IS "DOUBTFIRE" BRAVE ENOUGH TO END GERRARD’S CAREER?

By Bryan Cooney

“STEVEN GERRARD? Well, he’s had a terrible end to the season. He appears to have gone at every imaginable level.

“Ever since he gave away the goal against Chelsea in the Premier League, he’s been awful. Roy Hodgson is always saying what a good player he is. Hey, good players play well when they have to.

“When the team needs them, they tend to step forward and flourish. What did Luis Suarez do when Uruguay needed him? He scored two goals! And he was only 70 per cent fit!

“England needed the real Steven Gerrard against Uruguay…there was only one trouble: he wasn’t there!”

　

WE should, of course, ignore the temptation towards gratuitous gloating.

But the facts are incontrovertible:  England have provided us with, on what has become a biennial basis, a classic sob story that fills a few million handkerchiefs.

With Costa Rica beating a perfunctory Italian team on Friday evening, the English effected another inglorious exit from another major football tournament - almost before the players had time to break in their multi-coloured footwear.

The obligatory autopsies were performed on our television sets. But I’d suggest these were pretty insubstantial, even inadequate. The medium that should be specialising in definitive post mortems once again quailed and quivered at the door of the mortuary.

BBC and ITV sent the world and his brother to Brazil, dipping into exchequers rather than budgets to support sybaritic lifestyles. Yet, so many of these highly-remunerated ex-footballers failed, some spectacularly, some incoherently, to tell the English nation what went wrong. I was anxious to hear an unalloyed version.

One reason why English players are flying home comprehensively ahead of schedule next week was delivered, rather forcibly, in the introduction to this blog.

The words came from a man who seems comfortable with speaking his mind, no matter how many egos might be offended in the process.

Nigel Clark was the Football Editor at the Daily Mail in that newspaper’s pomp in the late Nineties. I used to call him the Wise Old Owl because he provided a compendium of knowledge about the game and understood those who played it.

He grew up in an age where the freedom of speech had not been overtaken by the twin terrors of censorship and political correctness. He worked and travelled with men like Sir Alf Ramsey, Brian Clough and Malcolm Allison. They knew him and respected him.

Let’s return, then, to his acerbic summary of Gerrard’s contribution to England’s 2-1 defeat. It’s only the beginning of a criticism of a national team that Clark has been following for six decades.

Gerrard is not alone in the dock of his court of justice: the Liverpool player has accomplices, none more so than Roy Hodgson.

Hodgson, whom Clark likes as a person, finds his credentials examined in an equally forensic manner. “We’re in this sorry position because he picked the wrong team at the outset,” Clark insists.

“You can’t win with a side that goes forward but can’t defend. You should pick a centre-half who can organise. So, why leave John Terry out? Suarez’s second goal emphasised the stupidity of that. Do you imagine it would have been scored had Terry been around?

“Look, Phil Jagielka is all right as a footballer, but basically he’s a midfield player who has been converted to centre-half. When a high ball comes at you like that, the first instincts of a centre-half is to back peddle, Jagielka obeyed the instincts of a midfield player and allowed Suarez freedom to run on.

“Terry would have dealt with it, put the ball in Row Z of the nearest grandstand. He is far more able to read things, defend and organise.

“He has been a leader and a captain all his life but, because of what I believe to be a rather petty squabble (involving the Ferdinands), Hodgson decided to bomb him out and opt for the quiet life. Hodgson believed he was doing the moralistic thing but he ignored the basic mantra of football: you pick your strongest team.”

According to Clark, however, England’s defensive frailties go far deeper than that. “Yeah, if you’re going to attack, you’ve got to defend. England can’t do that. Ashley Cole is a better left-back than Leighton Baines. He might even, in some eyes, be a horrible bloke, but he’s a better footballer. Baines could not tackle a deep fried Mars Bar!”

Nor is Baines’ full-back partner, Glen Johnson, exempt from scathing opinion. “I’ll repeat: you can only attack if you can defend. Everyone knows that down the years that Johnson hasn’t got what it takes to defend.”

Clark feels that the £3,500,00-a-year Hodgson may confound expectations and stay in the job (he evidently has already been offered a two-year contract extension. Isn't it great to see the dear, old FA have their foot firmly on the ball?).

But he still can’t understand why the manager put his philosophy into reverse gear. “The thing is the players call him Doubtfire. There’s a bit of respect gone there. Could that be significant?

"Roy’s always been a very organised manager, he’s always been considered a safe pair of hands, yet the greatest surprise was to go gung-ho in this competition. And just look at the run-up: we struggled against Honduras and Ecuador. It told you we’re not very good.”

The criticism becomes even more detailed. “Frank Lampard was brought over for morale - Roy thinks his legs have gone. Now, I would have thought that might be the case over 90 minutes, but surely not for 30-minute segments.

“ You wanted an old head in there directing operations at 1-1. The solution would have been to put Lampard on. Instead, Roy wanted to go for a winner: he gambled and lost.”

And Wayne Rooney? “I think Roy’s been stupid. You play your best players in their best positions. You don’t suddenly find Uruguay punting out Suarez to play wide right or left, do you? Roy thinks he has players who can multi task. It’s not on. Players generally have to be told what to do because they tend to be a bit thick.”

Costa Rica, who have already qualified for the next stage of the competition, provide Hodgon’s final opposition. Can England go out with some manner of compensation?

Clark is not confident about that. “English football is based around determination and organisation, and we must use these things to make ourselves hard to beat. If you don’t concede goals, you don’t get beaten. We’ve shipped four so far.

“Look, no-one has ever said that Hodgson was a great manager. He certainly never did anything spectacular at Liverpool, did he? I certainly wouldn’t put money on us beating Costa Rica.

`”But I think what Hodgson must think long and hard about is whether Gerrard plays again. And, remember, this: they put him in a role just in front of the back four - it was supposed to suit him. The sad thing is that he wasn’t even in the Uruguay game.”

• The irrepressible and controversial Nigel Clark will be writing about the English Premier Division for No Grey Areas this coming season.

'IMPARTIAL' BBC ERECTS IRON CURTAIN AROUND GLASGOW'S PACIFIC QUAY

By Mark Cooney

THOMAS JEFFERSON erected the pillars of a democratic society when he stated: ”Our liberty depends on the freedom of the press, and that cannot be limited without being lost.”

Fast forward 200 years and the comment by the third President of the United States is starting to sound profoundly naive on these shores.

The impartiality of a country’s media is a cornerstone of democracy. In the 21st Century, people no longer just seek the truth, they demand it. But in "reporting" news related to the Scottish Referendum vote this September, the BBC and London-owned Scottish newspapers increasingly appear to have adopted the journalistic values of Pravda.

There is a growing rumour (make that growing resentment) in Scotland that the BBC is not impartial. In fact, it looks grossly partial on one specific issue; the Independence Referendum.

I grew up believing that Auntie always told the truth and was fair to both sides of any story. I thought the only narrative it preached was fact. I especially believed it was not aligned to any political agenda or to any cause, other than telling us all how things really are. It was almost ingrained in my mind that the BBC’s mantra was to present the facts and let the adults arrive at their own judgements.

It’s comforting to the human soul to know that someone in this complex world will always tell us the truth. We like to know we are defining our opinions based on cast-iron facts. And we thought they were facts because the BBC said so.

But, together with the Scottish mainstream papers, we are witnessing growing evidence that it is presently trying to control, twist and stifle the debate in favour of a Westminster status quo. With just three months to go to voting day, the BBC has already joined sides with the English State it knows and understands.

To mislead the people of Scotland, England, Northern Ireland and Wales on such a seismic event is unforgivable. Through its blatant strategy of promoting one side of the political spectrum at the expense of the other through selected news reports, biased interviews and the closing down of public comment on its web pages, the BBC has shattered its own fabled impartiality. In Scotland, at least.

The enviously high bar of editorial standards that Auntie once set herself are now so low that not even Mister Fantastic on a soup only diet could limbo under it. Her publicly-funded corset has fallen around her ankles. And that’s more than a bare cheek, it’s public indecency.

Firstly, there is the glaring lack of any real cross-examination of unionist advocates’ statements on news and debate programmes, while in contrast there are very well prepared grillings facing any champion of independence, with questions often designed to wrong foot them.

The BBC’s presenters, particularly Andrew Neil, Jeremy Paxman and Andrew Marr, have been treating independence interviewees as the main "target" on their shows and subjecting them to both barrels. Overly aggressive, dismissive and sneering, they launch a barrage of follow-up questions, often only to be left defeated by a smarter person with a better argument. (Check Referendum-related videos on YouTube and decide for yourself).

There’s even been a sense of shadenfreude from several BBC presenters when they think they’ve got the indie guest pinned on the studio ropes. It’s noticeable and it's unsavoury.

Of course, it's encouraging to see presenters performing with intensity when questioning pro-independence folk. That's what good journalists should be doing. But the contrast in the mild mannered and shallow questioning of unionist politicians’ statements is stark.

Perhaps they could ask the Labour hierarchy why anyone should trust their economic arguments after they alone oversaw the collapse of the UK’s banking sector, which has been attributed to Gordon Brown’s and Alistair Darling’s utter disregard of industry regulation.

Something that stands out on these BBC programmes is the patronising manner in which the presenters and their studio guests from Westminster almost refuse to acknowledge the SNP as the democratically-elected government of Scotland.

It has been chosen by the people of Scotland to run our country in a competent manner and to represent the interests and wishes of ALL its citizens. They’re not just "trying to grab a bit of the limelight" as one barely known Tory minister accused an elected SNP MSP on Question Time.

The BBC is not giving us veritas on BOTH sides of the argument. Indeed, its presentation of the debate is almost beyond satire.

Rather than wake up to the fact the people of Scotland are no longer cozened and publicly redressing the obvious imbalance, the BBC has instead responded to increasing complaints by throwing a tantrum and closing down comments on its Scottish web pages.

These are the actions of our national public broadcaster in the 21st Century. It’s a defensive action that has polluted the waters of editorial transparency. But the BBC’s charge list doesn’t end there.

Think about the membership of the arch unionist business club, the CBI, which has been a registered "No" voter. Think about the dumbing down of Newsnight Scotland in its relaunch as "Scotland 2014". The show is presented by Sarah Smith,  daughter of former Labour leader John Smith and a lady who has deep Labour roots. Should the BBC not, at the very least, be trying to be seen as impartial?

Meanwhile, academics in Scotland have studied the BBC’s news output and noted there were many more unionist-led stories than independence-led, and that unionist claims were given far greater prominence than those on the nationalist side.

A recent major BBC Scottish history programme series was also accused by historians of having a very anglo-centric narrative. 

After, of course, the producers omitted damning evidence of English oppression and barbarity, and a country forced against its will into the Union in 1707 by a small band of Scots nobles who were rewarded with gold and English lands.

Programme advisors, some of whom were eminent historians, distanced themselves from the 10-part series before it was finished. The BBC promoted it as a kind of ultimate guide to Scottish history. But the academics challenged its accuracy, to say the least.

As well as saying it was too anglo-centric, the failure to front it with a historian has also been heavily criticised by professors and the public. Instead, a prepared script by the BBC was given to an archaeologist to narrate. The chosen presenter has also publicly admitted he is pro union. Academic advisers quit before programmes were completed.

Professor Allan Macinnes, of the University of Strathclyde, resigned from the series' advisory board after its first meeting. "I thought the whole production was dreadful," he said. "The first script I got was so anglo-centric I couldn't believe it.

"It was written on the basis as if Scotland was a divided country until the Union came along and civilised it.

"At the time, England was divided, France was divided, Germany didn't even exist. I would like to see a wider European context.”

Why did the BBC ignore the advice of these historians? And why did it not choose a more authoritative figure to present it? Like a historian perhaps?

Does the BBC have any major news anchormen or women, or history programme presenters in Scotland who are not pro union?

And it’s not just the BBC. It has been revealed that the vast majority of Scotland’s daily newspapers also have a strong unionist agenda. Again, impartial is not a word Scots would readily use to describe most of our country’s written press.

Pro-union stories get maximum coverage, with every angle covered to the third degree that it’s almost becoming Monty Pythonesque in its absurdity. The "No" camp can make any nonsensical claim about the effects of independence and its given generous air time and column inches.

A former Labour defence minister makes a fantastical assertion that an independent Scotland will actually lead to the World Order being disrupted, and it immediately becomes headline news. But rather than the claim being thoroughly investigated and then soundly discredited, it was promoted as a serious possibility through large sections of the media.

Well, if the consequences of voting for independence is Peebles being dynamited off the map by an intergalactic terrorist in a Portsmouth-built Death Star, there isn’t much we can do to prove otherwise. It’s just one of those unknown unknowns, as Donald Rumsfeld would have mused.

At the same time, a positive pro independence story, such as a unionist MP saying Scotland would be much better off running its own affairs in its own country, is often challenged by all and sundry, or reduced to a lower ranking news item, or not even published.

In January this year, the BBC Trust found BBC Scotland guilty of having misled the public after a Reporting Scotland item misrepresented an Irish politician in relation to a story on EU membership post-independence.

Raymond Buchanan, who reported the item for the BBC, resigned days before the Trust announced its intention to carry out an investigation.

Despite the guilty verdict, BBC Scotland management refused to apologise and have yet to issue any correction.

There can be no doubt that stories harmful to the "No" campaign are being heavily censored by our media. Positive news for the "Yes" side is being curtailed.

We know this because we all live in the third Millennium these days and can find the facts and stories published elsewhere at the click of a mouse. There’s a world of data out there.

I’d like to tell Auntie that sometimes in Scotland, in clement weather anyway, we pick up interesting stuff on the wireless and telegram. We now even know that three guys in a cramped washing machine landed on the moon in 1969, that there are repeats of Bullseye on the telly and that 95% of other countries in the world are now independent.

Banning public comment on Scottish politics is an anachronism. Why would the BBC want to do anything that would discourage the people, the source of its licence-fees, from letting the national broadcaster know what the nation thinks? Isn’t that anti-news? Is it, dare I say it, bias?

Channel 4’s recent excellent coverage of the Referendum makes the BBC’s immature communication attempts look akin to an episode of Teletubbies - albeit everyone in Teletubbyland is treated as an equal partner.

The BBC, sometimes known as a "national treasure", often boasts about its world renowned image as the purveyor of truth.

Here's an excerpt from its own charter:

"Impartiality lies at the heart of public service and is the core of the BBC's commitment to its audiences.  It applies to all our output and services - television, radio, online, and in our international services and commercial magazines.  We must be inclusive, considering the broad perspective and ensuring the existence of a range of views is appropriately reflected."

On September 18, the people of Scotland will vote on the Referendum question on whether we think Scotland should be independent, like much of Planet Earth.

BRYAN COONEY ON WHY HE AIN’T GONNA LIVE IN MAGGIE’S BARN NO MORE

IN some human beings there lurks a sometimes a worrying capacity for acts of flagrant stupidity. This week I was reminded of my tendency towards such behaviour.

BBC 2 had launched their hybrid programme, Escape to the Continent, and there stood Nicki Chapman looking inordinately pleased with herself whilst expounding the myriad benefits of living in Poitou Charente.

In one moment of malice, I considered TV companies’ remarkable propensity for reinventing so-called celebrities, and wondered how the hell Nicki Chapman had effected the transition from pop music aficionado to homes guru in such a modest passage of time.

Unjust? Possibly. But, by presenting this particular programme, Ms Chapman was belabouring me with a metaphorical baseball bat, and I was inexpertly attempting to cauterise the wounds she seemed intent on inflicting.

To proceed to this sorry tale: in 2004, after much vacillation, my wife Margaret and I decided to buy a second home in France.

We had moved house on 23 occasions in our 29 years of marriage, survived countless renovations and counted fingers fatigued by dirt, dust and disaster. We imagined we’d built up an immunity to reckless behaviour, so we agreed on a prerequisite for our de facto holiday home. It needed to be in pristine condition.

Oh, yeah? Typical of two people occasionally driven by impulse and irrationality, we bought a beautiful, if dilapidated, agricultural barn in the Vienne sector of Poitou Charente. There were no windows, an earthen floor and enough holes in the roof to satisfy the exacting requirements of a latter-day Galileo.

Worse, it was situated four feet from a busy D road at one end of a deserted hamlet that advertised decay and the occasional flight of tumbleweed. The one factor in its favour was a countryside view for which a man might have volunteered his life. Few barns in France have the luxury of such vistas.

Anyway, did we attempt anything approaching due diligence? Did we consider the noise or danger factor generated by drivers who obviously believed that one day they might be equipped to compete at Le Mans?

Did we investigate the somewhat depressed local area, its strengths and frailties, none withstanding its capacity for regeneration? 

Did we indeed investigate the locals, who had an endless fascination with the Euro?

Did we for one moment wonder if integration into this rather reactionary piece of real estate was feasible?

The sorry answer to all these questions merits a two-lettered response. No, we were comprehensively seduced by the aroma of rural France and the view that stretched to the south east.

Why Poitou Charente? We were in fact searching the vast acreage of Normandy when one of the owners we visited told us he was moving 300 kilometres south because of the microclimate. He had, in reality, just applied a shotgun to his right foot and talked himself out of a certain sale.

The Poitou sounded like an even more inspired bet, so off we went, all cylinders firing in the old Mercedes, brains decidedly disengaged. How bloody stupid can a couple get?

This, however, was only the genesis of our folly. Within a couple of days, we had purchased a barn for 30 grand. Our agent, taking ten per cent of the proceedings, recommended an architect who looked antiquated and indeed thought antiquated. His plans, which incorporated walk-through bedrooms, were necessarily jettisoned on our return, but not before they had cost us plenty.

The insanity continued apace with the proposed renovation works which, I’m afraid, bore the stamp of our own inadequacy. We’d taken three quotations from builders and these all hovered around the six-figure mark and beyond. We believed we could do better.

On the last day of a three-week trip, having failed to reach an accommodation with anyone, we lunched at a local restaurant and decided to shed the calories by walking through the main thoroughfare of the nearby town.

Suddenly, I became aware of Margaret talking to someone in a doorway. It was an English voice, a helpful voice, a builder’s voice, damnit! My uplifted spirits flagged temporarily on seeing him, however: here was Fred Flintstone come to life; an Anglo Saxon John Goodman.

But when he accompanied us to the barn and estimated it would take £50,000 to complete the work, those spirits were restored. Now, knowing that the authorities insisted on foreign workers being registered, we quizzed him about this and he claimed he was in the process of securing his registration. Deal done.

And thus our 200-year relic came to life, piecemeal, over the next six months. There were additional tariffs: a new roof; extensive electrical work; the kitchen and bathroom units; the application of cream cement to the exterior stone walls; double glazed windows for the gargantuan doors; and the installation of a septic tank - all of which drove costs towards the skyline.

The latter bill caused particular consternation because the nearby town council had agreed to extend the mains water system to our hamlet, charging our new neighbours roughly £400 each. Incredibly, this offer was refused.

The £50,000 promised to “John Goodman” had grown exponentially and we’d arrived at a figure considerably north of that. But the more encouraging news came when we were summoned by our builder/project manager and told that the barn was finished and fit for inspection.

We touched base on Friday night when the light was fading. We were sorely fatigued, but this had no longevity. Maggie’s Barn, as it had been christened, was a sight for eyes made sore by over a thousand miles of driving.

It had cost the best part of £150,000, but it represented itself as a million dollars, with one room flowing freely into another, chic floor tiles from Provence, a fireplace anchored by an oak bressumer, countless ceiling beams, and an expansive entrance hall and feature mezzanine.

But, being a serial mover - remember the 23 homes we’d owned - you are rarely satisfied with the end product unless it has a price tag. Some time later, we asked the local estate agents to give us his best estimate.

He was a man of few words, but the one word of encouragement I picked up was“superbe!” Less encouraging was his final fiscal analysis. Eighty-five grand. Sacre bloody bleu! With our chins dropping towards the exquisite tiling, he reminded us that we were in a relatively poor area.

I don’t know whether it was at this precise moment that my vision of Poitou Charente began to colour. I do know that little things multiplied my frustrations: those auditioning for Le Mans were starting to pound in my brain, for starters.

There were 50 kilometre per hour signs at either end of the hamlet, and yet these were summarily ignored as drivers thundered by. Perhaps irrationally, I would race into the road, screaming “cinquante!” at the miscreants.

With our grandchildren arriving on holiday, this obsession with the reckless intensified, and I began to take pictures of number plates. It lasted only for one morning. Then I was visited by two gendarmes, who had responded to a complaint.

In France, you are apparently violating a person’s privacy by doing this. I told the police that I had in fact been capturing the extremely photogenic countryside, Was there a law against this, I asked? They smiled conspiratorially.

While this good humour was still in place, my fractured French permitted me another rejoinder. “Why are people allowed to drive like devils through this place? Is it normal?” They failed to answer.

My concern over aberrant driving strayed, I confess, into other wider areas, and gradually the joy of French living began to dissipate.

I objected to the infernal bureaucracy of the nation and the copious amounts of forms for inconsequentialities; the exorbitant charges of tradesmen when they suspected (wrongly in my case) a rich foreigner was on their doorstep; the insouciance of shopkeepers who’d totally ignore you while they exchanged small talk with locals; the utter arrogance of the belief that the only way is the French way.

Leaving such negativity aside for a moment, we loved the weather, the scenery, the fastidious maintenance of major roads. We further enjoyed the good restaurants that provided value for money (finding them is not always easy, in spite of French propaganda); and delighted at meeting some really nice locals away from our hamlet of doom, where only one neighbour talked to us on a regular basis.

There is inevitably a coup de grace in any fraught situation, and ours arrived in 2013 when three caravans, two cars and a Dormobile, a squad of young men, women and children, two dogs and a goat took possession of a disused house and over grown garden to the rear of our property.

Our wondrous view was speedily compromised by the new backdrop. Then, the side access to our barn was blocked by a six-foot wall. I reminded one of the new owners - he sported a hairstyle which a Mohican would have gladly endorsed - that we had the right of passage. Our heated exchange proved unproductive.

Indeed, it was counter productive. The minatory dogs, a Boxer and a Jack Russell, arrived each morning snapping and snarling at the boundary fence 15 feet short of our front door. Such intimidation only abated when I visited the gendarmerie and registered a strong protest.

We are all subject to inevitability. The trick is identifying that inevitability. It was time to leave Maggie’s Barn and the land of our holiday dreams.

Over there, house sellers can employ more estate agents than you can shake a French stick at. We settled on four agencies and eventually such a concentration of manpower worked: a French couple seemed willing to put up with the veritable circus that had moved in next door.

The price in Euros had not improved, but the currency’s strength against the pound meant that we would receive approximately £105,000. An initial elation was quickly cancelled with the revelation that fairly draconian tax deductions were on the way.

Consequently, we left Poitou with just over 90 grand - some 60 grand less than our initial outlay. This was partially the responsibility of “John Goodman”, who had failed to register his credentials. There was no recourse: well, would you argue with John Goodman?

Please don’t interpret the message here as a recommendation for people to ignore Poitou Charente, or indeed the highly seductive tones of Nicky Chapman. We simply urge them to be prudent - in the fervent hope that no-one repeats our stupidity.

Meanwhile, I have a message for the BBC who, judging by the lack of variety in their programming, rarely lead the field as regards innovation. May I suggest another property programme, one perhaps with a bit of caustic bite?

So how about Escape from the Continent?

REALITY TV IS NOT CHILD'S PLAY

By Jim Black

WHAT are we doing to our children?

Sorry, I’ll start again: What is television doing to our children?

The proliferation of “Reality TV” programmes has me scratching my head in disbelief that those charged with deciding the daily schedules actually imagine that the majority of us want to watch wall-to-wall poverty porn.

“The Scheme” and “Benefits Street” are two prime examples of producers having lost the plot completely.

The aforementioned “The Scheme” featured residents of a Kilmarnock council estate and traced the lives of six families.

Not all who have the misfortune to share their lives with the “stars?” of this pitiful attempt by BBC Scotland to highlight “real lives” exposed themselves to ridicule in this cheapskate production that attempted to create personalities out of scumbags.

Watching a collection of degenerates behaving in a threatening and violent manner, exposing children to a diatribe of foul language, making their neighbours’ lives misery and generally acting in an offensive and underhand way is compulsive viewing apparently.

God save us from a repeat, or even worse, another series featuring such pond life as Marvin, who should be locked up and the key thrown away.

Yet this grim offering was deemed worthy of a Bafta award.

Difficult though it may be to comprehend, Channel 4’s “Benefits Street” is an even more horrific concept.

The idea here, it would appear, was to highlight the virtues of “cheating the system” while also attempting to turn the principals into loveable rogues and largely irresistible characters.

James Turner Street in Birmingham became famous overnight for all the wrong reasons. It portrays society at its worst – a litter-strewn road, children left to fend for themselves while their parents share a beer and a fag, and a self-proclaimed “Godmother” in the form of an odious, unattractive benefits cheat who looks to be in need of a good wash.

I refer to “White Dee,” who, having been sacked from her job as a council administrator for stealing £13,000, now offers advice to neighbours on how to claim handouts.

She is also the mother of a five-year-old who has been taught how to start a blaze using a lighter and deodorant can by two of the resident drunks, swear like a trooper and defy all forms of authority. How sad that this little boy will grow up never having had a chance.

Not everyone who resides in what is claimed to be one of Britain’s most benefit-dependent streets is a criminal, an alcoholic, a drug abuser, a drug pedlar or a benefits cheat, just the majority.

Apparently “White Dee” and her pal “Black Dee” have been offered a twin naked photo-shoot by a grubby porn magazine, such is the extent of their new-found status as TV personalities.

There has also been talk of “Black Dee” entering the murky world of politics. I ask you, has the world gone truly mad?

It would be laughable if it wasn’t so disturbing. But as many as five million viewers tuned into this expose on “Scumbag Britain” – if Channel 4 is to be believed. Mercifully, the other 55 million or so Brits did not.

Perhaps they were saving themselves for the next instalment of another Channel 4 production, “Embarrassing Bodies,” which regularly features displays of genitalia by individuals who are sadly lacking self-respect, apparently in the name of medicine.

Or maybe they were preoccupied by thoughts of “The Street,” another attempt by BBC Scotland to tickle our taste buds for “no-holds” reality documentaries.

The idea was actually not a bad one. Glasgow’s Sauchiehall Street is after all world-famous and must have a million stories to tell.

Regrettably, executive producer Ewan Angus chose to focus to a large extent on a take-away owner who experienced difficulty completing a sentence without the use of the “F” and “C” words and a street musician who has a habit of getting up other people’s noses.

The fact that Sauchiehall Street has a proud and rich history was completely glossed over. One wonders what the City Fathers made of it all as a marketing disaster ahead of the forthcoming Commonwealth Games?

But does TV care? Not a bit of it, as long as the viewing figures stack up.

The age of innocence is long gone. TV has decreed that we will all live in the “reality” world, regardless of what long-term damage that is doing to the minds and wellbeing of youngsters who are being conditioned to think that bad is good.

Rapha misses an important date with Gerry Rafferty - By Bryan Cooney

UNLESS there has been a seismic shift in relationships, one notable name will be missing from the cast of singers and musicians celebrating the life of Gerry Rafferty in Paisley next month.

The colourfully named Raphael Ravenscroft, it seems, continues to occupy the role of bete noir with the Rafferty camp, and you imagine even the diplomacy of a United Nations peacekeeper would struggle to soothe minatory brows.

A couple of years ago, Radio Four made a documentary about Baker Street, the most famous, if not most accomplished, Rafferty composition; the one driven by Ravenscroft’s mesmeric alto saxophone riff.

And yet there was a significant omission in that 30-minute programme. The BBC producer later told me that, try as she might, she couldn’t persuade any of the contributors to mention the sax player by name. Rab Noakes merely dismissed him as The Saxophonist. It was difficult to believe anyone could be so childish.

We return to 1978 - when the haunting pop song initially hit pay dirt - to discover the genesis of the rancour. Ravenscroft, as a young and fairly impecunious musician, was called to the Chipping Norton Studios, where Rafferty’s City to City album was being assembled. He was a replacement for Pete Zorn.

His rags were transformed into riches: not long after his stint was completed (he was paid £27.50 but later claimed the cheque had bounced), he was enjoying international recognition by playing for such luminaries as Pink Floyd and Marvin Gaye. His session fees rose astronomically as a result.

Being something of a natural showman, unlike Rafferty, Ravenscroft embraced first fame as he might a beautiful woman - and history suggests there were plenty of them in evidence at the time. He was Mr Showtime: they say he would sweep imperiously into his workplace, accompanied by two Irish wolfhounds and an entourage fit for royalty, and nominally take charge of proceedings.

Significantly, even if his ego had found a niche market of its own, he insisted on repaying old friendship. He signed for Portrait Records of America (a subsidiary of Sony) and made a solo album, Her Father Didn’t Like Me Anyway, in 1979. It was a Rafferty composition, suggesting at the time that both men were on equable terms (although, allegedly, this later would change).

Rafferty didn’t feature on the album, but he was perhaps about the only man in Britain who didn’t. An incredible 60 session musicians were called upon and paid for, presumably out of the Ravenscroft purse. That makes any fair-minded person believe that perhaps he wasn’t such a bad guy, after all.

It’s now just over three years since Rafferty died. So why does the stench of hostility linger after all this time? In the eyes of many, Rapha - as he favours being called - had committed the cardinal sin of claiming at least some responsibility for the composition of that saxophone riff, which propelled an already wonderful tune into the Tin Pan Alley stratosphere.

In an interview with The Times in 2006, he recalled being presented with a song that contained “several gaps.” And he added: “Did Gerry hand me a piece of music? No, he didn’t. In fact, most of what I played was an old blues riff.”

But when a re-mastered version of City to City was released months after Rafferty’s death, it included the original, electric guitar version of the song, confirming his authorship. And yet the hostility refuses to go away.

When I began writing the ebook, Gerry Rafferty: Renegade Heart, I resolved not to allow my allegiance to the musical genius to obliterate objectivity, and thus I contacted Ravenscroft. There again, we shared common ground in that I ’d also assumed potential bete noir status with some factions of the Rafferty family for having the temerity to become a biographer.

Rapha was suffering from a serious heart complaint at the time, so the matter went into abeyance. When he had recovered sufficiently, we re-engaged last Christmas and he agreed to do an interview on the telephone. I recorded it for this website. It was a lengthy conversation and he went into considerable detail about the contested riff, his relationship with Rafferty and the rancour directed against him.

Unfortunately, as a mobile phone was his sole means of communication, the quality of the recording was wholly unsatisfactory for website reproduction, so I determined that instead I would rewrite a new chapter of my ebook, alongside further disparate revelations.

Hereabouts, matters took an unexpected turn. Ravenscroft declared himself less than satisfied with events and asked if we could film the interview. A whole new ball game was in town and an expensive one at that. I agreed to fly down to meet him in his adopted home town of Exeter, but for some obscure reason he insisted on coming to Glasgow.

In retrospect, perhaps that decision was not so obscure. A date was settled and it was the wholly appropriate one of January 4 - the third anniversary of Rafferty’s death. I secured the services of a film crew to film at our flat, made the requisite airline bookings and secured him accommodation at a hotel which would meet his exacting standards: ie: the Central Hotel.

More disruption was on order, however. Rapha fancied having what he termed a “blow” on that Saturday evening (at least that‘s what I think he said). Feverishly, I began to explore the possibility of securing him a jam session that would satisfy his requirements. By now, I was experiencing the travails of a much put-upon roadie. For reasons too complicated to reproduce here, this was almost impossible.

Eventually, the Central Hotel generously agreed to stage a musical interlude in their Champagne Bar. I reported the news to Ravenscroft on another bad mobile phone line, but imagined that he was unimpressed. “I’m more into jazz,” he said. “They’ll be wanting me to play the Girl From Ipanema - and that’s not on.”

This somewhat distorted my best-laid plans: previously, I had contacted a television company and a big newspaper group about the arrival of a famous musician on their Glaswegian patch. I didn’t reveal his name, nor the relevant story behind it, but they were sufficiently intrigued and awaited confirmation of his arrival.

The trouble is that he didn’t arrive that day. I was woken at 7a.m., Ravenscroft informing me that his connecting flight from Manchester had been cancelled. Cue the abortion of Glasgow plans. But consolation was at hand: our musical man revealed he still favoured an in-depth interview.

In fact, he insisted on it. He texted me that his work diary was filling up rapidly, but that he had Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday free. We alighted on the next Saturday. I made all the necessary arrangements again and found everyone in an accommodating mood.

This time he would be flying into Edinburgh, so there I was ten minutes ahead of the appointed landing time of 9.40a.m. The flight arrived early and I espied a smiling Nicola Benedetti, complete with violin case. This was a good omen, I decided.

But omen are not always accurate. As the arrivals dwindled, there was no sign of the bold Rapha and suddenly my mobile began chirruping. A text message from Exeter read: “Bryan: following yesterday’s hospital procedure, I have now just been advised by the airport on call medic that in their view, I was presently unable to fly.”

Now, you cannot blame a man for being unfit to fly. But hadn’t he told me Friday was free? And why hadn’t he had the intelligence to inform the hospital of his travel intentions? And, crucially, why was he delivering a sackful of bad news 

almost four hours after he had been scheduled to take off?

Two people disappeared into meltdown that day. I phoned my wife. She’d experienced the idiosyncratic behaviour of sportsmen for the last four decades, but now was confronted by the caprices of a musician. She was muttering vengeance on prima donnas everywhere.

Me? I immediately texted Ravenscroft with breaking news of my despond and told him he had cost me the best part of 800 quid. When I arrived back in Glasgow, my wife admitted that she had texted my would-be interviewee and perhaps had even been more vituperative than myself. I shuddered and concentrated on cancelling the photo shoot for a second time and also the hotel booking.

Just as I had completed those embarrassing tasks, another text arrived. “Dear Mr and Mrs Cooney, I’m presently aboard the 7.30 from Exeter to Glasgow, arriving at 17.07. I’m currently into my journey: my phone has just recharged.”

Another humiliating request: I was obliged to ask the film company if they could reschedule for Sunday morning. Happily, they could. But this was turning into a marathon of first elation and then disappointment. And still a happy ending eluded us.

Throughout the day, texts came through from Rapha. One said he was carrying both tenor and alto saxophones as requested (cripes! By this time I‘d forgotten all about an evening gig). Two more came from Trainline carrying exact details of his nine-hour-plus journey; another saying that he was nearing Edinburgh.

I drove to Queen Street station with all the assertion of an undecided Referendum voter. If there was apprehension in me, it expanded when I received another message from you know who asking me to explain the text which excoriated him for his behaviour. Rapha declared that he wasn’t accustomed to being spoken to like this.

Suddenly, the cutting edge of confrontation had been added to our meeting, but there was no point in a response, surely? It was after five and Ravenscroft was on his way. Or was he? The appointed train arrived. A diaspora of Saturday night folk alighted: theatre enthusiasts, football fans, shoppers, a few drunks and comic singers. But no Rapha.

I waited for the next four trains which came in at fifteen-minute intervals. Not a glimpse of a man with the trademark curls. Not a sighting of a sax, neither alto nor tenor.

Had my wife’s admonishment proved so stern that he had turned back eight hours into his journey? Or, perhaps a more persuasive thought, had he never placed his artistic body on the train in the first place?

There was nothing left to do but return to a woman who wore that intensely infuriating look of distaff self-satisfaction. Again I was confronted by humiliation: I reached for the telephone to cancel all bookings.

It’s now almost two months since I talked to Raphael Ravenscroft and, although it’s fair to say there will be a significant revision of my ebook, it’s difficult to see where our paths will cross again.

Do I stomp my feet and gnash my teeth at the mere mention of his name? Hardly. Would I revert like some to calling him The Saxophonist? I very much doubt it. But I must admit that any thoughts of dealing with him again make me wince.

The Day Fergus Sought Darkened Rooms and Temazepan - By Andy Ritchie

YOU would have to get up early of a morning to put one over Fergus McCann. Better still, best not to go to bed in the first place.

Money, of course, was a major importance in his life and he duly treated it with particular reverence. While Celtic fans celebrate the 20^th anniversary of the McCann-style revolution, however, it may be worth remembering the one occasion Fergus’s fingers were scorched, if not quite cremated.

Back then, football, to me as chief scout, was a priority. And it was likewise to the manager, Tommy Burns. We were in a hurry to get out there and buy players. To shop in what you might call the “big stores.”

But Fergus’s priority was putting the club back on a sound financial footing, so if you worked in the recruitment department, that wasn’t so great. Tommy, meanwhile, was experiencing exasperation We had signed Pierre van Hooijdonk from NAS Breda for a million pounds. Then along came Andreas Thom, from Bayer Leverkusen.

I can’t go into too many details about that particular £2.2million transfer in 1995, but let’s say that once it was all done and Fergus saw how football worked, I think he had to be led into a darkened room and fed a couple of Temazepan.

There was money flying everywhere. Fergus said that the longest talk he had about the deal was with four people from the Bank of England, who represented the player. Thom had come out of East Germany and he needed to make money quickly; he was paying massive amounts of his salary into a pension plan.

But I think that financial arrangement put Fergus off all the rest of the deals that had to be done during his time at Celtic Park. I think he’d been dragged over a barrel as far as Thom was concerned. But, fair play to him, he learned oh, so quickly as Paulo Cadete and Paolo di Canio would learn.

I certainly liked him. He didn’t mess about. Ever. A spade was a shovel with that wee man. I don’t think you’d want to stand too long with him at a bar, engaged in jovial conversation, but he did what he said he would do. My memory tells me he put £8 million in and took £40million out. He built a stadium and stopped Rangers from winning ten in a row.

Sure, having to deal with Hooijdonk, Cadete and Di Canio obviously had him reaching for his pills. I mean, Hooijdonk came in quite a quiet boy who would hardly lift his head to speak to anybody. But, within a couple of years, prompted by the adulation he got at Celtic Park and no doubt by his agents, he was complaining that his wages weren’t good enough for the homeless.

Certainly, there was a bigger change in Pierre than there was in Fergus in that time. The latter understood what footballers are like. They give the impression of loyalty to the fans with their kissing of the badge, but in reality the big ones are managing directors of their own companies. Wee Fergus was one of the first to see through that nonsense. I think he could spot a fraud very, very quickly.

But I’ve got to say he did me a couple of favours. He came to see me in my wee office one day and said: “I’ve got a bit of a situation here. I’ve got two people coming to interview me, Chic Young from the BBC, and Davie Provan from Sky. I don’t want them putting their heads together, so when they arrive put the BBC in the boardroom and ask Sky to wait down the tunnel.”

My son was working in the reception at the time. I went down there and told him to see that the orders were carried out. Some time later, I met him and he told me that Provan had wanted to go into the boardroom and not down the tunnel. When he insisted that this was the arrangement, he claimed Provan told him to eff off.

We cut a long story short here, I was buzzing with anger and caught up with Provan. Angry words were exchanged. He called my son a liar. That did it. I took my jacket off and ordered Provan to follow me outside where we would sort the matter out in time-honoured fashion. I had entirely lost the plot. “Hey, that’s my son there and he doesn’t deserve to be spoken to like that!”

No blows were actually thrown that day, but the next morning I was in my office when George Douglas, the head of security, knocked on the door. Fergus had sent him, wanting to know about the altercation I’d had with Provan. I told him what happened and said that the altercation had been because of him. “That’s not what he told Fergus,” said George.

He said he would need to report to Mr McCann again. Just as he was going out the door, he said: “Wouldn’t you think that a wee apology would suffice?” I shot back at him. “Listen, George, if Davie Provan wants to apologise, that’s fine by me!” George told me he’d be back down. I never heard another word.

Many years after, I met George and he gave me the real SP. Fergus, apparently had said there wasn’t much he could do about it and that at least I had offered Provan a one on one compromise. My guess is that he didn’t fancy the running to schoolteacher bit.

But that wasn’t the last favour Fergus did me. There used to be a corridor from outside his office that bypassed the front door reception area. No one was allowed to use it apart from himself. One day, running late for a Monday morning meeting, I nipped up that way. Who should I meet but Fergus?

He looked at me in that certain way that promised I was going to get a row. Instead, he asked me if I’d bought shares in the issue. I said I had and still had them. “Hey,” he says, “those shares are worth about five times what you paid for them, It’s probably a good time to sell. A very good time.”

So I sold them. He didn’t half do me a favour. See about a day after that they were worth three bangers and a balloon. No, any time I had dealings with him, he was very fair. I have good memories of Fergus McCann. Hey, he wasn’t universally liked. People knew he had a lot of money and they wanted him to puts lots in, but that was never the template of the plan.

And what about his parting shot? When he left, someone asked him what he would miss about Glasgow and Scotland. He looked the guy straight in the guy and said: “I’m gonna miss all the free advice!” Just brilliant!