EXPLOITATION AT THE RYDER CUP: CALLING MR ALEX SALMOND

BY BRYAN COONEY

IT’S possibly injudicious to write about your relatives on a public platform such as this, but lack of judgment seems to form a stout branch of the family tree, so here goes.

Today, I ’m concentrating on what I consider to be exploitation, and also the autumnal madness of my Chicago-based brother- in-law.

Alejandro Gonzales, aka Alex, is a volunteer (one of around 1,800, or so) for this year’s Ryder Cup in September. I’m still wondering whether he has forfeited his wits.

But, before highlighting the plight of the less than privileged key workers at Gleneagles, it’s necessary to paint a picture of a rather incredible and impressive man who, it must be stated, has not uttered one single word of complaint about what’s ahead of him.

At 82 years of age, Alex is a former oil company executive who declares himself quite captivated by the game of golf. As a player, he’s Mr Average in that he’ll never be a reincarnation of Lee Trevino but, there again, he will assuredly never witness the indignity of the number 24 attached to his handicap.

He takes his allegiance to the sport further by dedicating some of his leisure time to the professional game: he’s been a steward at two Ryder Cups, a US Open and quite a few other big tournaments. It allows him, he says, to be close to his heroes. You cannot curb enthusiasm like that, it seems.

But now it’s time to study the exploitative nature of this year’s biennial bun fight between Europe and America. We’ll vote for fairness and start with the one perk afforded volunteers. Most of them work a four-hour shift - and then are permitted to watch the proceedings in their downtime. Now, ain’t that cute?

But prepare yourselves for the negatives. Firstly, workers are expected to pay in the order of £65-70 for their uniforms, which comprise a windcheater, polo shirt and cap.

Surely they are remunerated in other ways? A daily wage, for instance? Er, not so as you would notice. Other than a £15 daily voucher for food and drink, they won’t receive a hillock of beans, far less a hill, for their efforts. Neither, it‘s claimed, are they given an allowance for travelling to Perthshire.

While we’re at it, let’s count the ancillary costs of being a volunteer. Whilst the panjandrums of the competition are firmly ensconced in the luxury of Gleneagles - no doubt contemplating the millions of pounds of profit - the worker ants must scurry around finding their own accommodation. Again, they must pay for this themselves.

To ease this potential burden, Alex originally considered staying at a hotel in nearby Crieff, but was deterred by the prohibitive cost of £200 a night. So, he will stay in Glasgow at approximately £60 a night and make a daily 100-mile round trip in order to perform his duties in the merchandising marquee. Remember, we’re talking about an octogenarian here.

Overall, the cost to his pocket will be equally disturbing: at a conservative estimate, his trip from America will cost him two or three thousand pounds, possibly more.

Now, let me underline again that my brother-in-law’s lips are sealed against recrimination. When I say that the organisers are taking an almighty liberty with willing hands, Alex prefers diplomacy.

“It doesn’t bother me, fortunately,” he responds. “I’m retired and in a (financial) position to do it. Hey, I’m still blessed with the memory of Medinah. Now that came as a complete surprise.

“I’ll always remember that the Europeans were so happy - meanwhile I think the Americans took it in their stride: I didn’t see any confrontations. I don’t think we’ll ever see another ending like that one.”

Alex is not getting off that easily, though. I press him again for a reaction and am rewarded with a token victory. “Oh, I suppose I’d like to see some additional benes (benefits) for the volunteers. We do work hard and try to make it as smooth as possible.”

So what benes would be acceptable? “Oh, okay, the ball swings towards the Ryder Cup group as far as being able to take advantage of myself and others. But, hey, by the same token, if I weren’t there, it would be very easy to fill my shoes. I understand 18,000 people volunteered. That gives you an idea how many people out there want to do this.”

That may be so, but who expects a man to work for nothing in this age of corporate activity and insatiable greed? It is exploitation by any name you can conjure.

There are no firm figures regarding what the European Tour as organisers expect to make from this year’s competition, but I do know that, back in 2006, the K Club in Dublin is said to have cleared £10million after the taxman had deliberated.

They say Gleneagles will generate £100million, so you can take that as around £20 million of clear profit.

Wouldn’t it be nice if each and every one of those volunteers from all over the world went back home with a small but well-earned bonus. Plus a pleasant memory of their time in Scotland?

I’m no actuary, but my instant calculations say it would take just over one and a quarter million pounds to do that. Small potatoes, indeed, considering the crop.

Now, I understand the Scottish Government was highly instrumental in bringing the competition back to Scotland. Perhaps another Alex - the one called Salmond, can supply a rescue package.

Mr Salmond positively thrives on being seen and heard at big events; I also imagine he believes in fairness. What a chance for him to flourish his true mettle.

He could step in and demand justice for the underprivileged of Ryder Cup golf. Surely, it's not beyond him in this year of destiny?

MCINNES NOT FIT FOR FERGIE'S SHOES JUST YET

By Bryan Cooney

THIS somewhat deranged world of Scottish football is occasionally predisposed towards wild exaggeration.

The Highland News, for instance, recently reported that Inverness CT manager John Hughes had drawn comparisons between his prolific striker, Billy McKay, and the little guy employed to do similar business for FC Barcelona: Lionel Messi.

No, this is not a misprint. You imagine McKay pulling the duck-feather duvet over his head when he read that one. Can you imagine the stick he received when he next popped that head around the dressing room door at the Tulloch Caledonian Stadium?

Anyway, a similar form of hyperbole was employed in Aberdeen recently when Stewart Milne and some of his acquaintances from the business community toasted the club’s League Cup victory.

Now, aside from an impressive flourish of solidarity from over 40,000 fans, it had been a less than convincing conclusion at Hampden. The Dons just about crawled over the line, extra time and penalties being required to deny the muscular challenge of the aforementioned Inverness.

Yet the jubilation within Milne, no doubt encouraged by the massive turn-out in the city for the homecoming, was unconfined. I understand he astounded his chums by announcing that, in Derek McInnes, he’d found a manager who belonged to the same league as Alex Ferguson.

That statement put the chairman so far over the top that he effectively joined the space race. Had he totally lost his senses? Or, might he have been positively pixilated at the time of speaking?

Whatever, some form of empathy certainly can be distributed towards the man from Alford: he has experienced several torrid years, forfeited a sizeable chunk of his £400 million fortune and, it was whispered, come close to business oblivion.

His record as a football leader, meanwhile, has been so impoverished that it was comparable with the UK’s annual performance in the Eurovision Song contest. Eight managers in 19 years: that’s infiltrating the pedigree of real estate owned by the likes of Daniel Levy and Rod Petrie.

Still, with economic growth encouraging legitimate expectations and the building empire and bank balance rapidly replenishing themselves, Milne at last had discovered a man who certainly knew his way around the sporting block.

But does the fact that McInnes has won a League Cup and finished third in the Premiership, comprehensively outflanked by Celtic and marginally by Motherwell, mean they’ll be singing loud hosannas in the Granite City from here on in? It’s a possibility but some way from a probability.

Does it mean it’s acceptable to mention McInnes and Ferguson in the same sentence? No, it’s not. Listen, it’s impossible to imagine anyone taking such a claim seriously. Least of all the pragmatic McInnes.

However, there is a suggestion that the dual winner of the Manager of the Year awards is already fashioning himself in the image of the great man.

He appears to have adopted the unfortunate trait of phoning up those journalists who are not tuned into his personal wavelength. Anyone daring to query his tactics or his choice of playing personnel are liable to be in receipt of an assault of the auditory system.

Last week, it’s claimed that the phone lines between Glasgow and the South were particular busy. Radio pundit Allan Preston seemingly voiced his reservations about McInnes winning the manager awards and was rewarded with a few minutes of vituperation. From what I hear, Preston, alias The Biscuit, insisted on biting back.

Look, this is not a campaign on behalf of the media - its representatives are robust enough to look after themselves. But just remember, despite what many fans think, most of those reporters do their jobs as objectively and honestly as possible. Most of them are inveterate fans themselves.

But how robotic would we be if there was agreement on every citizen’s lips? This country still preserves its reputation as a democratised society: it is not Putin’s Russia, And, because of that, everyone is entitled to their beliefs, even it if conflicts with others.

Perish the thought that anyone should be stripped of his or her opinion by any football manager, no matter his status.

Many fans are unlikely to agree with these observations because of an inherent dislike of the media, But the habit into which McInnes is falling is ill advised, Taking issue in this manner tells you a lot about a man. It represents hubris and arrogance. But it can also suggest insecurity and paranoia.

None of these things look good on the figurative C.V. of an ambitious young thruster. And I suspect this young man is bristling with ambition.

Now, I introduced myself very briefly to McInnes at Sunday’s football writers’ dinner. I was immediately impressed. He’s a clean-cut, articulate figure who has taken on the good work initiated by Craig Brown and Archie Knox and directed the team onto the next platform.

Most fans have bought wholeheartedly into his style, after their initial suspicions. The popular mantra has now become: In McInnes We Trust. There remain a few worrying issues, however.

Being a Dons fan for 60 years and more, I told him that I was a great admirer of his team. I could have said a lot more had the situation been more appropriate. Asked him a few questions.

For instance, who recommended that Calvin Zola should ever wear an Aberdeen jersey, and how much research went into that signing?

Why was Gregg Wylde discarded with such haste and so little explanation?

Why is the lone striker system persevered with at home, when invariably there are two rows of double-decker buses parked just in front of the opposition’s penalty area? Why does he seem reluctant to alter tactics when a stalemate ensues?

Don’t misinterpret matters. I’m not anti-McInnes. Far from it. Overall, he’s performed so much better than most of his predecessors. A welter of fine work has been achieved and a smile is returning to the faces of the people of Aberdeen. But these faces are mercurial by nature.

Last Sunday, the Dons threatened to sweep Motherwell into the North Sea. By doing that, they’d have finished second in the Premiership. Ultimately, they were denied by a refereeing blunder of the first order, so they were left in third spot.

This was the last game of the season and it’s traditionally a festive occasion where players celebrate with the fans. But, five minutes after the final whistle, there were almost no Aberdeen fans with whom to celebrate.

McInnes should take that on board. The wind is firmly in his favour at this moment. He should harness it effectively rather than trying to fight it.

Me, a dilatory old doctor... and cancer

By Bryan Cooney

AS we settle into the biorhythms of Movember - the month dedicated to defeating the devil that is prostate cancer - it may be time to challenge the dictum that all doctors know best.

So, come with me to a West of Scotland National Health consulting room and an incumbent who was so overtly friendly that he might have been an old school buddy rather than a general practitioner. This was only my second appointment with him, but I was immediately put at ease in what normally constituted an alien environment.

He revealed that my PSA (prostate-specific antigen) blood test was slightly aberrant. He further emphasised that no alarm bells should be rung. Now, I’d leant fairly enthusiastically towards hypochondria all my life, but I reckoned that this surely was a no-sweat situation. And hadn’t the medical profession previously insisted that my prostate was small going on miniscule?

I was told to return for a further test in a few weeks. Similar consultations took place over many months. Each time the PSA count increased, but my doctor insisted that he was relaxed about the situation. So I convinced myself to join him in that laid-back posture. Besides, how could you argue with someone who had medical qualifications?

To be strictly fair to him, he did send me to the local hospital, where an ultrasound test was performed. This apparently was inconclusive.

When my PSA reached 7.5, my locum was not noticeably unnerved: he simply unfurled another comfort blanket by telling me he had patients still walking around with quotients of 20 and over. This was reassuring. Well, almost.

Surely, there must be a more definitive test, I asked? The word ‘biopsy’ was mentioned, but my doctor shuddered as if he had seen Christopher Lee converting to Dracula mode. ‘You wouldn’t want that,’ he told me. ‘That’s a very nasty procedure. Very nasty, indeed.’

To be fair, I can’t say I was ever a proponent of nasty procedures. I’d committed myself to the cause of cowardice all my life, so I didn’t really want anything that would inflict pain or indignity on this sad, old relic of a body. I thus proceeded to go with the medical flow. It was a decision that would ultimately prove hopelessly flawed.

One day - we were now approximately two years down the line - the alarm bells began to ring so stridently that you might have thought my doctor had become a convert to campanology. Surrendering to agitation, if not wholesale panic, he divulged that my PSA was now 13.9 - and that I might have to subject myself to the procedure that provided the fabric of my nightmares.

My mind initially concentrated on recrimination. Of course I was fuming with this silly, old fool, his function being to save lives, not endanger them. However, I directed the greater proportion of my anger at myself. Why hadn’t I learned more about prostate cancer and PSAs? Why didn’t I use the Internet to familiarise myself with the situation? I mean, there was enough information about the disease on Google to keep Holby City in production for years.

I knew why I’d resisted any opportunity of transparency, of course: I was old school and almost endorsed technophobia. I didn’t like or understand computers, and sought education from the mouths of experts, not from the electronic media. There again, perhaps I was happy with my ignorance. Maybe I didn’t want to know. How infernally stupid was that?

It was time to address the reality of the situation, I had private medical insurance, which previously I’d been reluctant to use as it sent the premiums soaring. But, cost be damned, this now had all the hallmarks of emergency.

Within days, I was in a consulting room and the surgeon was strongly recommending biopsies. He couldn’t quite understand why someone with a PSA of 13.9 was demanding his attention at this late stage. ‘I operate when the figure reaches four,’ he admonished.

As my Adam’s Apple performed an impromptu break dance in my throat, he inquired as to the age of my general practitioner. He was not surprised when I told him that he was very probably in his late fifties/early sixties. It was time for an alarming revelation. The consultant surgeon told me that doctors in middle age upwards were not always conversant with the vagaries of the illness. I silently wished I had been privy to this information a couple of years back.

An appointment was made for the biopsies. Faced with the inevitable, I was uncharacteristically calm. There were no Christopher Lee moments. Sure, I experienced minor discomfort but strangely no real pain. You suspected the GP’s prediction of nastiness belonged to hyperbole. I considered myself lucky.

That luck deserted me almost immediately when the prognosis was delivered, however. They told me there and then: it was cancer and a most aggressive one at that. If I remember, four of the five tests prove positive. The remedy was simple and brutal: a radical prostatectomy - which meant the removal of the gland and the end of my life as fully-functioning man.

That night, sleep promised to be problematic. I should have been in a ferment. Instead, I was seized by an almost disturbing tranquillity. Tears would come to me, all in good time, but not then. This was the moment for prayer and pragmatism. I was 63, had reached the top in my chosen profession of sports journalism, had a beautiful wife, lovely children and five adorable grand-daughters. No-one could say, least of all me, that I’d been in deficit. If this was my fate, then so be it.

But something was gnawing at me: I wondered how, in hell’s name, had I managed to contract this awful illness. Had it been genetic? There was no history of it in the family, as far as I could ascertain.

Then it hit me: could it have been the notorious Index Finger Test? It provides the alpha male with a psychological jungle to explore, even when it’s conducted with sensitivity. Let’s have it right: having your backside antagonised in such a fashion is scarcely appealing.

But the sensitivity was conspicuously absent when I arrived at a private clinic in London in 1999. I’d had the procedure before, so I knew what to expect. What was unexpected was the force behind the finger on this occasion. It promised to fillet me like a North Sea haddock.

I chastised the young doctor, sarcastically suggesting that he could have taken a longer run-up in the manner of England fast bowler Darren Gough. He was not amused, but then neither was I. My insides throbbed with pain and that pain lasted many weeks before the natural healing agents prevailed. Could that have been the reason for having to undergo radical surgery? Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps it was attached to my destiny.

Whatever, the operation took place on a Saturday afternoon in March 2008. The delay in discovery had led to the tumour growing exponentially. It was out of prostate and there were legitimate fears that it might endanger the lymphatic system and bones.

Here, Lady Luck visited me again. A bone scan, further tests and agonising delays ultimately proved that this was not the case. And when the surgeon told me he had managed to remove all the diseased tissue and later that my PSA was showing zero, my happiness could not have been purchased for a million quid.

Life had regained the threads of a silver lining but, unfortunately, not for long. Signs of the cancer began to reappear two years later and I was referred to an oncologist. This time, a course of radiation was recommended. Side effects were obligatory but you were obliged to take them in your stride. Once again, the cancer scurried into a corner and made out a surrender was in the ether. But once again it returned - almost furtively at first, but forever becoming bolder.

I’ve just turned 69 and I suppose in many ways I live from appointment to appointment. The oncologist told me ostensibly at our last meeting that, having had the radical surgery and the radiotherapy, there were no more cures available - only a series of delaying tactics. That, of course, doesn’t signal imminent disaster. These tactics can offer a formidable resistance to the malignancy of this disease.

So, I’m waiting - and it may not be long - for that renegade PSA to reach the figure four. Then, it’ll be time for some hormonal therapy, the side effects of which include hot flushes and weight gains. Well, everything comes with a price tag.

　

I’m sorry to report that the narrative does not have a happier conclusion. But, hey, it’s not as if I’m incapacitated. I’m still standing. Still working. I look around me, witness life’s carnage and acknowledge that it could be

far, far worse.

The fact, is however, that save for the ineptitude of a general practitioner (I never received as much as an apology from him) and the crass stupidity of someone who should have known better (that’s me), it didn’t have to be like this.

In this significant month of Movember, just be sure you don’t make the same mistake.

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.