And It's Good Night From Him

THAT OLD CHESTNUT - “they never come back” is mostly, in a sporting context, quoted in respect of Heavyweight Boxing. OK, there will always be an Ali who can shatter convention at will, but, in the 150 years or so history of boxing as a sport with recognised rules – thank you Marquis of Queensbury - the man who had possession of the Heavyweight Title – was the monarch of all he surveyed, and like an absolute monarch, when he was beaten, it was a case of: the King is dead – long live the King.

Today, we've got unpteen different Pretenders to the several versions of the throne, even if, as I write, we do have one guy – Oleksandr Usyk - seen as being worthy of Tina Turner's anthem. As Tyson Fury has shown of late, they keep trying, but only the very-best can defy convention.

In Football terms, in oor ain wee, backward kailyard, whichever one of the Bigot Brothers currently has bragging rights, well, that club has the aura of a Heavyweight Champion – even if, in the wider world of European Football, both are more-likely at present to be contenders for a place on a 21^st century version of old Joe Louis's “Bum of the Month” money-making scheme.

That's the problem oor kailyard bullies have; being simply the best in Scotland is no longer enough for their entitled fan base – they now crave respect and success in Europe and the problem is – whilst, domestically they might be Tesco and Asda, dominating a landscape where their competition comprises 40 slightly-different versions of Albert Arkwright's corner shop – in European competition one is Arkwright, the other Navid Harrid – and Arkwright had more chance with Nurse Gladys Emmanuel than the Bigot Brothers have in The Champions League.

Brendan Rodgers should never have come back. Following the haste with which he departed Celtic first time around, seduced by the promise of another crack at the riches in Englandshire, I always felt the Celtic Family should have listened to the wiser members of the group, who suggested recalling him would be a bad move. Although I have no affiliations towards the club, I felt at the time, it would all end in tears, but, as someone who cares deeply about Scottish Football, I take no pleasure in being proven correct.

Rodgers belongs to that modern breed of Manager, who are good at spending their bosses' money, but less good at building teams. Sadly, in Football right now, there are too-many such men and far too few capable of building a winning team over a number of years.

Maybe we are all at fault, share-holders, directors, fans – especially fans; demanding instant success. I often wonder, would a 21^st century Alex Ferguson, who had enjoyed the success in Scotland that Fergie enjoyed in the early 1980s, be picked-up and dropped into the 2020s English Premiership and be allowed the time the 1980s Fergie was given to mould a consistently-winning side? I think not.

Brendan Rodgers had few worries on that score. Second time around he inherited a winning team, circumstances conspired in his favour in as much as the noisy neighbours were in turmoil, so domestic success was almost assured, but, the truth is, he failed where it mattered to his bosses – in Europe, and whether he was pushed or he jumped, that failure cost him what seemed as secure job as there is in the wacky world of present-day Football.

What might have happened to Celtic if the economic conditions of 2025 Football had been in existence in the second half of the 1960s – when Jock Stein was building his Lisbon Lions.

The big English clubs, plus one or two of the European giants would have been queued-up outside the front door at Celtic Park. Tommy Gemmell, Bobby Murdoch, Billy McNeill, Joe McBride and Bobby Lennox would certainly have been headed for Liverpool, London or Manchester. Jimmy Johnstone would be playing in Madrid while one or two Italian sides would have been looking at Bertie Auld. John Clark and Stevie Chalmers might well have gone elsewhere in England, while Stein would probably not have found it as easy to buy-in Willie Wallace.

Old Romantics like me might yearn for the days when Scottish clubs recruited and bred young Scottish players, but the truth is, today, it's such a short career and the money to be made, even as an uncapped tyro down South, makes that High Road to England – plus the good airline links to Europe - even more enticing that it was when old Dr Johnson came up with the line.

Kenny Dalglish was 26 when Celtic sold him. Bobby Collins was 27 when he went to Everton. Pat Crerand was 24 when he went to Manchester United, Lou Macari was the same age when he went to Old Trafford. I would suggst, 21^st century versions of these players would have been enticed south at least five years sooner.

Legend tells us, the presence at what was then The Cliffe of the kids who would be immortalised as The Class of '92 was what kept Fergie going through the difficult early years. But, he is on record as saying, the plan was always to have a core group of home-grown players, to which he added class players in the positions where he felt he was short. Hence, with no top-flight goalkeeper in the Co92, Peter Schmeichel was recruited. Lack of quality in central defence brought in Jaap Stam, then Rio Ferdinand. Roy Keane and Eric Cantona brought star-dust – the trophies followed.

Stein was never shy of recruiting if he felt there was insufficient quality in the likes of The Quality Street Gang, but – the core group was always home-grown and members of the wider Celtic Family. Rodgers has never been that kind of Celtic Manager and it shows.

It has also been shown, by his post-parting broadside at Rodgers' back, Dermot Desmond fits the time-honoured Celtic habit of having a near all-powerful man at the top, running the club.

Celtic have shown, by their actions in recent months, they can be every bit as small-minded and petty as their pals across the city – banning any media outlet, even BBCShortbread, from a press conference, is never a good look.

Martin O'Neill will certainly stabilise the ship in the short term, but, he's now in his eighth decade and has been out of the battle zone for a number of years now. Celtic really need to get the right man in this time, or, who knows, the pendulum of primacy in Scottish club fitba could well swing back to the other side of Glasgow sooner than the Family would wish – and, swing back it will.

Still, as events move forward, this is a good time to be a Football Writer in Glasgow.

 

Did That Raally Happen

GOD HAS TO BE a woman – and a Scotswoman at that. For only a Scotswoman: “getherin' her broos like getherin' storm and nursing her wrath tae keep it warm” could have inflicted that Thursday night game on the Tartan Army. It was a Scottish performance which we have seen too often over the years.

After an hour or so, Scotland, having failed to disturb the Greek goalkeeper's spectating in the game and trailing by a goal which had been coming long before it was scored, looked to be heading out of World Cup contention. Then, suddenly, we woke up, grabbed an equaliser we had hardly deserved and hope was re-kindled. The TA found their voice and, wonder of wonders, we equalised.

Next, Angus Gunn demonstrated, maybe he is better than third-choice 'keeper at Nottingham Forest, before, wonder of wonders, Lyndon Dykes took advantage of a Greek bearing a gift goal and, bloody Hell, we had won 3-1. Should we go on and claim that spot in the World Cup Finals, you can bet, for the 25^th year anniversary celebrations, there will be over 250,000 Scots claiming - “I was there, the night we beat Greece at Hampden”.

Mind you, this is a Scotland World Cup Campaign, history tells us, we have a few more twists and turns and at least two further heart attacks to endure before we get on that aircraft to North America.

And let's be honest, supposedly better Scotland teams have played better and lost; however, there is something about this group of players and this manager which defies all logic and history – dare we keep dreaming?

I feel we should. Celebrated Scottish victories in the past have also been immediately followed by pratt falls of embarrassing quality. We also have a history of following up bad nights at the office by some very good displays – so, which Scotland will we see on Sunday?

IN THE TOXIC waste lands of BBC Shortbread's pitiful efforts at sports coverage, one gem of a programme stands out. It's one I don't always see, since it comes on at around or just after my bed time, but, after watching Friday night's episode, I felt I just had to give a boost to the always interesting 'A View From The Terrace'.

Now, quite how this series got to be made is a mystery to me. The dead hand of the usual suspects from The Lap Top Loyal or the Celtic Family are nowhere near it; these guys are genuine fitba fans, who all follow so-called “Diddy Teams”. Their enthusiasm for the game has not been hammered out of them by having to toe the corporate party line, and they don't take themselves too seriously. Also, as yet, they haven't fallen into the Tam Cowan/Stuart Cosgrove trap of believing their own publicity – I hope they can avoid this.

One of the highlight of Friday's programme was a wee item on this new SPFL initiative of associate clubs, which allows promising youngsters from the bigger clubs to go out and get regular game time with lesser lights. They covered the pros and cons of this and I must say, while I am broadly supportive – I wish we could go back to the good old days of full-scale Reserve Leagues, whereby, while say Kilmarnock's first team was up at East End Park, facing Dunfermline, the respective Reserve teams were clashing at Rugby Park.

But, then the Managers decided, they had to be there to see why they were ignoring certain players and Reserve Games became midweek, floodlit affairs. This brought about comments such as former Partick Thistle centre half, later Glenafton Athletic legend Alex Kennedy being known as “The Vampire” - because he only came out to play at night.

A friend of my Dad's, a long-time Kilmarnock supporter and share-holder, because of his business commitments in the town, could seldom travel to watch the first team; but, he always made time on a Saturday to go to the home reserve games to keep an eye on the emerging talent. It was not unusual for him to telephone Willie Waddell on a Friday, to find out if the teenaged Tommy McLean would be playing for the reserves the next day – in which case, he would certainy be there.

Not every fan can travel to every game, so, maybe we should go back to those good old days, so the fans unable to fork-out to traipse the length and breadth of Scotland to watch shite, could simply nip along to their local ground and see a cheaper form of shite than usual.

 

Heart in Sanb Francisco - Major Headache In Glasgow

YOU ARE cruising south on the M6, when suddenly, south of Penrith, you grind to a halt – obviously, up ahead there has been a crash. But, as you sit in the queue, fuming quietly at the delay, you suddenly realise, the steady flow of north-bound traffic has also slowed somewhat. It's still moving, but more slowly than normal, and with the line of vehicles more-bunched than is usual.

Finally, you reach the scene of the accident and you understand why the north-bound flow has changed: it's because, human nature being what it is, even though their side of the motorway is unimpeded, the north-bound drivers have slowed to gape at the carnage.

Well, maybe now the most-obvious car crash of 2025 has happened, and Russell Martin's ambition has hit the buffers of The Rangers support's unachievable expectations, the rest of us can get back on our journey to whatever destination.

I cannot recall the full gag, but, one of the best efforts from early Billy Connolly, was his suggestion that getting World War II started was great work by Vera Lynn's agent – it has got me thinking: getting Martin appointed was great work by the British betting industry's pr arm. William Hill, Paddy Power, Betfred etc can look forward to a bumper time until the next sap is inducted into what is, at the moment, an impossible job.

My old mentor – Ian “Dan” Archer, some 40 years ago now, famously described the Ibrox clus as: “a constant embarrassment and occasional disgrace.” The erudite Old Rugbeian aimed that particular arrow at the club's following. This century the slur could be better aimed at the High Heid Yins within that football fortress on Edmiston Drive.

They may have had personal failings, but the Rangers board of my young days represented the club's status as one of the most-dignified institutions in the city of Glasgow. Chairman John Lawrence built most of the new private houses on the peripheray of the city. Vice-Chairman John F Wilson was a Bailie – if you like a Cardinal on Glasgow City Council. George Brown and Alan Morton were club legends as former players, while Brown was Head Teacher at Bellahouston Academy, one of Glasgow's better state schools: Morton was a qualified mining engineer. These men had a status in the city which has been beyond the reach of their 21^st century successors. They had a way of doing things which helped give the club it's aura, through traditions such as the annual Loving Cup Toast.

It may be a small thing, if you wish, dismiss it as irrelevant, but, is there nobody left at Ibrox able to enforce traditional Rangers' standards? You look at the way the current squad takes the field and in particular at their stockings.

James Tavernier – Captain of Rangers lest we forget: takes the field as the poster boy for this ludicrous modern fashion for having his stockings above his knees. At least five of the other ten have their stockings down round their ankles, or at the highest, mid-calf.

Bill Struth insisted on one inch of black showing above the red band on the club's stockings. We maybe don't need to go back to those days, but just look at this picture of Greig, taken on the occasion of his Testimonial Game; doesn't he look a lot better than Tavernier does? Maybe getting Greig and Alex Ferguson, complete with high-powered hair dryers, into the dressing room to enforce Rangers; standards, might lift the on-field performances.

The problem for whoever picks up the poisoned chalice of being Manager is, he can only pee with the pricks he's got (pardon the crudity, but, it has to be said). Some of the guys whose under-performances got Russell Martin his jotters, are not Kilwinning Rangers or Cambuslang Rangers' standard, far-less good enough for The Rangers.

I remember sitting in the old Ibrox press box, perched on the roof of the main stand, alongside the late Doug Baillie, as he threw away his pen in disgust as “the next big thing for Rangers” tripped over his own feet and missed a sitter. “That yin will still be a promising boy when he's 30” Big Doug observed.

Said player was gone by the following season, back to the Juniors, where, to be fair, he did score a few goals. I don't think several of the obviously NRC – that's “Not Rangers Class” - stumble-bums taking a good living out of the club today, would get a regular game in the West of Scotland League, into which the West of Scotland Juniors have morphed.

But, let's get back to basics – who's next for the skylark? The man who started it all is probably deid, but, Glasgow audiences have a long history of being hard to please – a history best summed-up by the legendary tale of Bernie Winters sauntering on-stage at the old Glasgow Empire on Sauchiehall Street, one Friday night in the 1950s, to join brother Mike, to be greeted by a cry of: “Fuckin' Hell, there's twa o' them” by a punter in the stalls. Now the critic's religion has never been verified, I sense perhaps his usual place of worship was Firhill, but, mindful of Craig Brown's great story, he might have been a regular worshipper at Shawfield.

The story: as Craig told it, he had just been appointed to the Clyde FC board, and as he made his way to the dug out for the game, he was halted by two long-standing Clyde fans – Craig could even name them; these guys were constant critics of his managerial style and the message was: “Haw Broon – noo yer oan the board, can ye no sack that useless manager o' oors”?

Maybe if whoever is making the big calls inside Ibrox was to enter a few Rangers' watering holes in the city they would get similar treatment.

Another of my inspirations and mentors along the meandering path I have taken to sports-writing immortality was Hughie Taylor. One of Hughie's best pieces was his description of Willie Telfer's first act as a Rangers' player, in his debut, against Clyde, at Ibrox, on 16 November, 1957.

As Hughie wrote it: “The cross could have been headed clear by one of the club's Victorian founders, still wearing a top hat, but, the roar from the Rangers' fans indicated their relief at having a centre half who could do the basics spoke volumes.”

The background to the arrival of life-long Rangers' fan and Larkhall man Telfer was, poor John Valentine had been cast adrift after Celtic's 7-1 League Cup Final triumph: “Hampden in the sun” four weeks previously. Valentine had been signed from Queen's Park to succeed the now-retired George Young, but he had struggled to rise to the challenge and after that cup final, he was history and quickly off-loaded to St Johnstone.

The untried, 20 year-old Willie Moles was the next cab off the rank, but a head injury did for him and, almost in desperation, Rangers turned to the now 32 year-old Telfer to hold their creaking defence together. This he did as he went on to play over 90 games for the club before serving them off the park as a club scout. This month marks the centenary of Telfer's birth.

So, to today's question: who's going to be the 2025 version of Willie Telfer? Supplementary question – will it work as well?

I don't have the answer, but, one thing I do know is, the new High Heid Yins at the club are only now perhaps realising, Glasgow is a lot different from San Francisco.