SIMPLY SAVAGED BY SFA SHEEP

By Andy Ritchie

WE - meaning Scotland’s youth team - were about to go off to sunny, sunny Spain and I was having multiple orgasms at the very thought of it.

Hey, I was only 16 and therefore full of fun and devilment. A round-robin youth tournament lay ahead, but first I was intent on basking in the imaginary limelight.

So, when a photographer from the Scottish Daily Express approached those of us who played with Celtic and Rangers, asking if he could snap us with our reading material, we were up for the cup.

A couple of the guys had chosen Shoot magazine to accompany them on the trip. Me? As we were having a bit of a carry-on, I’d gone straight for the top shelf and got myself a copy of Playboy.

Just when the photographer was about to go to work, an SFA official called Ernie Walker arrived on the scene and called me over. He asked me how my parents would feel if they saw me reading a lads’ magazine. Just as important, he asked me how Celtic FC would feel.

He reminded me that I was representing not only them but the Scottish nation. You could call it an impact talk. He uttered only about three sentences, but the message hit home immediately like a bolt from a crossbow.

I hate to imagine what would have happened if Ernie hadn’t been on the scene at Glasgow Airport that day. There I’d have been, back page on the Express, making an absolute backside of myself.

But I was lucky enough to come across an administrator who knew his way around potentially embarrassing situations.

The question that ought to be asked now is this: where are such like-minded administrators in today’s world?

Press the fast forward button and pinpoint one of today’s embarrassing situations. Stop at Leigh Griffiths, a few long-necked Budweisers on a none too lazy Sunday afternoon and you’re on the money.

When he received his summons to appear at the SFA for that video, I immediately thought of Ernie Walker.

Ernie, of course, went on to become secretary of the SFA for 13 years. How would he have handled that situation with Leigh and his singing Hibs supporting pals? Somewhat better, I would suggest, than Vincent Lunny. Ernie certainly wouldn’t have needed a compliance officer to bring people to order.

Lunny is the c.o. of the ruling body. Here’s a guy who seems to appear every time something like this happens. He must spend hours trawling the websites to find out things about fitba players.

What’s this man doing? Is it a real job? Couldn’t he be doing something better and more constructive than picking through the bones of a lot of nonsense.

Don’t for one moment think I’m attempting to vindicate Griffiths. I’m not. He should get the proverbial boot up the backside for what he did - there are no two ways about that. 

But this officious rigmarole seems OTT. I think the SFA are just being petty. It does smack of someone trying to justify their existence.

The punishment should have come from within the player’s club. Hopefully, getting rapped over the knuckles by his own hierarchy would mean a lot more to him - well, it should mean a lot more - than being savaged by an SFA sheep called Vincent Lunny.

Which brings me back to my point about this chap’s role: jobs like this take money out of the game and we struggle at times to provide things that would be beneficial either to the top end of the professional gig or the amateur end.

But the SFA inevitably provide money for some things that are trivial, But we shouldn’t be surprised, for they are trivial people.

Look, I don’t know a lot about Stewart Regan, but I don’t see a lot happening within the game that I could congratulate him for. No, I can’t say I go to sleep counting the accomplishments of Stewart Regan.

Anyway, these punishments seem to be selective, rather than across the board. Morton’s Rowan Vine apparently made uncomplimentary signs to Cowdenbeath supporters when he was sent off the other night.

I didn’t see Lunny sending a letter to the club asking Vine to come up and see him. Is it only because there were 500 people there and really nobody gives diddly squat about it?

I don’t remember, either, Paul McGowan being lettered by the SFA for being drunk and assaulting policemen. No, it’s my belief that Lunny looks for nonsense and is getting his 50-60 grand a year and Vauxhall car for absolutely nothing.

He should only be getting involved if the club involved don’t do anything, if indeed they thumb their nose at the situation. That’s the time the shadow of Vincent Lunny should fall over proceedings.

Hey, I know times have changed, but one phone call from Ernie Walker would have diffused this situation. I can hear what he would have said: “It’s not in the best possible taste,”

As a result, the morals would have been improved, and it would have made a better impact on the individuals who were causing the situation.

This current SFA hoopla was all so unnecessary . It needed someone just to stop guys like Leigh Griffiths in their tracks with some sensible advice, rather than putting them on the back page.

Maybe Griffiths thinks it’s smart because it’s on the back page. But it’s not smart and he should know that. But I still contend that it was up to Celtic, not Lunny, to deliver the sermon.

Another Scotland friendly? Better off with Kevin's Grand Designs

　

By Andy Ritchie

SO here I am, positioned in front of the telly on Friday night, pen poised to write down anything of Hampden significance. My head is good to go, but what about my heart?

Well, let’s say there’s little response from it. It’s possibly somewhere else, certainly not in this dear green place. Just call me the reluctant scribe. I’m on Scotland blogging duty, but I don’t really want to be.

My country is involved in a friendly against the USA and, for all I care, they might as well be playing Brazil. And even then I’m not even sure that would float my boat.

Bob Geldof didn’t fancy Mondays. Well, I don’t fancy football friendlies on Fridays. Or on any other night of the week, for that matter. And, within minutes of the kick-off, my mind is wandering so far away from the National Stadium that they might have to send out a search party to find it.

So I’m blethering to my companions, including my ma, and I’m watching the game: then I’m watching and blethering. And, yes, I’m considering changing channels. Hey, I’ve actually thought of turning over to Children In Need a couple of times but, no, let’s be professional about this - I’m supposed to be working here. Man, though, it’s bloody hard to be professional.

Wait a minute: I’ve drawn a little bit of inspiration. I’ve noticed that one or two of the Scotland players are sporting beards. I must improve my maths, it’s far more than one or two: there’s Fletcher, Snodgrass, Conway, Hutton, Hanley…and, wait a minute, is that a five o’clock shadow beginning to fall over Charlie Mulgrew’s face? And, God save us, one of the substitutes, Wallace, is wearing another. It’s a veritable explosion of hair - made in Scotland.

Quite the little statistician, aren’t I? If I’m not careful, I’ll be upsides with Wee Pat Nevin before long. But, listen, this is a serious consideration: I can’t remember playing in a team with so much facial hair. Okay, you were allowed to grow beards if you wanted to during the Seventies, but they weren’t at their most popular in this particular era.

I mean, we tended to go big afro and then even bigger afros. I can’t remember many pop stars or film stars with beards. They were for old men and down and outs. Oh, and Bluto, of Popeye fame. Now, those were some whiskers!

That didn’t mean we were short of those delightful little eccentricities. Dear me no. We tended to go for sideburns in the flavour of Mungo Gerry - and were very much into what we called the Tom Selleck porno moustaches. But beards? No.

And actually, I must admit: a wee bit of hair on your face isn’t too shabby. Some suit it better than others. Not for me, though. I looked like that wee animal that used to pop up on breakfast television: Roland Rat.

But here I am counting beards when I should be analysing what’s going on with Scotland. Truth be told, there’s not much going on. We (Scotland) are on our way to a moral victory. We are set to keep the run going and so that’s three games without defeat under Gordon Strachan. They did us 5-1 last time, so 0-0 looks better.

But I like a sting in the tail. I prefer something to matter. Tonight, the football is ordinary, to say the least. The Americans look as if they are just shaping up for a wee runabout. And nothing, or indeed no-one, is demanding my attention, other than this new fixation with facial adornments. Hey, international football friendlies are a bit like eating Chinese food. You can eat a No 132 and, about 35 minutes later, you’re hungry again.

It’s just two teams on the park and naebody is really worrying about what happens out of the whole exercise, apart from maybe the managers.

They say the crowd is about 25,000. Well, they say there are fools born every day. Who would want to pay money on a Friday night to leave the comfort of their firesides and go and watch this?

To my mind, it’s just a money-making exercise for the SFA. What they should have done is let everyone in for nothing. Or play it behind closed doors. At this time of year, it’s like saying: would you like to buy a ticket for the dress rehearsal of a pantomime? Maybe you would. I wouldn’t.

There are times when I am pulled out of my boredom. Is that Flower of Scotland I hear being sung? If it is, it’s a pallid version, a subdued and almost embarrassed version. But you can’t blame those poor fans: it’s hard to get excited about nothing. Besides, they are probably asking themselves why they’d bothered to come in the first place.

If we must, let’s talk football. Fletcher is up front with Snodgrass. I’d have preferred to see Fletcher playing closer to a wee guy like Naismith. But it’s just about all right. You can’t say that anyone is doing his chances any harm.

Barry Bannon? I’ve never believed that those whose arses are close to the ground can make significant contributions when things become physical, but he’s doing all right, using the ball and playing to his strengths. In these matches, though, players understand that they’re going to get another half tick on the ball.

Then we have the right-footed Conway on the left wing. This tactic seems to be flavour of the month with managers and coaches. This Andros Townsend boy from Tottenham has started something.

Tonight, the best chance of the match comes from the right. It works its way across the box and Fletcher plays it on to Conway, who skews the ball past the post - with his right foot!

A thought occurs here: do we need to suffer this again on Tuesday night against Norway? Here, is there anything else on? Maybe like the final of the World Bowls? Better, still another enthralling version of Strictly Come Dancing?

But, hang about, my ma loves Grand Designs. Maybe she’ll insist on a wee bit of Kevin McCloud. And who am I to resist? Besides, there’s a man who disnae wear a beard!