The Damned Film?

I've just seen Michael Sheen on Jonathan Ross (that's me crazy guy, crazy Friday night) and I'm looking forward to The Damned United film. And I enjoyed the book.
I'm sorry that the Clough family have been upset but it is, essentially, a fictionalised account of real events involving Brian Clough. An age old dramatic trick that David Peace handles wonderfully well in the book. I hope the film does it justice.

I was amazed to find out from Radio Five Live that Tim Lovejoy didn't know Derby had once reached the semi finals of the European Cup - in other news Timbo, Chelsea were once skint - but he learnt a lot from the film.

That will, of course, be the problem. Clough's entire legacy, as complicated, glorious and often unattractive as it is, should not be a fictionalised account of one and half months of madness.

I have read a lot about Clough. And, perhaps like no other footballer, this was a man built to lend himself to heightened dramatic portrayals. The problem, I guess, that the Clough family have is that the man Peace created had little in common with the family man they knew.

But the family man was possibly also far removed from the life Clough led in public. He was an ultimate actor (like Tony Blair, like Kenneth Williams and like David Frost those other Sheen impersonations) who lived his public life in a state of heightened drama. Peace simply joined together the dots that Clough himself had left behind.

So I'm looking forward to the film (despite hating the experience of going to the cinema and despite the knowledge of football films past). It shouldn't be seen as the definitive story of Brian Clough. But as part of the legacy of the mythical legend that Clough actively sought to create I hope it lives up to a fantastic novel.

Behind closed doors

The room is no longer smoke filled. The older man's colleagues in the wee Parliament had seen to that. But the lingering smell of Havana suggested that, after hours, this place was a smoke easy. The younger man, dressed in an expensive suit, nurses a brandy. He stares wistfully into the glass. Is he looking for something? Or are scenes from the past 20 years flicking through his mind?

Older man: "20 years, Dave. Quite an effort. What's left to achieve?"

Younger man: "John, John, John. So much left to achieve, so much. Well, a buyer that will give me my money back at least."

Older man: "And an end to the social blight of sectarianism?"

Younger man (snorting): "Johnny Boy. I signed a Catholic. I signed a team of Catholics. I signed up for every scheme. And still they want a blue Asda in Larkhall. What can we do?"

Older man: "I've brought together warring factions in Belfast, run a health service in another country, persuaded cabinet cowards to fight illegal wars. A little local bother in Glasgow? Nae bother."

Younger man: "John. We're dealing with the great unwashed here. We take their money, we get their ignorance. 20 years. I've lost my innocence. This is your pension, mate. All that shit, it's just there. Don't push, push or who will buy my Broxy Burgers and your Paradise Pannini's?"

Older man: "Aye, aye David. But these bastarding Nats at Holyrood, they don't understand, they put the pressure on. And I'm getting it from these idiots that run the old party now. And, not to put too fine a point on it, it's more your problem than mine, pal."

Younger man: "Aye, so it is. And if you could find a way of making every lapsed Catholic in Scotland as passionate about their heritage on a Sunday morning as they are on a Saturday afternoon they'd make you Pope."

Older man: "I don't know David, is there nothing we can do? I'm thinking beating up backbenchers was easier than this."

Younger man: "Well, I've got the press coming in this week. You know the deal. Free access in exchange for fawning tributes to 20 glorious years. And a bit of free advertising to try and sell the bloody thing."

Older man: "And? Where do I come in?"

Younger man: "Well, I'm thinking, I'll have a right go at you. You pretend I've hurt your feelings and fire right back. The press get in such a tizzy about two silly old buggers getting involved in a pissing contest that they forget we're doing bugger all to sort these cretins out."

Older man: "Brilliant Dave, my son, absolute genius. You ever think about politics? Seriously, you could have a future there."

The end.

Birds, booze and broken dreams

I'm thinking I've made a bad choice. The women, the drink, the cigars, the hours spent doing nothing.

Not a bad life being an Old Firm keeper. There are drawbacks, of course. Artur Boruc for one must regret a few of those Polish lagers when he's pulling on Celtic's figure hugging shirt. Not so much a rippling physique as a wobbly belly like jelly.

And Allan McGreggor must sometimes think life's just far too complicated to even bother showing your appreciation for the young ladies. But still, you know you're living the dream when your life becomes an Eagles lyric.

And sometimes I think that could have been me. Not that I dreamed of playing for the Old Firm. But, many moons ago, as I picked myself up from the patch of mud that passed for a pitch, grasping the ball that I'd plucked from the air to make my second penalty save of the afternoon, that dream was within touching distance.

Alas it was not to be. The eight goals that I conceded from open play dented my confidence. And I'd have looked truly shocking in a skin tight Nike jersey.

Saturday Special

One of the benefits of feeling like crap is being able to spend an afternoon submerged in Scottish football. A small benefit to be sure, but paupers in a credit crunch can't be too choosy.

So our afternoon kicks off at Love Street where Artur Boruc, apparently no stranger to love, showed himself to be quite street as well, avoiding a red card when many a ref would have stubbed him out like a discarded cigarette.

St Mirren held their own but, as Scott Booth mentioned more than once in yet another turgid Setanta co-commentary, you need to take your chances against Celtic. Boom, boom. 2 nil and Celtic are cruising. We've seen it all before.

With about half an hour to go last Saturday Jimmy Calderwood was staring at three points on the road, Mixu was staring into the abyss. Two goals later and Hibs have a point that feels like a win, Aberdeen a point that feels like the death of a reasonably close friend.

Jimmy's woes continued at Ibrox as Ranger closed the gap to four points again. If depression lingers then Hibs proved what a difference a last minute Steven Fletcher sclaff can make by running out 4-1 winners at Motherwell.

Hibs fans of a certain vintage may remember the heady Alex Miller days when Brian Hamilton powered the midfield. The engima of Hamilton, it was said, was his ability to play well away from home before freezing at Easter Road. No enigma, the guy was terrified because of the stick he took in Leith. With apathy and antipathy rolling down from the stands at the moment might the whole Hibs team be suffering from the Hamilton syndrome? Time will tell.

Across Edinburgh Hearts continued their strange season. Third in the league with a win over Falkirk. Will that please the Jambo faithful? Or are they suffering from withdrawal symptoms? A message to the Gorgie Boys: a team that isn't imploding might make for a duller life but sometimes simple is good.

Dundee United continued their Jekyll and Hyde season with a draw at home to Hamilton. Accies finding a bit of form again but I had really expected Levein to have led United to a comfortable third place by now.

Inverness continued to haul their themselves away from the relegation battle with a fine win over Kilmarnock, Mehdi Tauoil getting into a spot of bother and no doubt ensuring the redoubtable Mrs Jefferies will be welcoming home something quite removed from a bundle of fun this evening.

So we are...well, where are we? Hamilton close the gap on St Mirren who really, really need to start scoring goals. Celtic and Rangers are as they started, Hearts get a sliver of breathing space over United.

And Hibs move into the top six but remain only a couple of wins off a bottom of the table scrap. This league produces few winners and few losers but yet again there's confirmation that this year's big question is not who's best of the rest but who's the runt of a dismal litter.

No place for Pulitzer

Nice article over on AllMediaScotland.com about the merry band of men who have the often unenviable job of covering the national game for a living.

It is easy for those of us who choose to write about Scottish football for either love or some deep lying psychological flaw to sit back and criticise.

I think Matt Vallance sums up things up with his tongue in cheek sympathy for:

The 'Praetorian Guard,' the chief football writers of the various national newspapers. You have to feel sorry for these guys – in every match they cover, at least one team will be wearing either green and white hoops, or a royal blue or navy blue jersey.

That is, of course, part of the problem when we hope for consistently strong journalism (not, sadly, in sport alone). The pond is just too wee. The need to keep sources on side gets in the way of the blunt truth.

Which leads to the frustration that many of us feel when we turn to the backpage. There are exceptions of course. But they tend to just prove the rule.

It's also one of the reasons why the now daily macho chest beating on Radio Scotland and elsewhere is so annoying. The hacks with microphones may be the kings of their jungle. But when your jungle is nothing more than a back green, what does that actually mean?

Hand of God botherers

Apathy had set in long before a nightmarish cold took away any lingering pretence of interest that I had in Scotland's friendly with Argentina.

I don't actually know why we played the game - reading the reports I can see little evidence of this being much of a learning process for a manager whose qualification hopes are already hanging by a thread.

Do the players learn from testing themselves against the best? Apparently that's the theory but this Scotland line up was no closer to being the starting team against the Dutch than this game was to being a rehearsal for a likely World Cup semi final.

But it was a glamour game, the blazer buttons were polished and the little SFA was at the centre of attention. They love that, love it more than they hate to see swathes of empty seats at the national citadel.

And, of course, there was the added attraction of Diego. I wish him well, I really do. Not because of the Hand of God and the pathetic idolatry of the Tartan Army in the absence of any of their own glory to celebrate, but because someone with that much talent should remain involved in the game.

Who but the most die hard Englander could ever be happy if our lingering memories of Maradona were of a greasy permed chubster, fat nose covered in the remnants of his last snort, arguing with Pele over whether drugs busts or Viagra touting are the hallmarks of the Greatest Player Ever?

Unfortunately one of the die hard Englanders is our own assistant manager. I couldn't care if the Scottish coaches came from Outer Mongolia. But Terry Butcher shouldn't have been allowed to get involved in the media scrum. However honourable and pure the intentions in Argentina were, making Diego coach was always going to result in a media pantomime. Butcher provided the hacks with another angle and the former hotelier just couldn't resist.

So Hand's of God, Russian linesman and handshakes or not become our memories of the game. Not the rather tasty goal or the so-so performance of Scotland.

All in all, not a great week I would say.

Bhoys To Men

In the end, I suppose, they were robbed of the three points that their commitment and effort, if not perhaps the general flow of the game, deserved.

So Celtic claw back some pride and make the away game in Denmark look like being the match that will decide if they are to play in Europe after Christmas.

Two points from two home games, albeit one against the champions, is not much to show from this campaign.

Make no mistake Celtic's Champions League campaign has been disastrous. The draw against Aalborg was one of the most insipid home performances you are likely to see in Europe this season. The Old Trafford game was, as the man said, men against boys.

So last night may have restored some pride, brought a little faith back to the masses, but it can't be used to mask the fact that Celtic have taken a big step backwards this season. Another season of tit for tat with the boys in blue won't make up for that.

Nacho Nogo

Ooh, aah, Nacho Novo's Da?

Should we welcome Nacho Novo into the Scotland team with open arms?

He's lived here for years. His family is Scottish. He would give George Burley an option that he's sorely lacking at the moment.

But. But. I'm not convinced. National teams should have an emotional attachment. The ties with the native land have to be powerful enough - you have to want to play for the team like the fans do. International football, and the fans who slavishly follow it, deserves nothing less.

In the Novo case how could it look like anything more than an aging player accepting second best after missing out on his proper team? I am aware that some people have said accepting Novo into the Scotland team would be mature, would be a sign of a grown up, multicultural Scotland. Hmmm.

I think it would take a lot more than Nacho playing at Hampden for Scotland to grow up.

And I don't hold with the argument that a lot of players with less connection than Novo have played before. Many of us have always felt uneasy with the Craig Brown tactic of scouring family trees. Novo may be the logical conclusion of that pattern but it is a trend we should be moving away from not embracing.

There is also the question of other players doing similar things with other countries. Inescapably we think of James McCarthy and Aiden McGeady. Without agreeing or disagreeing with those two I would say that they at least have made the decision early in their careers and obviously feel a strong emotional attachment with Ireland. That in itself is nothing new - as Pat Crerand proved in his autobiography when he claimed that playing for Scotland was always second best.

I also feel that widespread adoption of the passport rule will severely undermine the international game. Countries that can afford to ship in the best young talent from around the world would suddenly have the very best players qualifying for their national teams. That is wrong.

International football is already creaking, despised by the money that runs football. If Novo was given a Scotland cap would the game not descend into the farce of beach volleyball where Brazil's second best players can jump ship to the well known beach volleyball centre that is Georgia?

The modern games treats fans badly enough, to allow international football to be further devalued would be an insult too far.

Paddy Crerand: Never Turn the Other Cheek