The Absolute Game Revisited – Part 22

Book Review Time

GO  UGH !!

Field of Dreams. My Ibrox Years. by Richard Gough “with” Ken Gallagher.

Mad Mac asked me to do a hatchet j…, er, objectively review this book. The 25 minutes it took me to read it were most unpleasant. The first sentence in the book is “Diplomacy has never been one of my strong points”’. Well, that’s handy because it’s never been one of mine either and I’ll take that as my cue to trash this piece of garbage. Let’s start with the structure and style of it. The “ghost” is Ken Gallagher who is described on the dust-jacket as being “one of Scotland’s most respected football journalists’ ‘. In fact, he is a tired old hack who is dredged up by Old Firm players whenever they feel the need to supplement their income with some anodyne prose.

The usual routine is that, after being disinterred, Gallagher is given an intravenous infusion of cash, gets plonked down in front of a typewriter with his handbook of football cliches, and a couple of hours later the latest meisterwerk is delivered.

The result is that lazy journalism abounds and all the old hackneyed phrases are here in abundance. For example, Ralph Milne is described as “a flying machine “, while, later on, to add some variety, Red Star Belgrade’s Binic is described as, er, “a flying machine “. Feyernood are “Dutch cracks” while PSV Eindhoven are, wait for it, “Dutch cracks “. Rangers are continually referred to as “the biggest “, “the wealthiest “, “the most powerful“, “the richest” club in the land. And in case any of you thick bastards out there are missing the point all these superlatives are rendered in italics! I could go on, but you get the idea.

The writing has a style and level of inventiveness achievable by most kids in primary four. More puzzling is the fact that the book is sub-titled “My Ibrox Years”, and yet a substantial part of it is devoted to Gough’s time at Dundee United and Spurs. Indeed, by far the longest chapter is entitled “Tannadice – Triumphs and Tribulations”. Is there not some section in the Trade Descriptions Act dealing with this type of misrepresentation?

Essentially, the book can be broken down into three or four central themes. Andy Roxburgh is a bastard. Jim McLean is a bastard. Graeme Souness is wonderful, but can be a bit of a bastard at times. Richard Gough is wonderful and anyone who disagrees is a bastard.

The book contains a litany of the most petty disagreements imaginable between Gough and practically everyone that he’s ever come into contact with. Gough continually reminds us that he is “single-minded” when what he really means is “small-minded”. He casts himself in the role of put-upon martyr, constantly struggling for justice in the face of managerial tyrants. One is struck, while reading the book, by just how many of these ridiculous squabbles have arisen due to Gough’s “injury problems”. You are forced to conclude that either he is incredibly injury-prone or he is the biggest hypochondriac to captain Rangers. Indeed, his pathetic fall-out with Souness arose precisely because Graeme accused him of feigning injury. At no time does it ever cross Gough’s mind that he might be in the wrong about anything, and the word compromise does not feature in his vocabulary. He is forever right and his “single-mindedness” ensures that he always gets his own way. His bullying inflexibility is presented throughout as something to be admired. Phrases like “my strength of will” and “my self belief” recur constantly to describe “confrontations” and “battles of wills” arising from the most incredibly trivial situations. Only a complete social inadequate, or someone who was wilfully pig-ignorant, would consider that these events reflected any credit on himself.

The whole sorry mess proceeds on the entirely misconceived presumption that Richard Gough is a “star”. The truth is that it is a matter of some debate whether, as a player, he can even be described as adequate, never mind above average. He is certainly the least talented individual to enter the “Hall of Fame” with 50 caps. I concede that he played very well in 1992’s European Championships. He also scored the winner the last time we beat England. OK, so that’s four of his caps accounted for. Can anyone remember anything else about his undistinguished, but long-running, international career? Well, what about his performance in the 5-0 defeat by Portugal for example. Gough, that night, turned in the most convincing impersonation of a decapitated gerbil ever witnessed on the Iberian peninsula.

Of course, he blames all that on Andy Roxburgh and Craig Brown. Nothing is ever Gough’s fault. In all the criticism which he levels at Andy Roxburgh, most of it completely unjustified, he omits to mention the single biggest error made by Roxburgh, namely his repeated selection of Richard Gough.

This book has been extensively serialised in a Glasgow newspaper, and Gough featured in radio adverts hyping the book by promising to “lift the lid” on, for example, “why Mo had to go “. Well, Richard, tell us why Mo had to go. The answer can be found on page 139. I quote, “He didn’t want to be third choice behind Mark and Coisty and he put up his hand and said it would be better if he left. ” Wow, absolute dynamite or what! You could’ve knocked me down wiv a fevver when I read that stunning revelation. The majority of the book is the same kind of meaningless rubbish. It might have been interesting to hear King Richard’s views on the reasons why Souness upped and left the club. No chance. He simply records the fact that it happened, saying blandly, “it was obviously a decision which had taken a lot of thought and a lot of heartache to reach “. Or how about a good old South African boy’s reaction to the racist abuse heaped on Mark Walters and Dale Gordon? Neither of these players merit so much as a mention. On the other hand, there’s a huge long section devoted to Rangers performances in last season’s European Cup. It’s all utterly pointless, as the whole thing is still so fresh in our minds that we don’t need to be reminded of the “Battle of Britain” etc. In any case, the writing is so anaemic that it just reads like a series of re-hashed Daily Record match reports.

Although, for £12.99, this is a remarkably short book (153 pages including many blanks) Gough manages to run out of things to say long before the end, and the last couple of chapters are blatant fillers of the most nauseating kind. I kid you not, there are four pages devoted to Richard’s eating habits. Here’s a taster for all you gourmets out there, “Basically I have one meal a day. I have cereal and fruit juice in the morning, possibly a sandwich or something light at lunchtime and then a meal at night “. Oh, go on, Richard, tell us what filling you have in your sandwich. (sour grapes with something a bit cheesy, I expect).

The sole purpose which this book serves, apart from making plenty dosh for the author and his ghost, is to settle old scores with Andy Roxburgh and Jim McLean. In doing so, Gough unwittingly and half-wittedly reveals himself to be childish, puerile, immature, juvenile and any other adjective which describes the type of petulant brat which he undoubtedly is. He may have “single-mindedly” become captain of Rangers, but if it came to a choice between him and Andy Roxburgh, I know which one I’d invite to my party.

Richard Gough, or “Big Dick” as he’s known, for some obscure reason, has succeeded in penning the nastiest piece of crap which it has been my misfortune to encounter for quite some time. Even by the quite awesomely dreadful standards of the genre, this is supernaturally awful. As a piece of literature it can only be read by those recovering from a lobotomy operation. In short, this book is a giant squawking turkey which will undoubtedly be gobbled up for Christmas by hordes of McEwans Lager fashion victims.

Henceforth, Gough should be pronounced Guff. Just like his book.

First published in TAG 35 – October 1993

The Absolute Game Revisited – Part 21

MATCHES TO REMEMBER No 4

Linlithgow Rose 0-1 Bo’ness United 31/12/88

The first Ne’erday match which I ever attended was an Old Firm encounter at Parkhead in the mid-sixties, when I was a tender youth of eleven. Coming from a Highland town some 130 miles from Glasgow, I was one of a merry band of revellers who set off for the big city at six o’clock in the morning aboard a Rangers supporters bus. Why so early? Well, apparently we required to make “toilet” stops in every village along the way which possessed licensed premises. The odd thing about these toilet stops was that they generally consisted of the adult members of the party filling their bladders rather than emptying them. Since most of the squad had originally arrived at the bus fresh from “bringing in the New Year” (translation – collapsing in an alcoholic stupor at the precise moment when Andy Stewart announced “a guid New Year tae yin an ‘ a ‘ “), these toilet stops were little more than exercises in topping up alcohol levels to a dangerous degree.

The gentle snow which had begun to fall when we left home soon became a full-blown blizzard, making genuine toilet stops (round the back of the bus in the middle of nowhere) highly unpleasant experiences. By the time we arrived in the environs of Celtic Park most of the company were in an advanced state of inebriation. Fortunately, most were still able to walk unaided. Regrettably this did not include the aging bluenose who was “in charge” of the expedition, who had lapsed into a semi-comatose condition. Us boys were told that he was suffering the effects of “travel-sickness”. As some of the others poured him off the bus with a view to smuggling him into the ground on the “Colditz dummy” principle, they were accosted by a vigilant cop who insisted that only those who could remember their own names were eligible for entry to the match. Even if our leader could’ve successfully performed this feat, he most certainly was not in a position to prove it, the “travel-sickness” having restricted his vocal chords to producing only incoherent grunting sounds, and he was doomed to spending the afternoon lying unconscious under the back seat of the bus.

When I stepped off the bus I was immediately swallowed up in a river of Rangers supporters flooding along the road chanting their well-loved chart-topper which begins “Hello, hello, we are the billy boys“. I had no idea what a “billy boy” was, but I had a vague idea that it had been referred to in a recent Rolf Harris song (as in “waited till his billy boy”). Once inside the ground I quickly found that being four foot five had certain disadvantages, the most notable of which was that I could only see the pitch when the guy in front of me bent down to, alternately, fish another can from his kerry-oot or to puke up the contents of said can. Restricted to mere fleeting glimpses of the action I had to content myself with learning the words to such festive airs as “Parkheids a Piggery” and “There’ll be nae holy water in the cup“.

One piece of action which I did see was Billy McNeil rising majestically to head the ball into the Rangers net at the other end of the ground. The entire Celtic end erupted. At our end time stood still. For a split second I was surrounded by frozen silence. Then, as if in slow motion, the referee remembered his Masonic oaths and signalled for some infringement or other. The Celtic end subsided and our end exploded in exultation. By the time the fuss had died down I found myself located in an entirely new and different part of the ground. Relieved to find that there were no bones broken I began to hope that Rangers would not score as I didn’t fancy ending up in some unknown part of London Road.

I was by no means the worst off. Within seconds a forest of raised arms were passing the earthly remains of an elderly gentleman from the back of the terrace to the ambulancemen at the front. His rigid corpse-like appearance and deathly pallor indicated that the result of this particular match was now going to be a matter of complete indifference to him.

By the time the match ended at 0-0 I had been fully instructed in the necessity of defending Derry’s walls, that we were up to our knees in somebody’s blood, that if somebody surrendered we or they or somebody else would die, and that, news to me, my father had worn a sash on the twelfth of something or other a long time ago.

When we got back to the bus our leader was roused from his slumbers to be told that we had thrashed the enemy 0-0. He seemed to have some difficulty in comprehending this information before keeling over and throwing up spectacularly over the return journey’s “refreshments”. The long hours of the homeward trek were usefully spent by the elders of our company initiating the juveniles into the mysteries of “Fenians” and “Popery” (in between bouts of communal “travel sickness” and “toilet” stops).

Many years later, during the contretemps which followed the 1980 Cup Final, Archie MacPherson was moved to remark, “Let s not kid ourselves – these people hate each other”. At the age of 11 I had seen that first hand.

Which brings me to Linlithgow and Bo’ness (and about bloody time too – Ed). It wasn’t strictly a Ne’erday game as it was played on Hogmanay. The passions aroused were much the same, albeit on a smaller scale and without the religious overtones. Of course, by 1988 I was no longer a child. I had put away childish things, like sobriety and common sense, and acquired the habits of a man, like being haIf-cut at the game and intense stupidity. The majority of the crowd seemed to be in the same state, having limbered up for the New Year celebrations with prolonged pre-match imbibing.

One of the problems with Junior football is that, unless you’re Harry Angel, you can’t tell what type of match you’re watching. Is it a league game? If so, is it a top of the table clash or a relegation four pointer? Is it a cup tie? If so, which cup? There are about 40 to choose from. Consequently, you don’t really know how to react as the game develops. Should you be beside yourself with excitement , chewing your fingers to the knuckles, as the match goes into the last ten minutes still scoreless? Or should you be yawning with boredom and wondering what’s for tea?

No such problems with the Linlithgow – Bo’ness game. Ah yes, there’s nothing quite like a local derby to wipe away the veneer of civilisation and drive us back to cave-man territorialism. Who cares what type of game it is? These people hate each other. And for Linlithgow and Bo’ness there’s the added spice of there being no crowd segregation. That’s what it’s all about as Derek Johnstone would inevitably say.

To say that Junior football is tough is like saying that Graeme Souness is self-confident. “Tough” doesn’t quite convey the full flavour of savage barbarity on show. Over the ball and late tackling is the norm, with throat-high challenges not being considered unduly reckless. The players are made of iron and concrete. There’s no room for any namby-pamby rolling around clutching your leg in this game. The play will not be stopped unless the tackle has actually amputated one or more of the victim’s limbs. The surfeit of violence on the pitch paradoxically ensured that, apart from a few minor skirmishes, there was no real trouble amongst the spectators. They confined themselves to verbal abuse of each other.

The only time when there was any real danger of bloodshed was when one of the linesmen accepted an invitation to join us on the terracing to discuss the merits of whose shy it was. Laying down his “flag” (actually a multi-coloured dishcloth), he deserted his post, jumped the small wall at the side of the pitch, squeezed his way through the crowd and seized his principal detractor by the throat. Fortunately, before things got totally out of control, the ball flew out of play requiring his immediate attention. He vaulted back onto the field and awarded the throw-in the wrong way. Thereafter he contented himself with conducting a long range running feud with the crowd, during which he repeatedly expressed the hope that we would all die.

The game remained without a goal until the last kick when Bo’ness scored. The Linlithgow fans congratulated their opposite numbers in the traditional West Lothian manner with repeated rousing choruses of “Ya Bo’ness shitebags “, while accompanying them at speed towards the burgh boundaries. A few minutes of mindless abuse and some pushing and jostling and it was all over for another year. After that it was time to go home to get ready to wish yin and a’ a good New Year before falling drunkenly through the Christmas tree and being sick on the cat. Now, that really is what it’s all about.

As a postscript to the above, I should tell you that I was present at the recent Junior cup-tie between Linlithgow and Kirkintilloch Rob Roy which took place a couple of days after Christmas. In keeping with the season of goodwill to all men, Rob Roy had two players sent off, the second of whom celebrated his dismissal by booting the referee in the balls, necessitating the police being called. Sounds like a good subject for a Match to Remember”!

First published in TAG 27 – March 1992

The Absolute Game Revisited – Part 20

HAMPDEN – BABYLON OR EDEN?

All Things Must Pass

In the prologue to “Adolf Hitler – My Part in His Downfall”, Spike Milligan wrote, “After Puckoon I swore I would never write another novel. This is it… “. In a similar fashion, nearly every time I’ve been to a match at Hampden Park over the last twenty odd years I have vowed that I would never be back. Till the next time…! In TAG 20, John McArthur persuasively argued that Hampden Park had outlived its usefulness. My head may agree but my heart resists. Whatever may become of the park, the place itself will remain as the repository of countless memories and dreams for many people. Amidst the current headlong rush to create a collection of sanitised, all-seated, consumer- friendly superdomes I would like to share some of my memories with you because, well, I’m just that self-indulgent kind of a guy.The first time I ever visited the Scottish Mecca was in 1969 for Scotland’s world cup qualifier against Cyprus. As I sat in the (now deceased) old stand, bathed in sunshine on a warm Saturday afternoon, watching the Scots rattling eight past the hapless Cypriots, I had little inkling that it wouldn’t always be so uncomplicated and enjoyable. Subsequently, the passing years have taught me that the “Hampden Experience” generally conforms to the following pattern. First, you have to park your car miles away from the ground to avoid getting your radio nicked by wee boys who endeavour to fleece you for a couple of quid to “look after” it during the game. Then you’ve to walk these miles to the ground in pouring rain, having forgotten that it always rains at Hampden. Except, of course, for those occasions when you’ve had the presence of mind to bring an umbrella.

War and Piss

If it’s a cup final that you’re heading for, you tend to find out on the way why Battlefield Road is so-called. Stepping nimbly round the warring factions you eventually come upon a colourful scene in the immediate environs of the Park where there is a river of people flowing over, under and round a motley collection of flag-sellers, scarf-sellers, programme-sellers, macaroon and spearmint chewing-gum sellers, police on horseback, police on foot, police in vans, lost children, children who are not lost but wish they were, people trying to buy tickets, people trying to sell tickets, spivvy types trying to both buy and sell tickets, men in kilts trying to get into the game by pretending that they’re in the pipe band, folk dressed up as pandas collecting for obscure charities, wee men with sandwich boards proclaiming the end of the world, all the jugglers and clowns who do tricks for you (copyright – R Zimmerman), guys who earlier on painted their faces in club colours forgetting that the rain would soon make them look like Joan Collins after a hard night, riff-raff, scallywags, urchins, down-and-outs, wide-boys and con-men of all descriptions, the editor of TAG trying to off-load back issues, a couple of Norwegian tourists who thought that Mount Florida was a miniature Disneyland, former players hanging about hoping that someone will recognise them, and Chick Young asking passers-by who they think is going to win. There’s a line-up of hot-dog vans charging ludicrous prices for fare which tastes rather too literally like “hot dog” for my liking. Police Alsatians endeavour to rip your bum out as you pass. People, of both genders, are pishing up against the hallowed walls, the streams of urine being distinguishable from rain-water by virtue of the steam rising from the former. While trying to avoid getting this liquid on your trainers you step into a newly-laid pile of police horse-shite.

Mad Macaroon

You get into the ground to find that your ticket is for that wee enclosure bit just under the stand where your eye-level is actually below the level of the pitch, so that you have to spend the entire ninety minutes craning your neck upwards to see any of the action, and from this angle you rely heavily on the colour of socks to determine which team has the ball. You freeze in the icy rain. You heat up momentarily as the person next to you spills his bovril down the front of your trousers. You find that, rather than fenian blood, you’re up to your knees in fearful mud. Twenty minutes into the game the PA gives the usual police announcement about having reason to believe that pickpockets are operating in the ground tonight. You check your wallet. You fucking knew it! Some bugger’s away with it. If it’s a Scotland match since about 1980, you get bored to tears with some half-arsed continental system of interminable square balls being hit across the back four. You spend a lot of your time wondering why they sell macaroon bars to football fans. I’ve never actually seen anyone eating one, but there’s always a guy coming round the terracing with a box of the stuff. My theory is that he and his pals must’ve hijacked a train-load of them back in the late fifties, and they’ve been trying to get rid of them ever since. Anyway, Scotland get suckered by a last minute goal. As you leave the ground, you swear on your oath never to come back. The rain seems to have got much heavier. You get swept along Cathcart Road by the force of the crowd. You forget where you’ve parked the car, which will probably have been stolen anyway. You queue for hours at Mount Florida, eventually arriving home after midnight, thoroughly pissed on and pissed off. Does any of this sound familiar?

Smells Like Team Spirit

Despite (or is it because of) these conditions, optimism for the next time or the next game hardly ever wanes. During the mid-seventies Scotland played all its matches with Northern Ireland at Hampden, even when they were supposed to be away matches. Every alternate year you would get a match programme with the N. Irish logo on the front and a splendidly absurdist editorial along the lines of “It is with much pleasure that we welcome our visitors, Scotland, to Hampden Park tonight“. Of course, in these days we were expected to whup the Irish good and proper. Naturally enough, we suffered a series of humiliating defeats. On one of those occasions we lost on the Wednesday night prior to a Wembley date with England on the Saturday. Humiliated? Depressed? Embarrassed? Not a bit of it! As I made my way onto dark, dreary, rain-soaked Cathcart Road, the evening gloom was lifted by the sight of a passing double-decker. The lads on the top deck had, in their youthful exuberance, spontaneously kicked out the back windows, and were hanging out the exposed top, swathed in splintered glass, lion rampants, and “Remember Bannockburn” banners, merrily chanting “Bring on the English “. It fair made my old Caledonian heart beat a little faster.

The Naked Ape

When I attended the 1973 Old Firm cup final it was in my previous incarnation as a blue-nose billy boy. A group of us had come down from Dundee, and this included one guy who was attending in his official capacity as a St John’s ambulanceman. Of course, the rest of us were jealous as hell at the thought that he’d be swanning about at the side of the pitch, with an uninterrupted view of proceedings. As chance would have it, a man near to us fainted after twenty minutes or so of the game (something to do with Tommy McLean’s haircut) and our St John’s pal had to come up onto the terracing. I managed to shout over to him to ask whether he was enjoying the game. His response was to ask me what the score was. Since then, my advice is not to join the ambulance crew if you think that’s a cheap and easy way to see the game. It’s much easier to dress up as a Panda and claim you’re collecting for distressed gentlefolk.

Later on in the day I thought I might be in need of his services. As we made our way into the city centre, flushed with the ‘Gers success, blue scarves trailing from the car windows, we had to stop next to a corporation bus at traffic lights. One of the passengers on the bus was apparently of the opposite persuasion, and he stood at the window of the bus mouthing the standard obscenities, which form the traditional social etiquette on such occasions. We steadfastly ignored his orang-utang type behaviour for a few moments. Uncharacteristically emboldened by being cocooned in the car I eventually responded with a diffident V-sign. I was mildly apprehensive (not to mention feeling my bowels loosen) when the monkey-man dashed to the door of the bus and hastily disembarked, apparently with a view to discussing the matter in greater depth. Fortunately the lights changed. We got away and the ape missed his bus. All part of the rich tapestry of football.Lest it be thought that I am ascribing simian qualities only to Celtic supporters, I can balance this with an occasion when I spent an uncomfortable couple of hours parked next to a very strange wee man during a Scotland v Portugal encounter. At no time did he actually watch the action on the field. Instead, his gaze was permanently fixed on the “Celtic End”. Every 90 seconds or so he would inform everyone around him that “These bastards are only here the night ‘cos Ireland arenae playin‘”. Each time he disgorged this information he nudged me in the ribs to seek my assent. What could I say? I didn’t think it appropriate to advise him that he was a deeply disturbed individual who should really be seeking specialised medical assistance. I contented myself by mouthing, ” Yeah, fucking appalling, intit”.

Famous for ninety minutes

There’s always a chance of meeting celebrities at the big games at Hampden. In the 1982 match against England I was sitting in the stand a couple of rows in front of a pink-jacketed Billy Connolly. After we’d lost 1-0 I was privileged to be in a small group who were treated to Billy’s in-depth post-match analysis.

“Fucking terrible boys, eh?”, quoth the Big Yin.

On another occasion during Dumbarton’s annual second round Scottish Cup dismissal, this time at the hands of Queens Park, I found myself sharing a urinal with the late Sir Hugh Fraser. Funnily enough his comments about Dumbarton’s performance were almost exactly the same as Connolly’s had been about Scotland, but in a more refined accent.

Countdown to Ecstasy

The reason why we all go back, despite the rain, despite the urine, despite the macaroon bars, despite the turgid football, despite the Pandas, despite the awful conditions, is that every so often something happens which makes it all worthwhile. Like England scoring two own goals, as in 1974. Or Charlie Nicholas uncorking a beauty, as against Switzerland in 1983. Or Donnachie’s supernatural own goal against Wales. Or the entire Uruguayan team leaving the field and refusing to play on after an offside decision went against them in ‘83. Clemence letting the ball through his legs, Gordon McQueen colliding with a goal-post, Jim Holton colliding with everything else, Dalglish’s goal against Spain, Derek Johnstone’s thirty yard header against Wales, grown men from Paisley weeping with joy after the cup final in ‘87, grown men from Dundee weeping after every cup final. I could go on. (No, please stop – Ed). The point is that the emotional adrenalin rush when something fantastic happens is intensified precisely because of the appalling environment. We’re Scottish! We like a bit of suffering with our pleasure! Whether Hampden is converted into a people’s palace or left to rot as a gigantic folly, I somehow doubt if its unique ability to lift you out of the mundane into the realms of real cerebral ecstasy can be recaptured in any other context. You know me, I wouldn’t like to offend David Murray, but the fact is that Ibrox simply can’t do it. You either got soul or you don’t. Hampden had it.

The Absolute Game Revisited – Part 19

The Forgotten Ones – Number 19 – Arthur Montford

In the early days of TAG such colossi of communication as Alistair Dewar, George Davidson and Fraser Elder received the “forgotten ones” treatment I’ve been prompted to exhume the grand-daddy of them all, Arthur Montford, as a result of his recent cameo appearances on BBC during Morton’s “cup-run” (ie they won one game). Arthur was introduced as Morton’s most famous supporter, just in time to witness them being shunted right off “the road to Hampden” by Kilmarnock. His appearance was the cue for Chick Young to run through his repertoire of “checked jacket” jokes. You know the kind of thing “Here’s the man who many remember as looking like a mobile test card. He’s got more checks in his jacket than David Murray, and more lines than Hamlet. His dress sense makes Derek Johnstone look like Beau Brummel and his jackets are even more dazzling than the top of my head” etc, etc, bore, bore, puke.

Arthur’s main claim to fame is, of course, the many years he spent as a commentator, and then frontman, for STV’s Scotsport programme. In the sixties, television coverage of football wasn’t the slick, all-seeing, multi-camera, instant-replay, slow- mo, fast-mo, wee-mo, creation that we all know and love today. On the contrary, STV were equipped with a single, static, monochrome camera which someone had found in John Logie Baird’s garden shed, stamped “early prototype. 1921- ­totally buggered”.

Most of the time the film quality was literally laughable and Scotsport was universally know as “Montford’s Mad Movies”. The alarming variability in the speed of the film contrived to make your average Dundee vs Third Lanark game look like an episode from the Keystone Cops. The slapstick atmosphere was merely emphasized by some truly madcap editing, where a shot at goal at one end of the ground would be interrupted in mid-flight and be stitched straight on to the ball landing in the net at the other end. Equally entertaining were those zany occasions when the cameraman was apparently a bit “over-refreshed” and the highlights would consist of crazy zig-zagging movements across the back of the terracing as he made a vain attempt to locate the whereabouts of the ball.

Sometimes the “highlights” would come to an abrupt halt half way through the first half while Arthur solemnly announced that regrettably a heavy snow-storm had at that point made further filming impossible – ­this coming as complete news to those punters who’d actually been at the game, basking in sunshine throughout. Occasionally, Arthur would put his hands up and admit to the viewers that “as a result of technical difficulties we are unable to bring you any of the goals from this game, which, incidentally, finished 4-3 for Thistle “. One such occasion (the precise details escape me) involved showing a Rangers goal in an Old Firm game, but “due to technical difficulties etc etc we are unable to bring you the two Celtic goals. I do hope that hasn’t spoiled your enjoyment of the game”. Even 25 years later some still suspect a Masonic conspiracy.

Straight Jacket?

Like all commentators, Arthur had his own verbal idiosyncrasies. The slightest hint of more than two players challenging for the same ball gave rise to the exclamation, “What a stramash “, while the scoring of a goal was almost always accompanied by the cry “It’s a sensation “. Any sort of high cross ball into the box was punctuated by the description, “Up go the heads”, while at the end of every match Arthur routinely persuaded himself that there were “sporting handshakes all round”, when what the viewer could actually see were snarling, spitting players, gesturing and swearing at each other against a backdrop of opposing fans fighting it out on the terraces. Another baffling verbal tic was the way in which he introduced highlights of English football by saying, “We join the match halfway through the first half, WHERE AS YOU CAN SEE, there’s no score”. What? How could we see that? I never figured that one out at all.

Arthur truly came into his own when it was his turn to commentate on matches featuring the Scottish national team. Not for him the namby-pamby objectivity and impartiality which are currently fashionable. Instead, Arthur wore his lion rampant on his sleeve, and you would never have caught him describing an opposition goal as anything other than “extremely lucky, one might justifiably say jammy”. Limb-rupturing tackles performed by those in Caledonian blue were “robust, but perfectly within the rules “, while similar operations carried out by the opposition were, “vicious, violent, thuggish, morally reprehensible and entirely the kind of criminal behaviour we’ve come to expect from (insert name of opposing country) “.

His shameless bias reached its spectacular zenith during the nerve-shredding match with Czechoslovakia in 1974 which Scotland had to win to qualify for the World Cup finals for the first time since nineteen­canteen. Never was the saying about “fans with microphones” so true. The obvious nervous tension and near-panic in Arthur’s voice was a perfect companion to what was happening both on and off the pitch. He sounded just like I felt. When the Czechs scored first, you could actually hear Arthur battling to keep his emotions under control ­and losing. ”Disaster for Scotland, disaster for Scotland”, he wailed in near hysterical tones. The commentary degenerated into a series of “C’mon Scotland” pleas. Jim Holton’s equaIising goal was accompanied by the sound of Arthur’s head hitting the roof of the commentary booth. As the Scots desperately sought the winner, Arthur became more and more agitated until it became quite obvious that he was temporarily insane. Kenny Dalglish was substituted by Joe Jordan. As the two shook hands on the touchline Arthur raved madly,
“Kenny says to Joe, ‘Stick one in the net for me, Joe ‘. Joe says to Kenny, ‘I will, Kenny, I will”.

As time ticked by, all pretence at commentary was given up and Arthur joined the rest of us in yelling the team on. A Bremner shot hit the post. As it was cleared out of the box, Arthur was practically weeping as he attempted to encapsulate the cruel, cruel fortune to which the Scottish race had been subjected for millennia. The ball was swung back in. Arthur screamed, “JORDAN – GOAL “.

As Hampden Park exploded into a sea of flags, a seething mass of bodies hugging each other, and a full-throated roar from 100,000 fans, the television viewer was treated to the sound of Arthur falling off his chair followed by a series of strangulated, gurgling noises, which sounded like an animal in its final extremities. Arthur readily understood that this was no time for dispassionate analysis, and instead he just wrapped himself in a tartan scarf and “Remember Bannockbum” flag, and gave it laldy on the old “Marvellous, fantastic brilliant, brilliant Scotland” routine. His finest hour.

After that, it was off to Germany for the Finals. By the time of our third group game we were unbeaten, but had to defeat Yugoslavia to qualify for the quarter-finals. After a brave, brave performance we were trailing 1-0 with only seconds remaining. The Yugoslavs brought on a defensive midfielder called ‘Killer’, prompting Arthur to comment, “Killer by name, Killer by nature. C’mon, Scotland”. Jordan equalised. Too late. We all knew that. Arthur knew it. Billy Bremner knew it. Bremner’s celebratory lunge at Jordan, and the extravagant, despairing, hugging which followed, were eloquent of the most acute emotional pain couple with a fist-shaking defiance in the face of adversity. The final whistle blew. If words were needed, Arthur supplied them. “That’s it, it’s all over. We’re out, they’re through. It’s so, so unfair. We haven’t lost a game, but we’re out. It’s so unfair… “. His voice tailed off as he gave way to the same tears the rest of us were weeping.

Czech Jacket?

There are many reasons why I have happy memories of Arthur Montford. His passion for the national team for one. His passion for football for another. He never made any pretence about finding the statutory coverage of other sports as being an irritating necessity. But most of all, I remember him for his decency and civilisation. He was a gentleman. At a time when a troupe of gibbering baboons currently monopolise the airwaves, it is pleasant to recall how it should be done. While Chick, Gerry, Jim, Derek and Hazel et al jostle with each other to express what are laughingly called “their opinions”, and compete with each other to trivialise the game with a series of puerile puns and pithy anecdotes, let us celebrate Arthur Montford as one of the last of the genuine communicators (the other one is Bob Crampsey, but that’s another story). I’ll round this “forgotten one” off by recalling the occasion when Scotland played Czechoslovakia away from home in a stadium which was undergoing reconstruction. There were no spectators on the nearside of the pitch with the consequence that the TV microphones were able to pick up the voices of the players when they were near the touchline. Naturally, Scotland found themselves a goal down with time ticking away. The ball went out of play on the nearside. Denis Law dashed over to take the shy. The wee Czech boy who was supposed to be retrieving the ball was not displaying the necessary urgency. The camera had zoomed right on to Law’s face at the moment when he shouted,
“Hey, ya wee bastard, geez the fuckin’ ball”’.
With his customary urbanity Arthur commented, “Denis urging the ball-boy, quite correctly I may add, to get a move on with it”.

First published in TAG 38 – May 1994

The Absolute Game Revisited – Part 18

EAT, DRINK and…eh…FALL UNDER THE TABLE

When you think of professional footballers you don’t immediately think of them as being masters of the art of after-dinner speaking. Fair enough, because the likes of Peter Ustinov, Stephen Fry and John Sessions don’t exactly cut the mustard in the penalty box. However, over the past few years many football celebrities have found the after-dinner circuit to be a useful way of ‘making a few bob’. This is particularly the case for those whose playing/coaching careers have come to an end. Most of us who are interested in football also have an appetite for amusing stories about the game, told by people who were actually there. Thus, George Best, Tommy Docherty, Jim Baxter etc have found themselves in demand.

I have been fortunate enough to be invited, in each of the last three years, to the annual dinner held for the benefit of Aberforth Rangers, a central Scotland amateur side. The idea is that part of the price of the ticket, together with the proceeds from raffles etc, go to the coffers of the club to help keep them afloat for another season. Everybody has a good time with a slap-up meal, plenty drink, and three or four humorous speeches from the top table, all punctuated with the chance to win autographed balls, team shirts, videos and other desirable football memorabilia. The dinners that I’ve been to have been all-male affairs, which usually means that the speakers feel free to indulge in fairly ‘robust’ language, and to make jokes which would be unacceptable in mixed company (example – Duncan Ferguson was in London last week and picked up a prostitute. The bold Dunc says, ‘How much for a wank ?’ She replies, ‘Four million pounds, apparently’ .).

Radio Clyde Man is Decent Bloke Shock Horror

This years speakers were Jim Leishman, Derek Johnstone, and Hugh Keevans. The latter was introduced as ‘the token Tim’ and responded appropriately by standing up, dipping his fingers in his glass of water, and sprinkling the audience in mock blessing. Most of you have probably become increasingly irritated by the pish that Hugh talks on Radio Clyde and in his Scotsman column. However, he was genuinely amusing and self-deprecating as a speaker. He began by announcing, “Like Lou Macari, I haven’t a fucking clue what I’m doing here“, and proceeded to regale the audience with numerous funny anecdotes, most of which I’ve now forgotten, unfortunately. He did reveal that Chick Young is a genuine St Mirren supporter, and never misses a Buddies game, provided Rangers reserves aren’t playing, of course. He went on to say that “one thing that really irritates me on the Radio Clyde phone-in is when Dougie MacDonald gives it the big build-up,

‘This is the Radio Clyde open line. Scotland’s number one. Hugh, Derek and Chick are waiting for your questions, so get dialling. Our first caller tonight is Joe Smith from Easterhouse. What’s your question for the panel, Joe?’

There’s then a short pause

and the caller invariably says, “Eh, can I speak to Davy ?”".

Lochgelly Man ‘Totally Fucking Bonkers’ say Doctors

Next up was Jim Leishman. Whether you think that Leishman is a ‘character’ or a ‘grossly-inflated balloon’, you can’t deny that he’s larger than life. In the context of an after-dinner speech to an audience of this sort he’s completely at home. Again there was a series of quick-fire anecdotes related to football. Many of the stories referred back to Jim’s youth when he was a member of the YLM – ie Young Lochgelly Mental. The qualifications to belong to this illustrious band were that you should be young and from Lochgelly. If you possessed both of these attributes then the ‘mental’ part was automatically built-in. While Jim was still an associate member of the YLM he was picked for Dunfermline for the first time, and his debut was against ‘the mighty Rangers’. The Dunfermline manager, George Miller, delivered a pre-match pep-talk which consisted of exhorting the young Jim to ‘put Greig out of the game. If Greig plays well, then the Rangers play well. Put Greig out of the game early, and we’ve got a chance’. Young Lochgelly Jim Mental was lapping all this up – ‘Yes, boss. Rely on me boss’.

Miller then paid Jim fae Mental Lochgelly the ultimate back-handed compliment by telling him, ‘Get stuck right in to Greig. Never mind if you get sent off – they’ll miss him a hell of a lot more than we’ll miss you’. Within minutes of the game starting Greig had the ball and Young Lochgelly launched into him with a criminal two-footed tackle, which would’ve crippled an elephant. Greig picked himself up, dusted himself down and shouted, “I’m going to rip your fucking heid off for that, ya bastard“. Young Mental sought the referee’s assistance – ‘Hey ref, d’you hear what he’s saying ?‘. The referee (Bob Valentine) responded calmly, “Yes, I hear it, but I believe that he’s talking to you and not to me”. Thereafter Greig proceeded to demonstrate over the next ninety minutes that although he was neither young nor from Lochgelly, he was certainly mental.

Dundee Man Impersonates Post-Box

When Derek Johnstone rose to speak he was greeted by spontaneous chants of ‘Sumo, Sumo’ alternating with ‘You fat bastard’. He took it all in good part, though. He was wearing that fluorescent red jacket which plays havoc with the old cathode ray tube when he wears it on Sportscene. He said that on his way in an old lady had tried to post a letter in him. He wouldn’t have minded, but he was bending over tying his shoelaces at the time. He told an amusing story or two, but I was disappointed that much of his contribution consisted of forced jokes culled from the Sunday Post, rather than behind-the-scenes funnies.

As an example, he spent a lot of time on speculation as to what football would be like in twenty years time – “The Secretary of the SF A, Mr Duncan Ferguson, said today that stern measures are to be taken to stamp out loutish behaviour amongst players“. That kind of thing. Pure pish. He even resorted to telling the well-worn ‘Boli soup’ joke. At least that’s reasonably harmless, unlike the overtly racist joke told by one of the celebrities which featured a combination of Boli, Rummenigge, Hazel Irvine and Ally McCoist. Work it out for yourselves.

Big Derek did tell a good story about one of Willie Johnston’s many sendings-off. This occurred late on in Willie’s career, by which time he’d already appeared on countless occasions at Park Gardens where it had latterly been made clear to him that he was drinking in the last chance Saloon. In a match with Hibs, Willie became involved in precisely the type of unsavoury incident which he specialised in. Kenny Hope reached for his book and called him over. It was obvious, even to Willie, that yet another early bath was awaiting him.
He pleaded with Hope, “Oh, c’mon ref, ye ken that if you pit me off that’s me finished. Gie us a chance“.
Hope was unmoved and simply said, “What’s your name ?”.
Aware that this was a fairly superfluous question, Willie engaged Hope in some knockabout banter “Och, c’mon, Kenny, ye’re fuckin’ jokin’. Ye’ve written it doon dozens o’ times. Gie us a chance.”
Hope remained unmoved and insisted, “Name?”.
Never one to admit defeat, Willie persisted with the merry badinage and gave his name as “Roy Rogers”.
Hope finished the conversation abruptly, “Well, Roy, you better whistle up Trigger, because you’re off’.

Neanderthal Man found alive in Hamilton

Derek also told another funny story featuring a combination of referee, Brian McGinlay, and the legendary Hamilton Accies supporter known to his intimates by the single nomme de guerre of ‘Fergie’. McGinlay had refereed a local derby between Hamilton and Motherwell on the Saturday afternoon. Motherwell had won thanks to a couple of questionable decisions by McGinlay. In the evening, McGinlay and his wife were out for a meal in Glasgow. As they strolled along Sauchiehall Street, Brian saw Fergie standing on the street corner pursuing his alternative vocation as an ‘Evening Times’ seller. In order to avoid the inevitable confrontation he and his wife jouked into a nearby up-market wine-bar. As they sat sipping their Pimms in the genteel, oak-panelled lounge, the door was kicked open and Fergie breenged in roaring, “Errsyerfinal Times. Read all about it. Referee makes a complete cunt of it ——- again !!! ”.

One of the speakers this year was not a football celebrity, though I was choking with anticipation when I saw his name on the ticket. He was Willie Allan. No, not THAT Willie Allan (see TAG 28 for further details). This one was a young guy, who was a very funny speaker, but who specialised in tales from the rugby world. He recalled an occasion when he had visited the very pits of hell, otherwise known as Alloa Rugby Club. He was in the company of Ewan Kennedy, who had earned several rugby caps for Scotland in the early eighties. As they were standing at the bar they were approached by one of the natives, an ancient veteran of about seventy summers. The old boy asked Kennedy if he was really Ewan Kennedy. Ewan was suitably proud of this recognition and agreed that he was indeed the very man. The old-timer took a step back and cracked Kennedy on the side of the head with a haymaker, knocking him to the ground – “That’s for letting 5 in at Wembley in 1975 ya useless bastard“, explained the deranged old soldier before re-joining the other Alzheimer casualties at the dominoes table.

Aberdeen Man Lost at Sea

In previous years speakers have included Gordon and Alex Smith, Archie McPherson, Jim Baxter and Billy McNeil. Alex Smith recounted the happenings in Aberdeen after he’d been to Holland to sign Theo Snelders. The following day Smith met Willie Miller and Alec McLeish in the corridor at Pittodrie. Smith explained that Willie and Alec considered themselves to be the real bosses at Aberdeen, and didn’t at all fancy the idea of anything having happened without their approval.

Willie said, “I hear ye’ve signed a goalkeeper“.
“Aye, that’s right” replied Smith.
“Fae Holland, I hear“, continued Willie.
“Aye, fae Holland, aye“, responded Smith.
“Can he speak English ?”, asked Willie.
“Better than you can, Willie“, retorted Smith.
Willie grunted and brought the conversation to an end with, “Well, just as long as he can understand ‘Stay on your fucking line”‘.

The centre-piece of Gordon Smith’s speech was when he told us of an occasion a couple of years ago when he was lying sunning himself on a beach in the Bahamas or some equally exotic foreign locale. He was approached by a couple of local urchins who asked, “You Gordon Smith, famous footballer?” When Smith answered in the affirmative one of them said, “How the fuck you miss that goal in the Cup Final ?” Such is the price of fame.

Glasgow Man gets a Red Face

Archie McPherson recalled a Saturday evening when he was clearing up his papers after presenting a Sportscene programme which had featured him commentating on an Old Firm match. The phone in the studio rang. Archie was the only person there so he answered. The voice on the other end said politely,
“Can I speak to Mr McPherson please”.
Archie identified himself.
The caller then said, “Archie, there’s something wrong with my TV. The colour doesn’t seem to be working properly.”
Archie said, “Well, I’m sorry to hear that, but I’m just a presenter and that’s really out of my line.”
The caller persisted, “But Archie, I only got it last week and it was working fine right up until Sportscene came on”.
By this time Archie was becoming a bit impatient and said, “Well, really, there’s not much I can do about it, but if you tell me what the problem is maybe someone round here will know what to do”.
This was the opportunity the caller was waiting for, “Well, Archie, all the other colours were OK, but when I was watching you tonight I couldn’t see your big fucking blue nose”.

For those of you who’ve never been to one of these events I hope I’ve been able to convey a flavour of the kind of thing you can expect. Apparently they’re trying to line up Tommy Gemmell as a speaker at next year’s dinner. I can’t wait. Judging by his performances on Radio Clyde the man is an unconscious comedian. The producers of Super Scoreboard must spend the entire time that Gemmell is speaking with their hearts pounding and their resignation letters on the table. Tommy is an expert in off-the-cuff gaffes and bloomers, with his famous left foot usually firmly lodged in his mouth. One example will suffice. He was recently reporting from Rugby Park. When reading out the Killie team he found that their two substitutes were Black and Brown, which caused him to ad-lib spontaneously, ‘Sounds like a team of Africans’. If he can come away with this on national radio then God knows what he’s capable of at a private function. Watch this space.

First published in TAG 42 – March 1995

The Absolute Game Revisited – Part 17

Burns’ Last Supper

The Celtic manager’s job – probably Scottish football’s longest running saga since, well, the Celtic takeover saga.

When Tommy Burns was appointed as the Celtic manager in 1994, Gary Oliver wittily pointed out in this very magazine that Fergus McCann had been determined to recruit the country’s brightest young manager, but instead was making do with Tommy Burns. Gary went on to express serious reservations about Burns abilities to take on the formidably difficult task at Celtic, and suggested that allowing Tommy to have influence on Scottish football was akin to entrusting Ken Dodd with your tax return. OK, with the benefit of hindsight we can all make up our own minds whether Gary was being unduly harsh or brutally realistic. Tommy’s three year reign at Celtic Park encompassed a trophy win (an experience entirely unknown to his two immediate predecessors), numerous humiliations, occasional exhilarating performances from his team, an almost complete inability to beat Rangers, continued protracted wrangling over anything vaguely contractual, and new peaks of traditional Celtic paranoia being scaled almost daily. In other words, with the exception of the trophy win and the occasional exciting perform­ance, it was pretty much business as usual at Paradise.

But to make a proper assessment of Burns period as manager it’s necessary to remember the pitiful condition that the club was in when he assumed the helm. Just months earlier Celtic had literally been minutes from the footballing knackers yard (previous occupants – Third Lanark). On the field, they had totally slipped out of Rangers orbit and had crash-landed back in the pack with the rest of the also-rans. Lou Macari’s peculiar laissez-faire style of hands-off management had apparently demoralised the playing staff, and it was plain that the club was at the lowest ebb, if not in its entire history, then at least since the years immediately prior to Jock Stein becoming manager in 1966. To the extent that Macari, and Brady before him, had been such spectacular failures, then any sort of success, however modest, which Burns could bring, was bound to represent progress. The winning of the Scottish Cup at the end of his first season in charge, albeit in the most unconvincing fashion imaginable, at least placed something tangible in the Parkhead trophy room for the first time in many moons.

Tommy Knocked

Despite this apparent progress, Tommy’s first season was characterized by a number of unhappy motifs which were constantly to recur throughout his tenure. In the first place, the whole unsavoury and contentious issue of Celtic having poached Tommy himself, and his assistant Billy Stark, from Kilmarnock had been allowed to drift on and fester due to the wholly unreasonable and intransigent attitude adopted by Mr Magoo. The net effect of Magoo failing to do the decent thing by way of promptly paying due compensation to Killie, was that Celtic lost substantial goodwill amongst the rest of Scottish football, and also ended up having to pay much more in compensation and fines than if they’d settled amicably at the outset.Secondly, Celtic showed an alarming lack of ‘bottle’ when it came to the really big matches, exemplified by their unprecedented defeat by first division Raith Rovers in the league cup final.

Thirdly, in the immediate aftermath of the cup success, Tommy and Fergus had a go at each other via the media, inaugurating a very unhealthy trend in how important matters were thereafter to be communicated between players, staff and directors at Parkhead. Many have said that, at the very moment when his players were parading the cup, Burns effectively signed his own dismissal notice by giving a TV interview on the pitch at Hampden, in which he hinted that Magoo was an interfering wee bastard. Few were in any doubt that Fergus would settle that particular account whenever an opportune moment arose. Because, if nothing else, wee Fergus had shown himself to be a carnaptious and highly litigious little person, who seemed to relish nothing better than becoming involved in utterly pointless and ultimately self-destructive arguments with anyone and everyone who got in his way.

The litigation between Celtic and Lou Macari, involving claim and counter-claim is a good example. Whatever the rights and wrongs of that particular situation, it is traditionally the case that that kind of dispute is resolved out of court, in order, amongst other things, to avoid washing dirty linen in public. Instead, Magoo swapped his bunnet for a washerwoman’s headscarf and got right in there amongst the sweaty jock-straps.
Coincidentally,on the day when the case of Luigi Macari vs The Celtic Football and Athletic Club Limited (known to the denizens of the court as ‘Lou versus Magoo’) began in the Court of Session, I happened to be there and I spent a thor­oughly enjoyable couple of hours watching Fergus giving evidence. The whole thing had elements of high farce. Fergus painted a picture of Lou conducting the management of the club from a house in Stoke, claiming that Macari frequently didn’t show up at Celtic Park for days on end, often arriving in a fast-black direct from Central Station at ten to three on a Saturday just in time to wish the players well as they departed the dressing-room. The thing which tickled me the most was when Fergus was asked what Macari’s position in the club was and responded by saying that Macari was ‘a senior executive in the Company with responsibility for personnel in the football-playing section’. Put that way, it made Lou’s job sound somewhat less exciting than that of a clerk in a local government office.

Magoo’s account of Macari’s dismissal featured Marx Brothers-type slapstick. On one of his (allegedly) infrequent visits to Glasgow, Lou had indicated that he was off to the World Cup in the USA for ’scouting’ purposes. McCann denied him permission to go, insisting that he fulfill his contractual duties at Celtic Park. The next thing Fergus hears is that Lou’s been spotted at Glasgow airport checking in at the departure desk for Miami, dressed in Bermuda shorts, shades, and Dolphins t-shirt. An apoplectic McCann somehow managed to get through on the phone to the bold Lou who was in the travellers lounge enjoying a pre-flight tincture while scanning the Florida equivalent of the Racing Post. McCann summarily informed Luigi that he was sacked. Macari apparently responded ‘impertinently’, though his precise words were not quoted, but I think we can guess. As the best newspapers say, – ‘the case continues’ – and I think we’re guaranteed further juicy soap-opera like instalments.

Tommy Burned

I have digressed a bit from the predicament that Tommy Burns found himself in. The point I’m trying to make is that it cannot have been easy for Burns to work under the constant scrutiny of the ferret-like McCann. It was a real case of when two cultures clash, with, on the one hand, the Scottish football man, wed heart and soul to the entire ethos of the club, and on the other hand, the recently repatriated entrepreneur with his americanised business jargon, overbearing sense of his own importance, thin-dime mentality, and almost complete ignorance of football. One by-product of the Chairman’s unbending attitude was that any contract negotiation involving Celtic quickly became more fiendishly complex than talks between EEC member-states on currency convergence and monetary union. While other clubs appeared to be able to identify a player they wanted to buy, and then just go ahead and buy him, with Celtic it seemed that the process would take roughly the same time as the gestation of an elephant. It seemed that youngish players who were linked with Celtic had become veterans, completed their careers, and moved into pub management before Magoo was satisfied enough with the small print to authorise the expenditure. When eventually Celtic were ready and willing to do the deal there were still hazards aplenty. Not for Fergus the simplicity of dealing through licensed agents. Instead, with the chairman always on the look-out for a bargain, Celtic stood accused of the footballing equivalent of buying ‘back of a lorry’ stuff from dodgy spivs at the Barras, admist the usual dark mutterings of taking the whole thing to the European Court of Justice. In the case of Alan Stubbs it appeared as if ‘the goods’ had literally fallen off the back of a lorry.

As if the various existing pieces of litigation were not enough to satisfy his appetite Fergus also indicated that he was going to court to prove that French club Monaco weren’t entitled to the benefit of the Bosman ruling, in escaping paying a transfer fee for John Collins, on the basis that the principality of Monaco wasn’t a member of the EEC. An interesting academic argument, but as any lawyer would tell you, a complete no-hoper in practice. Not that the certainty of failure has stopped Mr Magoo blundering on, in a way that makes the proverbial bull in the china shop seem positively genteel.

Thus it came about that Burns’ dealings in the transfer market were fraught with internally imposed difficulties, and he must be awarded credit for unearthing the diamonds of Van Hooijdonk, Cadete, and Di Canio, given the obstacles placed in his way. On the other hand, diamond-miners occasionally dig up pure dross and he has to take the blame for the likes of Stubbs (a complete waste of money at a tenth of the price Celtic paid), Thom (famously described elsewhere as the least effective import from Germany since Rudolf Hess), O’Donnell (for whom the phrase ‘injury-prone’ has had to be completely re-defined, Phil spending more time on the sick than Rab C Nesbit) and the likes of Wieghorst and Hannah, whose purchases were quite inexplicable. Although Fergus McCann now points to the fact that Burns was given a massive amount of money to spend (£15 million), he omits to mention that there’s more to this game than just recruitment of players – you have to retain them as well. The long-running saga of Pierre Van Hooijdonk’s departure was precisely the kind of thing which most other clubs successfully manage to avoid. Pierre and Fergus adopted the by now usual Celtic practice of conducting their negotiations in the tabloid newspapers, with Burns cast in the role of anxious bystander haudin’ the jaikets. As I write, it appears that Di Canio and Cadete are about to disappear over the horizon in similar circumstances.

Doubting Tommy

McCann was not entirely to blame for all the crosses which Tommy Burns had to bear. I’ve chosen my words carefully in that last sentence, because we’re now entering the twilight zone of the religious symbol­ism which informed Tommy’s management style. Tommy made continual overt references to his own personal religious beliefs, resulting in him being referred to as ‘Father Burns’ in some quarters. There’s no doubting that his faith must have been very strong, because all the objective evidence indicated that God, if He existed, was clearly a Protestant. This didn’t seem to deter Tommy from praying for help from the Almighty whenever the big games came up. It never seemed to do much good, and one couldn’t help but find Tommy’s earnestness as being hilariously funny. When he was in devout mode he just came across as a complete nut-job. I was daily expecting to hear that Tommy was holed up in some Waco-style compound, ‘doing a Koresh’ with his faithful followers, Peter Grant and a small dog named Biggins. Of course people are free to have their own religious beliefs but they should keep them in a proper context. To paraphrase John Lennon, “I’m not knocking it, I’m just saying it”. What I’m saying is that things have come to a pretty pass when God’s help is being sought in the pursuit of a league championship. I can’t remember the exact words, but on one occasion Tommy was asked about Celtic’s failure to win a particular game and he remarked, “Well, not even Jesus Christ could’ve played on that pitch”. Whether this was a very oblique and subtle reference to the waterlogged state of the field, or a surprising intimation of the previously little-known fact that the son of God was a bit useful in the midfield, only Tommy, and God, knows. But to an agnostic bystander like myself it sounded just as blasphemous as the old ‘Jesus saves, but Dalglish nets the rebound’ joke.

For someone of his beliefs he rarely exhibited any Christian charity towards Celtic’s opponents. In fact, Celtic began displaying some distinctly un-Celtic-like traits in their desperate desire to stop Rangers achieving the nine-in-a-row. This ranged across the spectrum, from failing to return the ball to opponents who’d put it out for attention to an injured player, to a veritable procession of Celtic players up tunnels into early baths as red cards proliferated. Naturally enough the orderings-off were all seen by Tommy as part of the ancient masonic conspiracy which has so bedevilled Celtic. In one interview Tommy was asked about the fact that Celtic had had twelve players ordered off in thirty games and he replied, “Well, I’m sure that any fair-minded person would agree that only two of these red cards were merited”. Any fair­
minded lunatic, maybe.

In his general attitude towards reverses for Celtic Tommy practically became the living embodiment of Celtic’s paranoia. No defeat, particularly by Rangers, could be ascribed to the opposition being superior. Instead, ever more fantastic excuses were advanced for Celtic’s failure, as Tommy remained wilfully blind to the truth. His thick-­lensed glasses were evidence of physical short­sightedness, but his public utterances displayed a much deeper myopia. This was never more true than in his outburst after the last old-firm game of his manager-ship. The Celtic players had behaved fairly disgracefully throughout, appar­ently more intent on provoking a punch-up than getting on with the game. Their ill-discipline continued after the final whistle when some of them seemed to want a square-go with some Rangers players. At the time when I watched these proceedings I thought that their behaviour was inexcusable, though partly understandable because of what had been at stake. I was flabbergasted to hear Burns later blaming the Rangers players for what had occurred, and it was simply laughable to listen to him spouting sanctimonious and utterly dishonest claptrap about Celtic ‘behaving with dignity’. Dignity was most definitely not something associated with Celtic during Tommy’s reign. His comments in the wake of the semi-final defeat by Falkirk, in which he talked of it as ‘Celtic’s Berwick’, were not only excessively churlish, but ignored the fact that it wasn’t a once in a century experience, Celtic having been knocked out of the cup by the self-same Falkirk just four years earlier, and of course I won’t embarrass him by even mentioning that it was the second time in his brief reign that Celtic had lost to a lower division side in a major cup tie. Indeed, Tommy made churlishness something of an art form, being completely unable to give any credit to Celtic’s opponents in any circumstances. He seemed to believe that every defeat for Celtic represented a triumph of evil over good, which every right-­thinking person would deplore.

Tommy Gunned

And yet, and yet… for all his travails Tommy Burns so nearly achieved something which would have been truly amazing. In the space of less than three years he transformed Celtic from being literally a music-hall joke into a reasonably credible challenger to Rangers. Indeed, so close did they come to halting the procession to nine-in-a-row that they were still in with a shout even after Tommy was sacked, and for a few tantalising days the prospect opened up of Celtic achieving the very thing which Burns was sacked for failing to achieve. When Celtic knocked Rangers out of the cup on 6th March it seemed momentarily that what had appeared to be a highly improbable League and Cup double was actually within the grasp of the Parkhead outfit. Their utterly comprehensive victory in that match seemed finally to have exorcised many ghosts and Mr Magoo’s promise of a new-era Celtic seemed to be at hand. The only significant remaining obstacle was a home league match with the Huns ten days later, and with Rangers increasingly giving the impression of being a club in decline and panic, it looked almost certain that Celtic would press home their psychologi­cal advantage, and go on to a practically unbelievable triumph on all fronts. The Rangers management confirmed the impression of Ibrox alarm by dipping into the transfer market to disinter old favourite Mark Hateley from QPR reserves, apparently for the sole purpose of jostling a few of the Celtic defenders who’d remained serenely unmolested during the cup encounter. In the event, Hateley’s appearance on the field was subsequently hailed as a tactical masterstroke, even though it only lasted for little over an hour, courtesy of a red-card following a half­hearted head-butt on the Celtic goalkeeper.Where the cup-tie had featured long stretches of Celtic playing vintage exhibition type football while Rangers just stood by and watched impotently, the league game found Celtic strangely subdued in the face of a Rangers team temporarily revitalised by the presence of the aging war-horse in the no.9 shirt. In the cup-tie it seemed as though Rangers couldn’t have won even if they’d had twelve players, while in the league game they seemed quite comfortable with ten. The net result was that in the twinkling of an eye Celtic’s long­ cherished championship aspirations turned to ashes. Their only consolation was that they were certainties to win the cup. Weren’t they? No, not even that was to be a consolation, as humiliating defeat by Falkirk merely served to accelerate the process of the entire club unravelling before our very eyes. In the space of little over a month, Celtic went from being favourites for the double to a shambolic mess. Suddenly, the manager was axed, directors were being sacked or were resigning, players were expressing discontent, the music-halls were once again ringing to Celtic jokes, and the fans were outside Parkhead ‘demanding answers’. Hey, the good old days were back in full swing.

Presiding over this entire fiasco sat Mr Magoo, blaming the press for twisting his words, announcing grandiose plans for foreign coaches, soccer academies and other hooey of that sort, and, of course, uttering the usual dire warnings about impending legal proceedings. Forget ‘Men Behaving Badly’ or ‘Abso­lutely Fabulous’ – the Celtic sit-com is simply the funniest comedy currently being shown on a TV screen near you.

Alas! poor Tommy. I knew him, Horatio. A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy… wait a minute… wrong script. No, Tommy was a fellow of very few jests, and some extremely peculiar fancies, and I didn’t know him at all. However, it is my opinion that, for all his faults, he was on the right track, and that it’s been a major mistake to sack him at this critical juncture. He himself frequently noted the rather obvious point that he couldn’t be held responsible for the first six of Rangers titles, and I believe that Celtic took significant steps towards regaining playing respectability under his management. He simply wasn’t given enough time to nurture a club, which was, after all, practically dead, back to full fitness. Meantime Dr McCann seems hell-bent on a kill-or-­cure remedy, where by far the most likely outcome is the death of the patient. Fergus is now in the rather delicate position of claiming that great forward strides have been made during the three years of his chairmanship, while simultaneously asserting that the ‘on-the-field’ progress is not acceptable. Thus Tommy Burns is ditched and an entirely new management structure is put in place. I was out of the country for a few weeks at the beginning of June. When I departed there was talk of Craig Brown becoming the new ’soccer coach’ at Parkhead. When I returned I was amazed to see a newspaper hoarding proclaiming that it was Jock ‘Ultimate Penalty’ Brown who was the new manager. This was rather like trying to employ Arnold Schwarzenegger as your bodyguard and ending up with Danny DeVito. One simply cannot escape the conclusion that Jock Brown’s appointment has more to do with Celtic’s forthcoming fixtures in the courts of law than with their engagements on the field. Meantime, Tommy Burns has found himself a very comfortable billet on Tyneside, where his talents are likely to find greater appreciation than in the lunatic asylum from which he recently escaped.

Brown’s immediate priority was to ensure the acquisition of a big-name coach, and Celtic had clearly set their corporate heart on Bobby Robson, amidst heavy hints from Brown that the appointee would be of ‘proven ability and able to walk into any of the top clubs in world football’. Instead, the new coach turns out to be Wim (pronounced Vim) Jansen, who could no doubt walk into any major club, provided he paid at the turnstyle like the rest of us. I’ve no idea what Jansen’s talents are, but it seems fairly clear that Celtic did not exactly have to fight off hordes of rivals to secure his services. Jansen was, as the acting fraternity say, ‘resting’ before Celtic swooped. In all probability Jansen will manage to keep Celtic in second place domesti­cally, which will just be more of the same, and will lead to him paying the ultimate penalty shortly before Fergus returns to Canada, his investment trebled. As for Jock Brown, I think he’ll be just as successful as a football manager as Tommy Burns would be as a commercial solicitor.

First published in TAG August 1997

The Absolute Game Revisited – Part 16

Black and White and Red All Over

The Wee Red Book

The Wee Red Book of which I write is the Scottish institution and cultural icon issued annually by the Evening Times, and is definitely not to be confused with the publication of the same name by Mao-Tse-Tung, though it may well be a matter of some debate as to which one is the most entertaining. In fact, let’s face it, although Mao’s version contains useful tips on how to wage class war against all manner of running dogs and paper tigers, you’ll search it in vain for the result of the 1921 Cup Final. On balance, therefore, I prefer the Evening Times version.

When I was a boy the Wee Red Book was 3d. Three old pee. Which is the equivalent of less than one and a half new pee. For the 1995/96 season the book costs £1.30, which is roughly ninety times what it cost thirty years ago. At the same rate of inflation, a pint of heavy should now cost about £4, with a pint of milk coming in at about £2.50. In other words, the present incarnation of the Wee Red Book is a serious rip-off. Even as recently as 82/83 it cost a mere 30p, before rapidly accelerating through the gears to its current unconscionable price. Every year that the publishers hike the price by double the rate of inflation I promise myself that I’m not going to be suckered into buying it. Every year I break my promise and purchase the damn thing. Somehow I wouldn’t feel complete without it. Acquiring the book before the start of the season has been a ritual pre-requisite for me since the age of 5 and I just can’t break the habit. And, confession time, I was, until recently, sad enough to keep all the back issues. That was before my wife went mad and junked most of them along with the bulk of a lifetime’s collection of programmes. That matter is currently in the hands of my solicitor.

The oldest of my wee red books to survive this holocaust was the 1982 edition. So, apart from the price, what other changes have there been between then and now? Most obviously it has changed in size. Since 1991 it’s become the not so Wee Red Book, or, if you like, the Slightly Bigger, but still Quite Wee, Red book. Like most other fashionable improvements in football this design modification was neither fashionable nor an improvement. The beauty of the original design was that the book could readily be slipped into the pocket of your jacket or trousers and you could carry it about with you wherever you went. The bulkier nature of the modern version simply makes it less convenient. What then was the point in increasing the size? A clue can be found on the cover. Like the Scottish Cup, the Wee Red Book is now sponsored by Tennent’s Lager, and plenty room is now needed to advertise that fact. Out of its 148 pages, the 1982 version had 18 pages of adverts for various products. The 1995 edition has 228 pages, of which 50 are entirely given over to adverts. In addition, practically every page which doesn’t contain an advertisement does contain the McEwan’s Lager logo in the top right-hand corner.

The nature of the adverts has also changed in some intriguing ways. In 1982 they were mainly for cars, clothes and strong drink. In 1995 motors and bevvy are still well to the fore, but now we’ve got oddities like mobile phone salesmen, kiltmakers, pakora bars, the Territorial Army and criminal lawyers vying for your business. This will all come in handy if, like Durranty and Co, you get into a bit of bother in the pakora bar after the game, and the polis are on their way. Fish out your trusty Wee Red Book, get on the mobile phone to your lawyer and if he can’t help, disguise yourself in a kilt and join the T A.

The only absolutely essential piece of information that the Wee Red Book contains is the complete fixture list for all senior football in the forthcoming season. It used to be the only place you could get this information, and this was its undoubted attraction. You could plan your year-long itinerary before the season had even started. Now there are a host of other publications offering season-long fixture-lists, and the appeal of the Wee Red Book has diminished accordingly. Apart from that, its only function is to update itself by including details of who won the various trophies in the past season, and who gained international caps for Scotland. In other words this season’s book is almost exactly the same as last years, which in turn is an almost complete duplicate of the previous year, and so on to infinity. To that extent the journalistic effort involved in compiling the book is virtually nil. The task is probably delegated to the Evening Times’ office cat. The same level of imagination seems to be present in the selection of photographs which are randomly scattered throughout.

For example, in the current edition, the page showing the Junior League Tables contains, for no readily discernible reason, a crudely cut-off shot of ‘Petershill boss Jim George’. Why? Petershill finished 6th in the league for gawd’s sake! Elsewhere, for no particular purpose, there’s a photo of Paul Ince captioned, ‘A vital member of the Manchester United squad’. I guess Alex Ferguson doesn’t read the Wee Red Book. Billy Bremner and David Hay are pictured, again for no obvious reason, and with no explanation, above the score line, England 5 – 1 Scotland (neither played in that game). Leighton James is depicted alongside a caption which explains that he was always a thorn in the Scottish side when playing for Wales. This photograph is inserted into a part of the Scotland- Wales results page which records that for the five consecutive years when Leighton was playing, Wales didn’t score a single goal against Scotland. We could do with more opposing thorns like that. The captions on some of the colour photographs are risible. One is captioned ‘Mark Hateley and Duncan Ferguson put the AEK Athens defence under pressure’. What? When? I must have blinked and missed that bit during the actual game. Another picture, which stretches the inventiveness of the caption-writer to the limit, imaginatively claims to show ‘Jerren Nixon and Craig Brewster putting the Tartan Presov defence under pressure’, when the photo clearly shows the Presov men conspicuously under no pressure at all, clearing the ball easily, while Nixon and Brewster are miles away. Meanwhile the picture of Celtic with the Scottish Cup is naturally captioned, ‘Bhoyant feeling’. One gets the impression that some junior hack on the Evening Times has been given a file of discarded photos with the instructions, “Just sprinkle them liberally throughout the book, and put the usual trite comments, jubilant trophy winners, distraught losers, defences under pressure, that sort of guff, and don’t forget to include Jim George – he’s my wife’s uncle”.

One of my favourite bits in the book is the ‘Matches to Remember’ section. It’s such a pithy title that TAG stole it for our own series of the same name. Instead of suing us for breach of copyright the Evening Times first of all dropped that feature altogether for a couple of years, but have now re-introduced it under the brilliantly inspired new name of ‘Games to Remember’. When I was very young one of the featured matches to remember was the immortal Rangers 2-2 Moscow Dynamo game of November 1945. It figured every year without fail right up until 1986 when it was suddenly dropped. Why was it no longer a ‘match to remember’? Presumably because, by then, everyone had forgotten all about it. Curiously it was replaced as a match to remember in 1986 by Celtic vs Racing Club from 1967, which itself only lasted until 1990. Just what exactly happened between 1986 and 1990 which abruptly caused people to remember a match from 1967 and then equally abruptly to erase it entirely from their memory banks for ever?

Presumably it’s the same phenomenon which allowed Scotland’s 3-2 win at Wembley in 1967 to make its first ever appearance in 1995. (“Haw. Ken. mind yon Scotland game at Wembley. Tell the office cat to slap that into the book this year to fill up a bit of space. The punters won’t notice. As they say about the swinging sixties, if you can’t remember it you weren’t there – or something like that “). But we can be consoled by the welcome knowledge that Aberdeen’s never-to-be-forgotten 0-0 draw with Hamburg in 1983 is now officially a ‘game to remember’. Anyone who doesn’t have a family connection to sheep or granite who can recall a single detail about that game deserves to win a lifetime subscription.

Although it might appear from the sarcastic tone of this article that I’m being critical of the Wee Red Book, the truth is that I love it. With a surname like mine, I still get endless fun flicking through the list of Scottish internationalists and seeing exotic names like McSpadyen, Crapnell, McWhattie, Orrock and Renny-Tailyour. From the same list I have been able to compile the best part of a fantasy Scottish line-up which would wind up the opposition before the game got underway, viz – Weir, Young and Speedie, Ure, Auld, Bauld, Gray and Duff. I derive many happy hours from things like trawling through the Junior Cup final results from 1887 onwards, or discovering entirely new bits of information like that Ross County’s secretary is Mr MacBean (a Scottish relative of Rowan Atkinson, possibly) or that Cowdenbeath’s inventive nickname is ‘The Cowden’. What happened to the Blue Brazil? Still, it must be true, it’s in the Wee Red Book. At the end of the day the book’s main function is as an instant settler of pub arguments, and I suppose I may as well just accept the fact that it will forever continue to be on my annual shopping-list.

First published in TAG 45 – October 1995

The Absolute Game Revisited – Part 15

The Forgotten Ones – Number 17 – The Tangerine Terrors

Recent articles in TAG concerning Tayside football have reminded me of the three happy years I spent as a long-haired layabout in Dundee between 1972-75. My Saturday afternoons were spent alternately at Dens and Tannadice. Dundee had a terrific side during that period, and in Scott, Wallace and Duncan they had the most potent attack in the country. Visits to Dens Park were devoted to the seriously heavy business of viewing regular stuffings being handed out to all-corners. Trips to Tannadice, on the other hand, were purely for the purposes of having a good laugh. Jim McLean’s seemingly endless reign as Tannadice supremo had just started, and he had not yet had the opportunity of turning United into the dour, efficient, humourless outfit that we all know and love today. United had, at that time, earned the soubriquet of “the Terrors “, as positive proof that Dundonians possessed a cruel streak of sarcastic humour. A less terrifying side would have been difficult to imagine.

This Charming Man

Nevertheless, to me, they were a team of stars. Every time I now see Walter Smith on the telly, adopting the role of the paternalistic elder statesman, I can barely suppress a chuckle. Terrors fans remember “Wattie” as a lumbering, flat-footed, half-witted head case, who demonstrated week in week out that he was utterly devoid of co-ordination or any other attribute commonly associated with professional footballers. Amongst his team-mates were such as Gorgeous George “white boots” Fleming, capable of remarkable brilliance and appalling, er, appallingness in equal measures; Tommy Traynor, who had a skinhead haircut that made Jimmy Johnstone look like Lemmy. Sometimes he played like Johnstone, but most of the time he played like Lemmy; Frank Kopel, whose haircut featured in TAG 14. There were constant rumours that Frank was the owner of a European Champions Cup Winners medal, having allegedly been part of Manchester Utd’ s 1968 squad. No-one who ever saw him play could have taken this story remotely seriously: Kenny Cameron was a tremendously exciting and prolific goal-scorer. He lived just round the corner from me, and I used to see him on a Saturday morning, looking seriously hung-over, visiting the corner shop for his week’s supply of Benson and Hedges. Four hours later he’d be kicking off at Tannadice, prototype Arthur Scargill haircut flapping in a non-existent breeze: Hamish McAlpine in goal – the modern age of the psycho keeper starts here – further comment would be superfluous: Graeme Payne, who was the best player on Tayside at that time, and that includes a young Gordon Strachan to whom he bore a passing resemblance. Payne was kicked out of football (says he bitterly) by players not fit to (insert appropriate cliche): Paul Hegarty, a converted centre-forward. Converted to what was never made completely clear: Jackie Copeland, one of the first victims of Jim McLean’s insane policy of requiring all the players to live on Tayside; then there was Jim Henry and Andy Rolland, both craziness incarnate; this mob were captained by Dougie Smith. Wattie and Dougie were the original “Smiths” and were clearly the inspiration for Morrissey’s gang. Wattie, it was really nothing.

Panic

Occasionally, just occasionally, this crew would, by some weird alchemy, transubstantiate themselves from the piss-water of mediocre apprentices into the vintage wine of unbeatable sorcerers (I feel an appearance in Pseud’s Corner coming on – ­Ed). Part of the excitement of going to Tannadice was that you never knew which United persona would appear. Would it be “the Terrors” in full cry, demolishing the opposition with breathtaking brilliance, or would it be Wattie and Dougie (literally) falling over each other to smack in the first o.g. of the afternoon?

I remember one occasion when it was the lunatic eleven who took the field. Early on, Hamish came dashing out of his box to avert some real or imagined danger. Inevitably, he became entangled with an opponent some twenty yards outside the area, and while he paused to debate a number of interesting issues arising from the incident, another opposition player lofted a high chip-shot from near the half-way line towards the untended goal. Dougie Smith sprinted (I use that word very loosely) back towards the goal line, eyes unwaveringly fixed on the rapidly descending ball. It was obvious to the watching multitudes what was going to happen, and it duly did. In an eerie forerunner of Gordon McQueen’s magnificent Hampden effort some years later, Dougie collided at maximum velocity with the goalpost at the precise instant when the ball struck the bar. Thereafter the ball inconsiderately dropped down onto the head of the prostrate and now unconscious Smith, and from there bounced unmolested into the empty net. How many disasters can happen simultaneously? A broken goalpost, Smith stretchered off and an own goal conceded. How we all laughed.

The Boy With The Thorn In His Side

Of course, Jim McLean couldn’t tolerate this sort of unpredictability, however entertaining it was, and quickly began to introduce a much more professional attitude, while at the same time bringing a series of outstanding young players into the side. I was privileged to see Sturrock, Narey and Gray make their debuts for the side and quickly establish themselves as regulars. The seeds were sown then of a United team who were genuinely to deserve the “Terrors” title, a team which became trophy winners rather than also-rans, a team to reach a European final, a team studded with internationalists rather than headless chickens, and, regrettably, a team which has become one of the “Big Five”. I haven’t been to Tannadice for some years, but as an interested outside observer, it seems to me that, during the metamorphosis from “Mickey Mouse outfit” to “contenders”, most of the joy has gone out of United and their fans. The supporters of opposition teams now suffer real heartsink when it’s their turn to play United. Everyone knows that they will be clinical, cynical and boring. They are now synonymous with consistent and turgid predictability. They are past masters at “closing down” games. It’s only very occasionally that the old mad exuberance gets out to play (and when that happens the offending players get docked a week’s wages). I suppose there’s no pleasing everybody, and I’m one of those awkward buggers who hankers after the days of rampant unpredictability, in which riotous magnificence was casually mingled with dreadful incompetence as though it was the most natural thing in the world.

Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now

Jim McLean must take the credit for United’s achievements, but must also shoulder the blame for them being currently unlovely and unloved. With each passing year, Jim’s po-faced pomposity becomes ever more inflated. It’s perhaps time to remember that Dundonians used to christen local players with nick-names borrowed from Dundee’s most famous export – kids’ comics. Thus, George Mclean (no relation) was “Dandy”, while David Johnston was “Biffo”. Meanwhile, Jolly Jim, the player, rejoiced in the nom-du-guerre of “Corky”. Jim might be less sour-faced if this moniker were revived. Just imagine Jock Brown’s post-match interview beginning, “Well, Corky, were you satisfied with today’s performance?” .

When I used to stand on the terracing, there was a wee old man who always stood just in front of me, and at five past three every Saturday without fail he would shout, “C’mon McLean, get the subs on for fuck sake “. The beauty of it was that, in these days, McLean sometimes used to oblige. Mental as anything. Those were the Tangerine Terrors, early 70s vintage.

The Absolute Game Revisited – Part 14

It’s Only An Absolute Game

(and this is only the review, and it’s only 6 years late)

Immediately before the 1986 World Cup the BBC broadcast five programmes called ‘It’s Only A Game?’, sub-titled ‘The Story of Scottish Football’.

Each edition had a particular topic, such as ‘The Player’, ‘The Manager’, ‘The Club’ etc. The whole series was subsequently cruelly and accurately parodied by the Naked Radio team in their ‘It’s Only An Excuse’ tapes. Many readers of TAG who saw the whole series may now only have the haziest recollection of it, while others may have been too young to pay attention to it at the time. Me, I’m a smart bastard, and I videoed the whole lot on the off-chance that half a dozen years after the event I’d be able to knock out a review for TAG.Each of the programmes was a delicious mix of William McIlvanney’s sententious and melodramatic commentary, old grainy film of men wearing long-johns doing Charlie Chaplin impersonations, interviews with “characters”, nostalgic reminiscences, and great goals, all spiced up with anecdotes,quips and jokes, ranging from the moronic (Baxter, Johnstone J.) to the cerebral (Hugh McIlvanney).Taken together, the five programmes had the common aim of searching for just what it is about football which exercises such a continuing fascination for the Scottish psyche. The essence of our football mania proved to be an elusive and slippery beast, although Willie McIlvanney tried hard by continually casting Scottish football in the rather improbable role of “working class theatre”, “an affirmation of Scottishness“, “an expression of self“, “a search for dramatic individuality” etc. Attempts were made to define the archetypal Scottish player. This ranged from Pat Crerand’s definition of a guy with great ability who would fight King Kong, but who would have a wee button which he could press to destroy himself, to Ally McLeod’s version of “a wee Glasgow bachle”. The most common adjectives used to define this mythical player were “arrogant, skilful, hard and nasty” (cut to view of Billy Bremner).

Individual players who achieved greatness are profiled. Denis Law is variously compared to a cobra, a whippet and a mongoose (this last one inspiring the famous Naked Radio quip, “reactions of a mongoose, hairstyle to match “). Meanwhile Denis himself reveals that he always wanted to be an architect. Jimmy Johnstone loquaciously recalls, “Eh, I used to go into the playground when I was, eh, whidyacallit ,eh, young like… “.

Meantime, Jim Baxter regales us with a hare-brained tale the likes of which is more usually reserved for the psychiatrist’s chair. Recalling Wembley 1963 he reveals that having netted both Scotland’s goals to give us a 2-1 lead he was keen to get a hat-trick, even if it meant smacking one into his own net. He confided this desire to Bill Brown, the Scots goalie, who was suitably aghast. exclaiming “You’re not on!” to a disappointed (and seriously deranged) Baxter.

In the episode dealing with managers, amusing tales abound. The late Bill Shankly was a fund of aphorisms. He said, “There’s only one job worse than a manager – that’s a debt-collector in Glasgow“. Shankly’s enthusiasm is infectious. When he describes his feelings (when he was a player) towards an opposing forward who’d just scored as “If I’d had a gun I would’ve shot him“, it’s all too believable. In a similar vein, he says of players who don’t dedicate themselves completely to the game, “If I could, I’d put them in jail“. Shankly’s own dedication has been well documented elsewhere, but Emlyn Hughes tells a revealing story about Shankly training with his Liverpool players and saying (adopt Shankly-esque gruff voice when you’re reading this bit), “D’ye know something boys? When I die, I want to be the fittest man ever to die“.

Other managers covered in depth are Jock Stein, Matt Busby and Alex Ferguson. Busby in particular tells an amusing story against himself which illustrates the reason why the careers of many other managers perished on the rock that was George Best. He recalls, “Law and Charlton would be in good positions when Best got the ball. He’d meander off in the opposite direction and lose it. I’d say ‘Oh my God, where s he going now? When’s he going to learn some sense? 5 minutes later he’d beat player after player and put it in the net..I’d say ‘Matt, keep your mouth shut’”.

The episode on managers contains a truly chilling interview with a little-known Sampdoria player named Graeme Souness, in which he says. “I’d like to be player-manager of Rangers one day – Jock Wallace look out “. The rest, as they say, is history. There’s also a fascinating interview with Jim Mclean in which he appears almost human. Recognising this terrible weakness he says directly to the camera, “Watch you don’t catch me smiling now. It’ll spoil 14 years work“.

In the episode dealing with ‘the Club’ there is a half-decent attempt to confront the religious bigotry associated with our two largest clubs. Tony Higgins volunteered to be Rangers first Roman Catholic signing on the self-effacing grounds that “Rangers are better signing a bad player – like me – they could take me round the ground before the game and the fans could throw things at me “. He recalled an occasion when he played for Hibs at Ibrox and he was subjected to constant abuse of a sectarian nature from one woman in particular. As he left the field at half-time this lady was giving it laldy with “Higgins, you’re a big dirty Fenian bastard“. Tony remonstrated, “Oh, come on now”, to which she retorted “Nothing personal, Tony. I know your Auntie Annie “.

Alfie Conn, when asked who he preferred between Rangers and Celtic responded, “Spurs“.

The series, of course, appeared immediately before the convulsive changes ushered in by what, “faute de mieux”, we must call the Souness era. Thus, Andy Cameron is able to crack jokes about visiting the Ibrox trophy room and meeting Shergar running out with Lord Lucan on his back (that joke would only work now it you substituted Parkhead for Ibrox). Andy does however manage a funny story when he tells of having sunk the profits for his “We’re on the march wi’ Ally’s Army” hit single into making a cash-in LP of similar tripe which was released the day after the infamous match with Iran. With a note of regret he says. “There’s 30,000 still lying in a garage in Clarkston somewhere“.

Ally McLeod himself is, of course, prominently featured. Indeed, one phrase of his, when he’s reminiscing about the Argentinian fiasco, could well have been the real sub-title of the whole series, namely, “Ho-ho….it was terrible…..I can look back and laugh now….” Ally’s denials that he had amassed a personal fortune in the run-up to Argentina are the stuff of genuine comedy – “Ho-ho-ho…I”ve heard all these rumours… ho, that’s a good story – Och. Goad,…sssh…a load of baloney…you ask my bank manager…ach… Goad…. ho-ho-ho, ssssh”.

Ally has his own peculiar perspective on the Willie Johnston affair, “I don t think deep down that Willie Johnston honestly believes that he took drugs (pause, and world-weary shrug)…He took them, right”.

It’s left to Jimmy Sanderson to provide Ally’s epitaph, “It was a boy against wolves (Menotti, Bearzot etc), not men, but wolves“. Ally’s own assessment is more optimistic, “We had a wonderful 18 months – well, OK, maybe we didn’ t win the World Cup…”.

The ability to look back at disaster and laugh is an essential element in the character of everyone involved or interested in Scottish football. Tommy Docherty runs through his repertoire, starting with the 7-2 defeat at Wembley in 1955, when he refers to Fred Martin, the Scots goalie as “like Dracula, like, he hated crosses. Fred was like a crocus – he only came out once a year“. The Doc fondly recalls the well-prepared squad who went down 7-0 to Uruguay in the 1954 World Cup, “We took 13 players – two of them were goalkeeperswe’d borrowed the tracksuits from Barlinnie and we were wearing big thick jerseys like we were going to the Antarctic – we were knackered after the warm-up “.

The laughs just keep coming. Denis Law recalls the rest of the team trying to drown themselves in two inches of bath water after Wembley 1961 (9-3, – whatdya mean who for?), while goalkeeper Frank Haffey splashed about merrily singing the contemporary equivalent of Always look on the bright side of life. Ian Archer tells of the great Scottish side of the early sixties, engaged in a World Cup qualifying playoff against the then formidable Czechoslovakia. Scotland are leading with ten minutes to go, but the Czechs equalise. Before extra time Crerand and Baxter have a fight over who gets the bottle of water first. The wheels come off spectacularly and it all ends in a shambles. The Czechs go on to the final of the World Cup itself while our most talented ever team head for oblivion. Archer also amusingly recounts Willie Ormond’s pre-match pep talk before an encounter with Sweden, viz; “Watch out for the big blonde guy ..”. It turns out that they’ve got 7 big blonde guys – and the particular individual that Willie meant was one of the few to have dark locks.

It isn’t only on the international stage that disaster is an ever-present spectre. Some squads seem to have the four horsemen of the apocalypse on the subs bench. The producers of the series had the great good fortune to film the Stirling Albion vs Selkirk match as an example of “the magic of the cup”. Magic indeed, as Albion “went nap” four times (that’s 20-0 to you, Jimmy). Even the twin tragedies of poverty and violence become comic in the hands of the late Tom Fagan (gauleiter of Cliftonhill), who lapses straight into Monty Python mode when he fondly recalls being given a battering by a mob of Orangemen in the aftermath of a depression-era “Soup Kitchen Cup” game, summarising these experiences thus, “Nah, nah,they were good days”.

A recurring motif throughout the series is that Scottish perception of our own footballing pre-eminence is a very private matter amongst ourselves. Hugh Mcllvanney points out that while Germans, Italians, Brazilians etc are content to let the record books speak for them, Scots have to be personally present to remind others of our greatness. England, for example, demonstrate their superiority with an avalanche of goals, while we indulge in a more extravagant, and less productive, form of piss-taking. Denis Law regrets that during his time we never gave England a real good thrashing. He says that we could have done it at Wembley in 1967, “…”. Of course that “messing about” is the fondest memory of all Scots above the age of 30.

And so the series rattles on from one anecdote to another. My own favourites include Andy Roxburgh’s story about a Scottish youth team playing the opening game against the hosts in an international tournament in Iceland. All the local dignitaries were there to mark this auspicious occasion. After the Icelandic anthem, one of our youths broke ranks and yelled “Right, let’ s get stuck into these fucking Eskimos”, which as Roxburgh points out, was simultaneously both undiplomatic and evidence of an appalling ignorance of geography.

Another favourite is Emlyn Hughes getting off the England team bus at Hampden to be met with a large, kilted Scot running over and head-butting the bus, and then returning to his pals muttering, “Ah really stuck it oan that bus”. In that context, do you blame the Inter Milan players in Lisbon ‘67 for thinking, in Bertie Auld’s words, “that they were coming up against a bunch of Scots head-cases”. The Italians were right, Bertie, they were so right.

The whole series was amusing and informative, for which the principal credit must go to Roddy Forsyth, who wrote the script. While it may not have given us the answer to why we are addicted to this silly pastime, it gave us a few clues. It pre-dated all but the earliest fanzines, but it was obviously inspired by the same obsession with the game which subsequently led to the fanzine phenomenon. TV is usually good at showing football matches and unutterably crap at showing programmes about football. It s Only a Game? was far and away the best programme ever broadcast “about” football.

After exposure to this series it would only be a truly determined knucklehead who would continue to insist that economic considerations are more important than the social and community relevance of the game. The rest of us can have sleepless nights pondering the true significance of that ‘?’in the title. What we need now is for the whole thing to be up-dated with specific references to the Sampdorian mad-man’s impact, and then re-broadcast for those who missed it first time round. How about it, BBC?

First published in TAG 28 – May 1992

The Absolute Game Revisited – Part 13

The Forgotten Ones – No 13 – Willie Henderson

Modem fashions in footballing injuries tend to run in favour of such medical esoterica as cruciate ligament damage, groin strains, and cartilage problems. The blight on Willie Henderson’s career was slightly less glamorous – he suffered from a bunion! Chiropody fans will know that this involves an enlargement of the first joint of the big toe. Whilst this may not be a problem for other sporting heroes such as golfers, anglers, darts players and the like, it was a substantial handicap for a wee tricky ball-playing winger. By the time that bunion had become a regular newsworthy item Henderson’s career was probably already in decline anyway, thanks to the emergence of Jimmy Johnstone as the archetypal wee brainless Scottish ned possessed of amazing dribbling skills.

Pre-bunion, Willie had been renowned as the second coming of the “Wee Blue Devil”, a nom de guerre previously applied to his Ibrox predecessor, Alan Morton. Willie had burst into the Rangers team as a teenager, causing the unprecedented situation where Alex Scott, then the Scottish team right winger, could not get into the Rangers first team. It was only a matter of time before Henderson replaced Scott in the international team as well.

Even before the bunion Willie’s physical condition did not exactly make him a candidate for Mr Universe. He was about 5 foot 4 with his boots on, he had a penchant for breaking his nose which eventually led to that organ being squashed flat across the entire width of his face, and he was so myopic that, without the aid of contact lenses, he would have been unable to see beyond the end of even that dramatically foreshortened proboscis. Despite these apparent handicaps, Willie was one of the leading flute players in the band which Baxter conducted to so many triumphs for both Rangers and Scotland. On form, Willie was quite irresistible, tearing defences apart with frequent and exhilarating brilliance. There were plenty of opportunities for Willie to be photographed in characteristic pose flashing a Churchill-type V sign, while
simultaneously dragging on a Churchillian cigar. The bunion really spelt the end of the glory years, and although Willie went on to wreak his particular brand of havoc in such exotic locations as Sheffield and Hong Kong, it was as a Rangers player that his reputation was made.

There we have it then. A wee, hen-toed, half-blind Lanarkshire bachle wi’ a bunion on his toe and a nose like a pomegranate, who, for a few exciting years, could do extraordinary things with a ball. If he had thereafter faded into obscurity then it might have been possible to remember him with affection. However, Willie was a “character”, and it was inevitable that he would re-appear in an alternative role. The first hint that he was making a comeback came years after he had retired. He made a celebrity appearance on Scotsport with Jimmy Johnstone. The contrast between them could hardly have been more dramatic. While Jimmy hadn’t changed much, and still sported the gaunt features and shaven head of an Alcatraz inmate, Willie was balding, and, ahem, corpulent. He looked as though, either someone had inflated him with a foot-pump with a view to entering him in a Michelin-man look-alike competition, or else that bunion had spread to the rest of his body. Shortly after this triumphant re-appearance, Willie felt moved to favour us with his autobiography, which amongst other things, recounted the full sordid details of his life’s sexual encounters. According to this worthy tome Willie had had several thousand lovers, and that was just the women! Frankly, I never read the book but it was nauseatingly serialised in the Sunday papers. It made compulsive reading if only because you couldn’t believe a word of it. While there was no doubt some sexual kudos attached to being a Rangers player, it was difficult to visualise “birds” queuing up to be serviced by “Wee Willie” (according to the man himself this was a singularly inappropriate nickname for his off-field persona as a major Lothario of the twentieth century).

Even if it was all true, the fact that it was published at all merely served to confirm that Willie was exactly the kind of cretin you’d always feared that he was. Not surprisingly, given this background, he apparently suffered some marital difficulties, which allegedly became so hazardous that he required to join the burgeoning expatriate Scottish community in the Spanish Costa Del Crime, amidst rumours of a warrant for his arrest being issued at Airdrie Sheriff Court. His swerve and side-step over to Spain was the latest recorded example of his legendary ability to beat a packed defence.

Let me sum up Willie Henderson’s career in less than 40 words: Wee Willie, big time, Wee Blue Devil, big cigar, wee bunion, big mouth, wee brain, big head, wee shit, big willie, wee liar, big bucks, wee ned, big deal.

First published in TAG 27 – March 1992