Sir Alex feels the calm before a Snow storm

By Bryan Cooney

　

AS far as this armchair pundit could discern, Sir Alex Ferguson demonstrated in his recent London press conference that he might not be so resistant to restraint after all.

For once adopting an air that correlated with his status as a benevolent grand-dad, he downloaded his reasons for writing that book.

This was, remember, his ninth and perhaps most significant tome. It was the one that contained a farrago of trenchant observations about those who served him at Manchester United (think Keane, Beckham, Rooney, etc); the one which spectacularly punctured a myth he helped create - that all things controversial should be confined to the dressing room.

There was little evidence of the infamous Fergie intensity on this day; certainly no finger-jabbing, no stares that would have unhinged anyone other than Roy Keane, no minatory threats and, blissfully, no language of an unsatisfactory nature.

I would venture, however, that his triumph became in many ways the Fourth Estate’s humiliation. The so-called cream of Britain’s sports journalism ensured that this was not so much a major media event as the deification of a football legend.

To use a boxing colloquialism, they rarely laid a glove on him, let alone a finger. Oh, there were a couple of questions that led to a tightening of the lips and the head lowering in desk-studying mode - especially the one concerning the intriguing and apparently never to be sufficiently explained Rock of Gibraltar affair.

But, in general, the atmosphere was heavy with sycophancy and it seemed Ferguson was luxuriating in the deodorant.

As a former sports editor who once encouraged investigative reporting into football’s more intriguing issues, I’m sometimes alarmed by these events. Particularly so when they feature a collection of rampant egos who normally can’t wait to thrust their faces onto television screens and declare their insider knowledge to the world. I’m talking about some members of my own profession hereabouts.

Well, this was their big day, their Cup Final if you wish to use that clichéd analogy, and I’m afraid history will state that most of them - although not all - lost badly.

So, what went wrong? Why did the majority of Fleet Street’s finest turn into fruit flies? Were they intimidated by the man and his towering status on such an auspicious occasion? Were they simply wearied by all the bollockings and bans that had been levied upon them in earlier years? Or did they simply want to forge friendships with Fergie, now that he claims to have mellowed?

I’ve heard it said they were frustrated in that their time was consumed by the amount of foreign journalists asking banal questions. Sorry, I’m unable to buy that one. There were enough unnerving silences during proceedings to suggest that people had forfeited their nerve.

Look, if there’s any mitigation out there, I’ll concede it’s scarcely appealing to enter a public confrontation with a behemoth, and even less so if that behemoth is named Ferguson. There is more than a chance that you’ll lose.

But as John McEnroe used to proclaim: ‘You don’t ask, you don’t get!’ If you want to retain credibility and your objectivity as a journalist, certain occasions demand you have to start standing on toes, and big ones at that.

Where were all the questions that the public - especially a (£25) book-buying public - were entitled to demand of a man who has gone through life occasionally occupying the role of rogue elephant?

One of the memorable lines featured Roy Keane. Fergie said: ‘His eyes narrowed to wee black beads. It was frightening - and I’m from Glasgow!’ Hey, I can appreciate such apprehension, but what do they say about what goes around comes around?

Might someone not have pointed out that this was sheer hypocrisy and that he (Ferguson) had been attempting to intimidate people all his life? Yeah, even those who liked and admired him.

Hereabouts, you should absorb the words of the late Aberdeen vice chairman Chris Anderson, once Fergie’s mentor. He once privately confessed to television reporter Frank Gilfeather: ‘He virtually runs Pittodrie. Every area of the club and the media, he wants an element of control. He needs to know everything that’s going on. But, then, you’ve got to realise that he’s a megalomaniac.’

Gilfeather asked why they tolerated such a figure. ‘Because he’s a winner!’ was the immediate response.

So, on November 6 1986, Manchester United and Martin Edwards, the often derided former chairman, quite legitimately sourced this winner (and alleged megalomaniac), and, after an initially tortuous few years, found themselves taking the road to untrammelled success.

Incredibly, the journey would last nigh on 27 years. Ferguson is responsible for that and we should never forget it. Thus, he is entitled to take every plaudit that’s going, enjoy both his retirement and the handsomely remunerated globe-travelling role that has been awarded him by a grateful football club. Bloody good luck to him. God knows, there is little gratitude in this game.

But equally there are matters that still require at least a little explanation. Why, for someone so proud of his legacy, did he leave Manchester United with a team that was beginning to groan with age and required refurbishment?

And why, considering his insistence at keeping things in-house, did he break the issue of Wayne Rooney’s disaffection with the club and therefore saddle David Moyes with a problem of gargantuan proportions?

Mind you, those reporters had company in their ineptitude. At this juncture, the formidable form of Adrian Chiles takes centre stage. He’s the man, armed not only with a big fat, ITV contract but also a rather destabilising accent; you imagine he could fit into the next series of the BBC Two drama, Peaky Blinders, without anyone noticing. I loved Peaky Blinders. Not so sure the love extends to the big fella, though.

On Tuesday evening, he was hosting coverage of Arsenal’s Champions League match against Borussia Dortmund. And with Roy Keane being one of the resident pundits, Chiles might have been expected to play a blinder, if you’ll pardon the expression.

But here, apparently overwhelmed by the importance of the moment, he said something jokey about Keane not being too popular with Ferguson. The Irishman, displaying the nerve of a man who has been playing stud poker all his life, claimed he wasn’t upset by this, but then questioned Fergie’s regard for loyalty.

In reality, the question was a cop-out. Keane should have been asked about his propensity for instilling fear not only among his Manchester United players but also his former manager. It was another golden opportunity lost.

But, before I dismiss Tuesday, October 22, as a bleak day for journalism, let me tell you about the rescue act that presented itself in the slender shape of Jon Snow. Anyone tuning in to the Channel 4, demanding objectivity and journalism at its finest, was rewarded with a bravura performance from the 66-year-old.

Sir Alex, so benign, so self-assured, so omnipotent facing friendly fire earlier in the day, suddenly was presented with an authentic hoop to jump through. There were times the physical feat looked beyond him. I’ll give you a flavour..

Snow: The interesting thing about you is you brought on all these incredible young players. But you fell out with all of them?

Ferguson: You have to deal with issues as they are at the time. The important thing is don’t lose your control. Manchester United cannot afford players to run the club.

Snow: So control is all?

Ferguson: Not all, but it’s really, really important. If you want to stay in a job, you need to have that.

Snow: It sounds a bit Stalinist?

There was much more. Snow put it that Ferguson had been weak in his handling of the media; that his banning of people suggested he ‘couldn’t take the rough with the smooth. You banned a lot of people; you loved to chuck them out of your press conferences.’

Ferguson’s answer failed to convince, stressing that there was no recourse with the press. If Snow was impressed, it didn’t inhibit his next line of attack. ‘You seem to demonstrate a very thin skin. And yet you’re a God head. People know who you are.’

Ferguson attempted to raise the siege by claiming that he never held grudges. Snow despatched that statement through the covers for a four, emphasising that the Scot had banned BBC for seven years over a documentary about his son, Jason. It had been a very poor documentary, claimed Sir Alex, again unconvincingly.

Towards the end of the 11-minute one-to-one, Ferguson looked as if a cold shower might be appropriate. But there was one final question: would he be writing another book?

I might be mistaken in my analysis here, but his whole demeanour suggested that a 10^th book would never be an option. Ever.

Dear Auntie, it just ain't good enough

By Bryan Cooney

WHEN a professional football team wins a trophy, prudence instructs the armchair viewer to seize the nearest lifebelt in preparation for the inevitable tidal wave of post-match tosh.

It’s so predictable: the trackside TV reporter asks all the players how they’re feeling. And, unless they’re experiencing a migraine, or have just forfeited a ‘monkey’ on the 3.30 at Wincanton, they ignore the inanity of the question and say they’re seeking the nearest moon to jump over.

Steven Thompson doesn’t appear to appreciate moon shots, however. Indeed, the striker confirmed last March, in a moment of the utmost temptation, that clichés were not his style.

He was invited to express his feelings after St Mirren had removed Hearts’ pantaloons in the League Cup final. Thommo talked about it being a cathartic moment for the club. I almost tumbled from my armchair. Cathartic? The temptation was to vacate the old armchair and deliver a standing ovation. And I swear I heard the ghost of Bob Crampsey joining in.

More negatively, I also imagined someone in BBC Scotland feverishly grappling with a Chambers Dictionary. Was this word permissible in the wholly absurd lexicon now endorsed by the Pacific Quay/Inverness mob, where anything of more than two syllables is often discouraged?

Now, I know something of this. During a short but revelatory freelance association with Radio Scotland, I once conducted an interview with former National Hunt champion jockey Peter Scudamore.

In the introduction, the suggestion was that he and trainer Martin Pipe had applied a headlock to their sport; that their hegemony had made a lot of people rich and others jealous.

The producer was either baffled by the language employed, or unimpressed by it. Possibly both. He suggested I change it. I was both baffled and unimpressed with a representative of the once formidable BBC talking in such terms.

So I resisted, arguing that we shouldn’t talk down to the listeners, and emphasising that even if they didn’t understand ‘hegemony’, they would pick up on its meaning from the context of the two sentences. My career with Radio Scotland ended shortly afterwards.

But, let’s forget the pedantry of this old git and return to the impressive Thompson. Just imagine my jubilation when he turned up on the latest edition of Sportscene, alongside the equally impressive and opinionated Michael Stewart.

Deep joy was sprinkled liberally on Sunday evening viewing. Watchable television at long last This particular viewer had almost given up on a programme that really has been toiling these last few years.

Here, now, are two men who might persuade me against putting my foot through the flat screen. They manage to marry an understanding of football with succinct and objective analysis. And they do so without fragmenting and, at times, demolishing the language in the process, unlike a few of their contemporaries.

I hope and pray that the Beeb perseveres with the duo, for they are appropriately twinned. But, knowing the perversity of the sports department, or perhaps those from above who direct the sports department, it’s not a foregone conclusion that these prayers will be answered.

Of course, the problems with football on BBC Scotland lie far deeper than simply Sportscene. So, here’s a question designed to discomfit those who determine our television schedules up here.

Exempting live matches and the occasional foray into the fiscal foibles of Rangers and Hearts, when did you last marvel at the ingenuity and brilliance of the programme makers? And when did you last see a decent football show that dealt with the pertinent issues in the sport?

Hand glued to my heart, I would argue that since I returned to Scotland in 2001, I’ve never seen a documentary to comprehensively satisfy my inquisitive instincts. Well, there was a commendable one on BBC Alba to celebrate Aberdeen’s conquest of Europe. There was another about Ally McLeod’s unequal struggle against Alzheimer’s. Correct me if I’m wrong, but I believe this was performed by the news division of BBC Scotland.

Hey, I pay my licence fee (a hefty one at that) and aren’t I entitled, as we all are, to see something beyond the tokenism of sport at the tailgate of news bulletins?

Sport Nation? With apologies to John Beattie and Rhona McLeod and to the minority sports, the BBC Two offering doesn’t quite cut it for me. Football remains the great turn-on, and I seek controversy, intrigue, insight and, of course, an understanding of this great and Machiavellian game in which once we were proficient.

At present, BBC airs three dedicated sports programmes: Sportscene on a Sunday, Sportscene Results on a Saturday (it’s difficult to concentrate on any subject when the telecast is downloading goals, sendings-off and results), and Sport Nation once a month. More is required.

We are a small country, of course, dominated by two great clubs, so the menu would never be extensive. There are nevertheless plenty of good documentaries to be made. And, just to satisfy other appetites, these should be diverse and not necessarily Old Firm driven.

You might start with the fairytale that ended in nightmare. For instance, whatever happened to Gretna FC and the manager (Rowan Alexander) who supervised the club’s fabulous ascent through the leagues, before becoming a pariah? He is now the assistant manager of an Ayrshire junior side.

A decent programme might also be made on the dramatic Terry Butcher, the English managerial failure who became a Scottish success. A focus on Hibs chairman Rod Petrie would be equally fascinating. Nine managers have departed East Road since 1997, when Petrie joined the club - why does responsibility for a decline in playing standards always lie with someone other than himself?

Then, of course, how about a profile on Jim Leishman, the manager-cum-poet who became a provost whilst his beloved Dunfermline ostensibly disappeared down the plughole? And there’s Steve Paterson, a gambling and a binge drinking manager who left Pittodrie in the boot of a car some years back. An update on his progress might be fascinating.

Sadly, personality-driven programmes such as these are unlikely to happen. Beeb bosses will bleat that they don’t have the budgets to make them. But their argument collapses when you consider the finances doled out to BBC Alba. It’s a worthwhile channel but very much a minority one and claims a disproportionate share of the honey pot.

So, what’s the great importance of football? Initially, the sports department in national newspapers were never treated seriously: they were looked upon as the toy departments. But then editors became enlightened and conceded that sport represents a vital release valve from the vicissitudes of a troubled world. The importance of football should never be underestimated.

Those who run BBC Scotland should wake up to that fact.