Gaun Yersel Lassies

I WILL freely admit, it has been difficult to blog about Scottish football of late. Sure, a new season has kicked-off since I last put down my thoughts on the beautiful game, but, in Scotland, the big kick-off has been somewhat muted – a case of same old, same old.

 

 Shelley Kerr - She and her Lassies did us proud

It's all about the Bigot Brothers, as far as the increasingly shrunken mainstream media is concerned – a not very good Celtic team staying ahead of an even less good Rangers team, managed by a big name tyro boss. Which is why, yesterday's tremendous win in Albania for our Women's team gave me such a lift.

Hard-bitten old hack that I am, I suffered agonies in the final minutes as I watched the BBC Alba broadcast of the game. How, I wondered, would the lassies do the Scottish thing and blow it:

• Might they concede a daft goal and let the Albanians back into it?
  
  
• Might the Polish girls have a collective brain fart and concede to the Swiss?
  
  
• Being Scotland, I could not discount the double whammy of both of the above events happening simultaneously.

But, somehow, in a totally un-Scottish display of grit, determination and professionalism, the lassies held their nerve and got their reward – bloody fantastic, then the tears flowed – it was 1973 all over again.

One would like to think, but, long experience has me doubt this will happen, that, perhaps after yesterday, someone, somewhere along that sixth-floor corridor at Hampden will stop and think: “hey, see what happens when you prioritise the national team over a couple of club sides; maybe we should try that in the men's game.”

Of course, that will not happen, we will continue to see third-rate foreign players and fourth-rate English imports being preferred to home-grown talent. It will be a while, indeed, I would reckon it is more likely that we never see the day when, as with our top girls, male Scottish players are being recruited by the top, well-funded English and continental clubs.

Twenty years ago, I was giving column inches to local girls teams in the sports pages I was putting together. I wrote stories of Scottish girls going off to college in the USA, never thinking we would see our domestic game grow to the extent it has.

The women's game in Scotland still has some ways to travel, but, results such as yesterday's should be celebrated as stops along the way. Shelley Kerr and her girls have given tired auld Scottish fitba a real boost. There is only one adequate Scottish response, that is – gaun yersel' hen.

 Kim Little - The Lawman would have been proud to claim that goal

A final word on the subject – that Kim Little goal which opened the scoring yesterday, that was Law(wo)man-like in its execution. I bet Kim screamed: “Leave it,” as she ran forward to launch her volley.

I FIND myself seriously conflicted this morning. I kind of agree with the Blessed Ruth Davidson MSP, aka “Ruth the Mooth”, “Colonel Yadaftie”, “Buffalo Girl” and several other disparaging nicknames. The North British branch office manager for the Conservative and Unionist Party came out this week in favour of football staying at Hampden, rather than decamping to Murrayfield.

Of course, there is probably a degree of “Nimbyism” in her opposition. The last thing the acceptable face of Unionism wants is the full panoply of the most-extreme form of this, as displayed by the WATP battalions on match days, laid-out in front of her constituents.

I should say, while the C&UP was quite happy to assist the FA to rebuild Wembley, which is after all a stadium of “national” importance, I fear, should the SFA look to the C&UP's UK government for similar largesse in a similar project to bring Hampden into the 21^st century, the likely response would be: “Back in your box Sweaties,” and the suggestion they speak to Holyrood.

My further objections to taking football to Murrayfield are based round one fact, I would not trust either The Fat Controller – as SRU Chief Executive Officer Mark Dodson, or The Thin Controller – as Chief Operating Officer Dominic McKay are known to the rugby writers, as far as I could throw either one.

Murrayfield on international match days is a joyous place. OK, some of the more Hooray Henry, Barbour-wearing England fans are best avoided, but, generally, in the several bars around the ground, the fans mix freely and happily, there is great banter and everyone is enjoying themselves.

I can never see this being replicated for say an Old Firm cup final.

WHO I wonder, were the three experienced former referees, who decided Allan McGregor should face no further action for his petulant wee dig at Kristoffer Ajer on Sunday?

McGregor, Ajer and Oor Wullie - after the "afters"

I've heard of three wise monkeys, but, never of three deaf, dumb and blind monkeys. Wee Liam - the “Token Tim” in our otherwise 100% staunch Protestant, Rangers-supporting East Ayrshire village, where, according to legend, the most Union Flags per head of population in Scotland fly – is incandescent with rage at the decision.

“They fun an Orangeman, a Mason and a high heid yin in the Blacks (The Royal Black Preceptory) tae make that decision,” was Liam's crie de coeur when the announcement of: “no action” was made.

I might have to offer my services to Steven Gerrard as a specialist goalkeeping coach, to teach McGregor some of the darker arts of our profession, which, at 36, he really ought to be aware of. We goalies can freely “do” opponents in so-many discreet ways, all hidden in plain sight.

One of my cousins, a Springburn boy, playing in goals in an English League game, many years ago, flattened Bobby Gould, fierce centre forward intimidator and clogger of goalkeepers, future Welsh national team manager and father of future Scotland goalkeeper Jonathan, during a game.

Bobby hit him late twice or three time in the first half, and, at half-time, my cousin asked the referee what he was going to do about Gould. On being told: “nothing,” my cousin informed the official: “If he hits me once more, I will deal with him then.”

Sure enough, as he rose for a cross, Gould dug him in the ribs. My cousin landed, tucker the ball under one arm, then laid Gould out with one punch. He then took off his goalkeeper's top and accepted the red card - telling the official: “I told you, if you didn't deal with him, I would.”

He asked for a personal hearing of the disciplinary panel, called the referee in, got him to agree – “Yes, I was told if I didn't deal with Mr Gould, he would deal with him himself,” and was admonished, with nothing worse than the red card staying on his record. The disciplinary committee clearly agreed – Bobby Gould had it coming.