what? You’re lost already? Good grief. It’s hardly surprising, of course. Some of these wandering, up hill, doon dale, round the houses introductions often require you to put in a call to the Killin Mountain Rescue Team just to get you back on the straight and narrow.

Now, where were we again?

Ah yes, translations. The other day,

a Ross County player by the name of Alex Schalk got himself in a bit of pickle when he said he was bored with life in all-singing, all-dancing Dingwall during an interview with a Dutch magazine. But wait. He didn’t utter such a thing apparently.

Schalk hit back with gusto and whimpered that the re-hashing of his quotes in a Scottish newspaper had been, well, lost in translation. It’s easily done. Not that long ago, Schalk’s fellow Dutchman and former St Mirren player, Jeroen Tesselaar, found himself in a similarly backs-against-the-wall stooshie when he described Paisley as a “s***hole” to another magazine.

Of course, anyone au fait with the fine intricacies and flooery phraseology of the Dutch language will be aware that “s***hole” actually means “former textile powerhouse with a very fine civic statuary.” No damage done, then.

All of which brings us nicely round, with the aid of that aforementioned search and rescue team, to the topic of this week’s meander which is the Varsity Boat Race. Not being a gambling man, this is the one time of the year when I actually shuffle into the bookies and shove a tentative each-way bet on Oxford. Now, there’s a gag that’s so old it continues to be preserved by the National Trust.

The Boat Race is also that one time of the year when a gathering of Oxbridge intellectuals are positively encouraged to dip their cox in the Thames live on national television. And that cornball antiquity is such a period piece, it’s been produced by Merchant Ivory.

The Boat Race always made for slightly peculiar television viewing as a gathering of Bertie Wooster-types edged along in very similar vehicles towards an invisible finishing line somewhere at the Chiswick Bridge.

In recent years, of course, the addition of microphones and various bits of gadgetry have taken the viewer to the frontline of all this exacting, heaving sweep oar propulsion allowing you to loll on the couch flinging Custard Creams down your thrapple in time with the coxswain barking “stroke, stroke” pausing only briefly to sit up to try to temper your heartburn as the crews make their way round the bend at the Harrods Depository.

With the amplified sounds of grunting, physical endeavour and occasional bursts of agitated, colourful language – and we’re talking about the boaty lot here, not you trying to raise yourself from the couch – the Boat Race can sometimes feel like you are encroaching on a quarrel among a few hoity-toity folk squabbling over Mummy’s estate.

Back in the 2013 edition of this annual, 4.2 mile watery skirmish of light blue and dark blue, the BBC were given a slap across the knuckles by the regulator, Ofcom. Why? Because the “F” word spouted from the potty mouth of the Oxford cox was broadcast live three times during the Sunday afternoon showpiece and probably sent horrified shudders through the respectable villas, neatly mown lawns and patches of mild scenery of the Home Counties.

To be honest, it was amazing that folk actually heard all the blaspheming given that the “F” word in question could have been drowned out by the frothing curses of the viewers themselves as they observed the wearisome omnipotence of “Clare effin’ Balding on the telly again?”

Let’s face it, there was a point when the bold Balding was so over-exposed across a variety of mediums, you were almost scared to look into a mirror

just in case she was there hosting your own reflection.

As a former Cambridge University student, though, Balding remains the perfect host for this delightful celebration of entrenched privilege while other guests with Oxbridge connections get gleefully wheeled out to talk in gushing terms about the history of the river and how the Middlesex bank water continues to be shallow and slack all the way to Hammersmith Bridge.

And then the camera possibly cuts

to a gathering of guffawing alumni cavorting about in the beer garden of the Crabtree Tavern while recounting jolly tales of excruciating initiation ceremonies employed by the men’s drinking society of Magdalene College.

Since the millennium, Oxford have won 11 of the 17 races to trail the series by 79 wins to Cambridge’s 82.

And will I be watching tomorrow? Of course. I’ve got my each-way bet on, after all.