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senorarelojes · 4 years

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Fic: Happiest Girl (Part 6)

Alan makes a bet that Dave would not be able to pass off as a woman in ladies’ clothing. Dave decides to prove him wrong. (This is set sometime during the Black Celebration era.)

Pairing: Dave/Alan Rating: Explicit Notes: Many thanks to the lovely @pinksyndication for this beautiful fanart of Dave and Alan getting ready for their ridiculous bet! And of course thanks also to the wonderful @what-could-have-been for their own fanart and lovely ideas!

Edit: I was so swamped I knew I forgot something. HAPPY BIRTHDAY MARTIN!

First part is here. Second part is here. Third part is here. Fourth part is here. Fifth part is here.

They stopped by a boutique opposite the hotel to get a black silk scarf for Dave, which helped to keep his Adam’s apple hidden. As Alan draped it around Dave’s neck, the salesperson was watching them and smiling indulgently in an ‘aww aren’t you an adorable couple’ way. She said something in German that they didn’t understand, but Alan just smiled and nodded as he paid for the scarf. Then they stepped out to hail a cab to the Reeperbahn.

Their driver didn’t seem to know a lick of English either, so Dave figured it was safe to discuss their modus operandi. “So how are we going to do this?” he asked Alan at a normal volume, dropping his voice to a whisper once he spotted the driver’s startled eyes widening at him in the rear view mirror. Fuck, he’d forgotten that he still sounded like a bloke.

Alan stretched out an arm across the backseat. “I figured we’d hit a few clubs, get some drinks and see what happens,” he suggested.

“How do we determine who wins?” Dave thought this was the most important question. His legs kept sprawling wide out of habit, and he had to keep reminding himself to clamp them shut.

Alan looked thoughtful. “If people leave you alone and nobody suspects a thing, we consider it a win for you,” he said. “And if anyone stares at you suspiciously or asks you questions, it’s a win for me, I guess.”

“Wait, what sort of questions?” Dave narrowed his eyes at Alan. The hemline of his dress kept riding up with every speed bump they went over, and he had to keep tugging it down in frustration, much to Alan’s amusement.

Alan shrugged. “I guess, ‘Are you a bloke?’ is a sure indicator, at least. Or anything that generally sounds suspicious.”

“What if they ask me in German and I don’t understand?”

“I think suspicion is generally universal?” Alan pointed out. “If enough people stare, we’ll know the game is up. Maybe we’ll just play it by ear and see what happens tonight.”

“Fine.” Dave tapped Alan’s knee in warning. “And no running off if you see a prettier bird. You have to stick by my side.”

Alan just smiled at him, reaching out and tucking a stray curl behind Dave’s ear. “I promise I’m not going anywhere.”

***

The cab dropped them somewhere at the North Side along one of the side streets, which Dave remembered Fletch nicknaming ‘Gross Free Hell’ the last time they’d passed by because it was so near the red light district. Dave stepped out first as Alan paid the driver, glancing at the street sign for the actual name: Große Freiheit. The street was teeming with people: tourists, drunk revellers, roving groups of men on their merry way to the brothels. It was warm for mid-May, but there was still a little chill in the open night air. Dave was now glad for his scarf.

Now Alan stood beside him, taking in the lively atmosphere around them. “If at any point, you feel uncomfortable and want to stop, you have to tell me,” he said carefully.

Dave wanted to tell him not to be silly, but he quickly realised his optimism was really just false bravado. “Should we have a code word, then? Or a phrase?” he suggested.

Both of them exchanged a smirk. “Toast Hawaii, ” Dave and Alan said at the same time, cracking up with laughter.

“Brilliant.” Dave was still smiling, adjusting the hem of his dress.

“Great minds and all that.” Alan jerked his head towards the noisier main street. “C’mon then, let’s look for a place and get a drink.”

They entered the Reeperbahn and continued walking down the street, past the arrays of pubs, bars and restaurants. Dave had to be mindful of the way he walked, keenly observing the female half of an American tourist couple in front of them. The woman had a sway to her hips that Dave tried to mimic, her steps smaller and more careful as opposed to his usual loose stride. Alan wasn’t saying a word, but Dave could sense the silent amusement radiating off him in waves.

At one point a loud wolf-whistle pierced the air; Dave was surprised to find it came from a group of burly men at an open-air table, all of them grinning lasciviously at him. One of them shouted out something in German, which made all his friends roar with laughter. Whatever he’d said, Dave hoped that it wasn’t as dirty as it sounded.

“What an arsehole,” Alan said. Dave was on the verge of agreeing, but it would have been hypocritical; he’d yelled similar comments at girls back in Bas when he was a teenager.

“Does it count as me winning the bet?” Dave said with a dry laugh, although it sounded a little hollow.

“You don’t get off that easy.” Alan turned back to look at the rowdy table of German blokes again, seemingly peeved. “Besides, couldn’t he see that we’re together?”

Dave shot him a flat look. “Okay, I’m not taking that bloke’s side, but--” He gestured at the distance between them. Alan was at least two feet away. “If I’m supposed to be your girlfriend, it ain’t obvious.”

Alan frowned at him. “Oh. Then...should we hold hands?”

Dave rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake, Al. What are we, nuns? We’re on the bloody Reeperbahn, some of these clubs have actual live sex shows on stage. Here--” He took Alan’s hand, yanking him closer and draping his arm around Dave’s waist. They were so close now that Dave could smell Alan’s cologne and the mints he’d chewed on in the cab. “There, that’s more like it.”

Walking together this close was a little awkward at first, but Dave could sense the moment Alan eased into it, falling into rhythm with Dave as his warm hand cupped Dave’s hip with a possessive hold. Dave slid his own arm around Alan’s waist, tucking part of his hand under Alan’s belt. Alan was dressed really nicely tonight; he had on his usual leather jacket over a black sleeveless top and neatly-pressed trousers. He even smelled nice and expensive, like a bloke out on the town to show his girl the time of her life.

They stopped outside a bar playing ‘Lust for Life’, and Alan must have seen the way Dave perked up. “Here then?” he suggested, steering them in when Dave nodded.

The bar was dark and filled with cigarette smoke, the bartenders busy doling out huge pints by the trayload. There seemed to be an even mix of locals and tourists; Dave could hear snatches of conversations in German, Dutch, English and something vaguely Scandinavian. Bobbing along to the music, Dave waited patiently beside Alan, who ordered for them both. He was eventually handed a rum and coke, but it was extremely strong, at least.

Taking Alan’s hand, Dave led him further into the bar where they found an unoccupied standing table with dirty glasses. A busboy shortly came along to clear it, flashing a bashful smile at Dave who couldn’t help smiling back, feeling rather triumphant. He arched an eyebrow at Alan, as if to say, See? Alan only shook his head in amusement. He seemed determined to draw out Dave’s suffering.

Dave accepted the cigarette Alan offered him, their faces drawing close as Alan leaned in with his lighter, his eyes flitting between Dave’s eyes and mouth. Once the cigarette was lit, Dave nodded in thanks, taking a deep drag as he brushed his new curls over his shoulder. Having long hair was a nice novelty that he’d considered at times; now he might actually try it out in the future, despite whatever Jo said about it making him look unkempt.

The music had changed to something by Roxy Music, and Alan finished his pint. “I’m going to use the facilities,” he said loudly, at which Dave nodded. He shook out a second cigarette from Alan’s pack, putting it between his lips before he remembered he didn’t have a lighter.

Then one appeared in front of him, the flame flickering into life. “Guten Abend,” a blond giant of a man said, gesturing towards Dave’s cigarette. Dave accepted the light with a small smile, casting his eyes downwards coyly like he’d seen some girls do. He didn’t think it was wise to speak much, lest his voice give him away.

“Woher kommen Sie?” the man asked. He had ridiculously sharp cheekbones and eyes that were obviously blue even in the dark lighting of the bar. Funnily enough, he was the tall and handsome sort of Adonis that Dave would have tried to get into a brawl with, back in school.

When the man saw Dave’s uncomprehending expression, he switched to flawless albeit accented English. “Are you American?” he asked, eyes dipping down to glance at Dave’s legs.

“No, from the UK,” Dave said in what he hoped was a higher, believable pitch. If the bloke seemed suspicious, he didn’t give any indication whatsoever.

“I’m Jan,” the man said, holding out his hand.

Shit, Dave had to think of a name quickly. “I’m Martina,” he said, sending a silent apology to Mart, wherever he was.

“Your name is beautiful.” Jan kissed Dave’s hand, making his skin crawl. “Like you.”

Dave quickly wrenched his hand back. “I have a boyfriend.”

Jan shrugged, flashing Dave a sleazy smile. “I don’t see him anywhere.”

“Then you need glasses,” Alan’s polite but no-nonsense voice came from behind them. A relieved Dave was never so glad to see him. “Can I help you?”

Jan merely gave Alan a disdainful onceover, as if sizing up his competition. “No, I don’t think so.”

Sensing that this bloke wasn’t going to piss off anytime soon, Dave shifted closer to Alan, pressing their bodies together as he wrapped his arms snugly around Alan’s waist. He rested his head on Alan’s shoulder, sighing in pleasure as Alan pulled Dave close to him to stand between his legs. “Would you mind, then?” Alan said, stroking Dave’s hair.

After glaring at Alan for a good long moment, Jan told Dave: “If you get tired of him, I’m near the pool table at the back.” Winking at Dave, Jan tucked his lighter into his pocket before heading towards somewhere at the rear of the bar. Even when he returned to his table, he was still watching them, a vaguely unsatisfied expression on his face.

“That tosser still looking?” Alan asked, because his back was turned towards Jan.

“Think he is.” Dave was too comfortable to move from where he was, Alan’s body warm and firm against his own. “Let’s just wait a while, yeah?”

To Dave’s relief, Alan nodded, his hands still stroking through Dave’s curls.

#fanfic #happiest girl #crossdressing #pinksyndication #what-could-have-been

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btsybrkr · 4 years

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Please Come Dine With Me

In today’s world of Netflix originals, glossy reality series and big budget drama, it’s easy to forget about TV’s old reliables. You know, the programmes with nothing to say, but so much to give. They’re the television equivalent of an ex that you can’t help but miss, despite having brought absolutely nothing to each other’s lives. The absolute king of this brand of TV can only be Come Dine With Me, the dinner party contest that began broadcasting in 1892 and has been playing simultaneously, on all 26 branches of Channel 4, at every hour of every day ever since. Seriously, flick through the channels, I can almost guarantee it’s on right now.

Come Dine With Me, now in its 37th series (I’m actually not making that bit up), must unironically be one of the best things to ever air in this country. During a casual viewing, it seems that nothing much happens, but a quick Google search unearths an absolute goldmine of unforgettable moments. Some have already been cemented into pop culture history, destined to be repeated on ‘100 Greatest...’ clip shows until the sun swallows the Earth whole - like the man who decided to sample a sauce he was making by nonchalantly shoving the whole whisk into his mouth, or sore loser Peter Marsh’s ‘you won, Jane’ speech, which is, in my opinion, a hundred times more brutal than anything Ricky Gervais could or would ever come out with whilst presenting an awards ceremony. Others are unfortunately never spoken about, but remain a vivid memory in the consciousness of the lucky viewers who caught them, such as the moment a particularly eccentric contestant, known only as DJ Dom, drafted in indie musician Badly Drawn Boy to help him cook for his ‘Madchester’ themed dinner party, before telling the viewers “All done, just got to go and change me kecks!” and coming back downstairs in the exact same outfit, right down to the bucket hat. Or the iconic Preston week from series 7, in which we were introduced to so-posh-it-hurts Valerie Holliday, whose pronunciation of the word ‘pheasant’ (or fezzaaaunt, as she might say) is superglued to the insides of my brain, where it will stay for the rest of my days. I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I’m sure we’ve all, at some point, had the ‘who would be invited to your dream dinner party?’ conversation with our friends or family, but what we should really be asking each other is “who would be on your dream episode of Come Dine With Me?”. If you think about it, they’re two very different questions, with very different answers. Of course, I’d love the chance to sit and speak with Tom Hanks, Mac Demarco and Phoebe Waller-Bridge over a glass of wine and a really good burger, but do I think it would make entertaining TV? Well, yeah, probably. But not on Come Dine With Me. That’s a horse of a very different colour.

Anyway, here’s what my dream episode of Come Dine With Me might look like. Narrated in your brain by Dave Lamb, probably.

Today, we’re in Blackpool, where our first contestant, 23-year-old chronic timewaster Betsy (that’s me!), is gearing up to host the opening night of the week, and we’re sure it’s going to be an absolute belter. Let’s see what her fellow dinner party guests make of the menu.

“A cheeseboard? As a starter? What’s that about?”, asks living soundbite and reality TV icon, Gemma Collins. She’s unimpressed with the menu, largely on the basis that it pales in comparison to the sort of luxury she’s used to, such as the gourmet camel penis she could have been tucking into on I’m A Celebrity, Get Me Out Of Here! In 2014, had she not packed it in after three days. Actually, I think the celebrity version of Come Dine With Me might be the only reality programme that Gemma Collins is yet to appear in. Maybe we should be writing to the powers-that-be at Channel 4 and getting them to sort that out, since I’ll surely be making a strong case for her appearance here. Anyway, who’s next?

Our third contestant is equally disappointed with the offerings. “I don’t fuck with stilton”, states the self-proclaimed second coming of Jesus, Kanye West. Yes, he’s an odd choice for a daytime cookery/popularity contest, especially since I’m almost 100% sure he doesn’t cook for himself under any circumstances, and is probably only popular among people who’ve never had to try and sit through an actual conversation with him, but who cares? Kanye does what Kanye wants. And if Kanye wants to appear on Come Dine With Me, then that’s his business, and he’ll shit in the Yeezys of anybody who disagrees. Or pay someone else to do it for him, obviously. Anyway, onto contestant number four, who can surely only be disappointing after that… can’t they?

Of course not!! Contestant number four is TV’s shouty queen-of-clean Kim Woodburn, who is really excited to get her teeth into some red hot beef. Not the food kind, either. The kind of beef she dished out to Philip Schofield, while he was asking her questions about the beef she dished out in her fondly-remembered ‘chicken-livered bunch’ rant from Celebrity Big Brother. She’ll be glad to know I’m not serving any chicken livers at my dinner party, I’m sure. Not that she’ll be particularly enamoured with my cooking skills overall.

“It all looks terribly common, darling”, she says, as she holds the menu in one Marigold-wearing hand, and a glass of an expensive gin in the other. Suit yourself, then, Kim.

Contestant number five hasn’t bothered to read the menu yet, but that’s because he’s been busy begging the Channel 4 producers on set for another series of Deal Or No Deal now that his hefty I’m A Celebrity paycheck is all but gone. Yes, it’s Noel Edmonds, TV’s favourite bearded arsehole. After Alan Sugar, of course, but I’ve already written a bit about him on here, so there’d be no point in putting him in this one as well. You know, someone I knew a few years back once told me that Noel Edmonds did a guest lecture at his university, in which he offered some lucky students the chance to spend their summer doing a couple of months unpaid work experience on his radio show. Imagine that! Spending day-in-day-out with Noel Edmonds, without even a penny in compensation. I know they say ‘life’s not fair’, but that really would be pushing it.

Anyway, that’s everyone, and as I anxiously pour boiling water into five chicken and mushroom Pot Noodles, my all-star dinner guests begin to arrive. First at the doorstep is Kim, who I greet with open arms.

“Wonderful to meet you, luvvie”, she says. The worried glance she gives the camera afterwards tells me otherwise. Perhaps she’s unimpressed by my unshiny door handle. That’s not a euphemism.

Gemma and Noel arrive soon afterwards, both carrying bottles of champagne that I couldn’t possibly ever afford myself. They’re not to share, of course, they were bought in anticipation that the wine I’m providing wouldn’t be up to standard, which it is, because I’m serving all my courses with a glass of Summer Berries Echo Falls. It’s £5.99 a bottle and gets you absolutely Bankered.

We mingle in the living room, eagerly anticipating the arrival of my final guest. Just as Gemma, Kim and Noel begin bonding over the trials of being paid many thousands of pounds to sit around and simply exist for the viewing pleasures of mere mortals like myself, Kanye West teleports himself into the room, in a futuristic flash of lightning and to the tune of his 2010 hit Power, blowing a massive hole into the entire left side of my house in the process. It’s true what he says, you know - the man really is a genius.

We take our seats at the dinner table, as soon as the rest of my guests are done with the obligatory search through my knicker drawer (cue a comeback for Kim’s famous How Clean Is Your House? catchphrase, “Oh, you dirty devil!”) that happens on every edition of Come Dine With Me. You know, despite everything else on the programme, that’s the one bit of it that I’ve never really understood. Every single one of the show’s 1,647 episodes includes a bizarre sequence in which the contestants go running around the host’s home, rifling through their personal belongings and mocking them for the cameras. I’m sure the point of it is supposed to be to give the guests a chance to ‘get to know’ the host, but then I’d have thought that spending five nights eating and chatting with them would be a fairly effective way of doing that. Besides, can you imagine catching your guests doing that in real life? I wouldn’t be sitting them down for a meal and rating them for a chance to win £1,000, I’d be throwing them out, maybe even calling the police, depending on what exactly they were doing with the belongings in question. Not that I have time to think about that right now, I’ve got a cheeseboard to prepare!

First topic of conversation is, of course, TV, and as we tuck into our Ritz biscuits and Tesco Value mature cheddar, Noel gives us his opinion.

“My main issue with television these days is that I’m just not on it enough.” A valid viewpoint. We take a moment to collectively long for the days of Noel’s HQ, a drunken nightmare that was somehow harnessed and broadcast to the masses by Sky1, way back in 2008. Noel’s HQ has been mostly lost to time, except for the presence of a video on YouTube entitled ‘Noel Edmonds speaks with passion’, which is well worth a watch if, like me, you enjoy four minute long videos of TV presenters struggling to stifle their own belief that they might just be The Best Person Ever. There’s a great bit in it where he angrily declares to his delighted audience, “I don’t get paid a penny for doing this show”. Noel, I think I speak for everyone when I say thank you for your sacrifice.

Speaking of The Best Person Ever, Kanye is noticeably quiet. But then, Kanye isn’t here to share his views. Kanye isn’t particularly here to do anything. Kanye is simply here to observe - to greet his subjects, and work out what makes them tick. Kanye can sense our excitement to be sat in his presence, and Kanye enjoys this. It feeds Kanye. Far more than my meager dinner offerings ever could.

I press Gemma for her own opinions on TV, as someone who is literally always on it. Gemma Collins gets where Domestos can’t. It may sound like I’m being flippant, but in all honesty, I love Gemma Collins. I’m not even sure why, I just know I do. She’s famous for the sake of being famous, and she’s bloody good at it. She’s also quite possibly the most quotable public figure since Shakespeare himself. Maybe even more than Shakespeare. Think about it. What inspires you more? “To be or not to be?”, like anyone knows what that actually means, or “Nah, fuck this, I’m out of here. Get that fire exit door. Am off.”, a poetic sentiment, which conveys an emotion we’ve surely all felt at some point in our lives? I know who gets my vote.

Kim misunderstands the question “what do you think of television today?” as “how clean do you think my television is?”, and responds by pulling out a five pack of dusters and a can of Mr Sheen, and getting to work on the flatscreen in the corner of my living room. Oh well, at least all that cleaning will make her hungry in time for the main course. Speaking of which, maybe it’s time I got on with that.

Despite their disappointment with the starters, the main course - Super Noodle sandwiches, with a generous side-helping of curly fries - appears to delight all my guests, except Kim, who mutters under her breath that it all seems very tacky. I won’t let it get me down. It’s my heartfelt belief that anything can be a sandwich filling if you’re brave enough, and my other three guests agree with me. Kanye lets out a satisfied ‘hm’. Excellent.

We sit down to dessert, and another glass of Echo Falls. The wine is going down surprisingly well, especially with Kim, who has started subtly rolling her eyes at the conversation between myself and Gemma Collins, who are bonding over how much we love Gemma Collins. Kim purses her lips. Her Spidey-senses are tingling. There’s conflict afoot.

I quiz Noel about an article that I saw in 2015 and have never forgotten. It was featured on The Independent, and was headlined ‘Noel Edmonds says that ‘death doesn’t exist’ and that ‘Electrosmog’ is more deadly than Ebola’. I know that this sounds like something I just came up with, but I regret to tell you that is absolutely something he said. In real life. I’ll give you a minute to take that in.

Noel Edmonds reaffirms this view to me, speaking with the same unnerving passion he did in the YouTube clip I mentioned earlier. I nod politely. I begin to wonder if everyone’s had a little too much Echo Falls, and if I can really handle another four nights with these people. It’s at this moment that, for the first time all night, His Almighty Westness speaks.

“I really feel what you’re saying right now”, he tells Noel. We wait together for the next part of the statement, but it never comes. Kanye West outstretches his arm to Noel Edmonds. They shake hands. None of us can quite believe it. And for a moment, Noel and Kanye are right. It does feel as though death doesn’t exist. Nothing exists outside of this dinner party. Everything that matters is happening around my dining table at this very second.

The silence is broken by Kim Woodburn tutting into a wine glass.

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” she drawls, rolling her eyes, “What a load of nonsensical tosh.”

“Excuse me?”, asks Noel, still hand-in-hand with Kanye West, an alliance he is clearly eager to keep going for as long as possible, on the off chance that he fancies funding another series of Noel’s House Party, “I don’t see you bringing anything to the table here, Kim.”

She widens her eyes, taking another generous gulp of Echo Falls - and I know exactly what she’s about to bring to the table. A big old fight.

Gemma Collins throws in her two cents.

“I think we should all calm down a little bit, d’ya know what I mean? I’m having a lovely meal at a fan’s house, I can’t be arsed with an argument.” Wise words, as always, Gemma. Wise words.

It all kicks off.

“You can be quiet, you talentless, orange foghorn!”, sneers Kim, “You’ve contributed nothing to the conversation this evening, other than talking about yourself.”

Gemma’s eyes seem to cloud over with anger, as her complexion quickly transitions from Dulux shade Tangerine Twist to Cranberry Crunch. She knocks the rest of her wine back. Everything goes quiet again for a moment, as Noel, Kanye and I watch the two TV divas stare at each other. It’s like a scene from an old Western, but with diamonds and veneers.

With a violent roar, she launches herself across the table, grabbing Kim by her fake ponytail. I jump up to hold her back, as Kanye leaps from his seat to hold Kim from Gemma. There’s a mad blur of acrylic nails and tufts of bleach blonde hair flying between them, some of it landing into the banoffee pie I had worked so hard on. Noel stands back, arms folded, watching the action in dismay. If you could see the whole picture, it might resemble a renaissance painting, the sort that could be hung in a gallery anywhere in the world and analysed for it’s artistic importance. ‘Nous aimons le boeuf’, it might be called. French for ‘we love the beef’. Doesn’t really matter it means, though, to be fair, as long as it sounds clever and artsy.

Noel shakes his head.

“What the hell am I doing here?”, he asks, frustrated, “I’m a huge TV star.”

Security eventually intervene, somewhat reluctantly, given the fact this is the most action they’ve seen on a shoot for Come Dine With Me, possibly ever. Producers watch back the footage of the fight on an iPad, sat on my sofa, attempting to mask their delight at what they’d caught on camera.

Kanye eventually stands up, soberly taking in the scene in front of him. Is this how Jay-Z felt as he left the elavator?, he wonders.

“I’m gonna take off”, he informs everyone, breaking the silence that had fallen over the room in the aftermath. But before he can teleport out of the room again, possibly blowing a hole in the other side of my house, the producer speaks up.

“Same time tomorrow? It’s Gemma’s night.”

Four more nights of this… four more nights, all for the chance to win £1,000… is it worth it?

Of course it is. It was a blast. Same time tomorrow, indeed.

To see some highlights from the iconic Preston week of Come Dine With Me, click here. To see Noel Edmonds speak with passion, click here. To follow me on twitter, click here, or here for instagram :)

#come dine with me #celebrity big brother #big brother #gemma collins #i’m a celebrity #comedy #tv review #reality tv #blogger #ukblogger #comedy writing

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funnythingshere0-blog · 6 years

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Slater case proves NRL justice is indeed blind – and just plain stupid

New Post has been published on https://funnythingshere.xyz/slater-case-proves-nrl-justice-is-indeed-blind-and-just-plain-stupid/

Slater case proves NRL justice is indeed blind – and just plain stupid

Handshake deal

The ESPN Sports Business reporter Darren Rovell put out an interesting tweet this week noting that Thursday was the 20th anniversary of the day that the St Louis Cardinals baseball slugger Mark McGwire – powered by steroids as it later turned out – broke the single season home-run record by belting his 70th.

The ball bounced out of one fan’s hands, bounced out of another’s and was finally caught by a 17-year old fan, Phil Ozersky, who at the time was earning chump change stacking shelves.

The Cardinals asked him for the ball and offered in return a signed bat, ball and jersey. But Ozersky wanted one more thing. Yup, he told the Cardinals he wanted to meet McGwire, shake his hand.

McGwire was too much of a big shot, busy hitting more big shots over fences, and said no. So three months later, Ozersky sold the ball for $US3.05 million, bought a house for his handicapped father, gave six-figure sums to charity, married his high-school sweetheart and went on to live happily ever after – while still driving now the car he had back then.

Ain’t sport grand?

Teaming up

Now you can call me an old “romantic” if you like, but I don’t care. See, by definition, every day that passes, big-time sports gets more “modern”, which usually means more technical, more driven by statistics, and more littered with incomprehensible jargon like “corrugated iron” and “marmalade jam”.

It means that, when you come across stories of big-time teams prospering because of embracing the old-time values, it is heart-warming. A prime case in point is the Tampa Bay Buccaneers NFL side, who’ve come from nowhere to open their account this season by beating two of the top-ranked teams in the league, including last year’s Superbowl winners, the Philadelphia Eagles.

United: Tampa Bay Buccaneers quarterback Jameis Winston looks for a receiver.

Photo: AP

Part of it is credited to coach Dirk Koetter doing something different in the off-season.

As reported in The New York Times: “He broke his team into groups of eight, mixing coaches with players, and had the groups hold meetings during which people took turns talking about their backgrounds or upbringing. The goal was team unity.”

Yes, I know. Players actually getting to know each other, and care about each other, beyond football!

“You play with guys but you don’t know personal details of their lives,” tight end Cameron Brate said. “It was really eye-opening. A football team is built on communication and trust and truly being able to understand where someone is coming from and being able to open up to them. It created new pathways of communication and enhanced our trust in each other.”

Everything is so old it’s new again. Next thing you know, you’ll get players truly caring about the jerseys they play for, and speaking about the clubs they’ve played for, for over a decade, in the first person, not the third person, as in: “They’ve been a great club, and really good to me.”

Just Google it

As I have said many times before, if they were holding a group 1 horse race – whatever that is – around my house, I would pull the curtains shut and call the police. I just don’t care. Still, occasionally stories arise from the racing world that pique the interest, and a case in point comes from reader Paul Foster this week. He advises that all owners of new racehorses get to name their steed, often by seeking inspiration from their parents’ names.

“So this fella has a horse by Benfica out of Loose ‘n’ Lovely. He called it Andiamo Fica, which is Italian for Let’s Go C—.”

For this effort, he’s just been disqualified from owning horses for 18 months.

My thoughts . . .

1. It’s great to get one over the authorities.

2. Don’t Racing NSW have Google?

Knock it off

TFF had a rant mid-week on the ludicrousness of SCG Trust Chair Tony Shepherd following Alan Jones’ lead by asserting that if the Sydney Football Stadium is knocked down, we risk a Hillsborough disaster – where 96 lives were lost – in Sydney.

My central point was this: “If you do insist that the SFS actually risks being a Hillsborough, how on earth did you or the government let last Saturday night’s final go ahead? You dinkum thought there was a risk of 100 people dying, and somehow – ignoring your duty of care, to preserve the safety of spectators – the match was allowed to proceed?”

Precisely what happened that terrible day at Hillsborough thirty years ago remains a deeply sensitive topic but, as several readers pointed out, it’s a whole lot more complex than just assigning blame to the design of the stadium itself. Just two weeks ago, the man who was in control of police operations that day, former South Yorkshire Police chief superintendent David Duckenfield pleaded not guilty to manslaughter by gross negligence. The date for his trial is set for January. We will let their legal system get on with it.

What They Said

Mick Malthouse at a Ballarat sports lunch on Thursday, on women’s football: “I don’t like it . . . I don’t say you shouldn’t play it, I say I don’t like it . . . I don’t like the women’s game the way it is. I would rather see them with a smaller ball, I would rather see it without any tackling, I would rather see it without any heavy bumping.”

AFLW player Moana Hope on Malthouse’s comments: “He said that AFL was a man’s game and not a woman’s game and he’s said that on stage in front of 50 kids who had just played a boys and girls game of football. I left after that. I was so disgusted and drove back to Melbourne. He can have an opinion but then there’s just degrading and disrespectful comments. We’re in 2018, not in 1942 . . . I will never be in the same room as him again.”

Drought over: Tiger Woods celebrates with caddie Joe LaCava after the Tour Championship golf tournament and the FedEx Cup final at Eastlake Golf Club in Atlanta, Georgia.

Photo: EPA

Tiger Woods on his 80th tour win: “I was having a hard time not crying on the last hole. I just can’t believe I pulled this off. It hasn’t been so easy the last couple of years. It’s hard to believe I was able to do it again . . . [lightly sobs]”

Cooper Cronk on whether he’ll be 100% for this weekend’s grand final: “Obviously there’s a point where you can’t get things right in a certain amount of time . . . at some stage God or science will say no, but until then I’ll do everything I possibly can.”

Shane Watson on the support for Steve Smith: “To be able to see so many people come along to a grade game is incredible. We see the crowds that come along to a Sheffield Shield game or a JLT Cup as well, it’s nothing compared to this. It’s very impressive.”

New Zealand great Brendon McCullum tweets his view that David Warner celebrated a grade century a bit too much: “Geez Davey! This celebration is the equivalent of Sir Ed Hillary giving it large climbing his front steps, post Everest! Hahaha.”

Over the top: Dave Warner was in a particularly devastating mood against St George during his knock of 155 not out.

Photo: AAP

Richmond young gun Jack Higgins on winning goal of the year: “Firstly, my heart is at about a thousand minutes per second, so if I screw it up, don’t hate on me.”

Wallaby Ned Hanigan with a fine mixed metaphor: “We can’t be sitting there kicking stones and letting it just get worse, we’ve got to grab it by the balls and try and turn it around.”

Melbourne Storm’s Will Chambers knows how the media rolls: “It’s pretty easy to be a keyboard warrior, people don’t really say stuff to your face. It’s easy to print it in a newspaper, but they won’t come and say it to you. But everyone wants a story, it’s pretty funny don’t you think? I’m from a small town in the Northern Territory. You don’t get much media up there, it’s pretty cruisy, it’s not the Sydney press.”

Michael Cheika aware of how quickly things can change: “They wanted to cut Nathan Buckley’s head off last year didn’t they, and he’s in a grand final this week. That’s the way it goes.”

Richmond coach Damien Hardwick after their elimination: “It was an un-Richmond-like performance.”

Jose Mourinho can’t explain why Manchester United players can’t fire up: “I can’t explain the difference of attitude because I never had a difference of attitude. For me it is difficult to explain that.”

Team of the Week

Magpies/Eagles, Roosters/Storm. Play in this weekend’s grand finals.

Tiger Woods. After his extraordinary finish to the season – including his first victory in five years – his world ranking has soared to 13, a nice improvement from where he finished in 2017, at 1193.

Central Coast Heart. This regional elite team just won the Netball NSW Premier League grand final last night, a big achievement for the only non-metropolitan team in the Premier League competition.

Tom Mitchell. As TFF predicted, winner of the 2018 Brownlow medal.

Nathan Buckley. One of the most storied figures in Australian sport is about to add the one thing his glittering career has lacked – a premiership. After his Collingwood side finished 13th last year, they are today in the grand final against the Eagles.

Eddie McGuire. There is a very good reason they don’t call him “Eddie the Eagle”. The Collingwood president is a Magpie to the marrow of his bones, and his decision not to sack Buckley last year now looks a like a master-stroke.

Mozzie Legends. Beat the young pups of the Weigall Wanderers in the Cook and Philip Park indoor soccer grand final. The significance is that the Mozzies have played in every single season held since this ex-Olympic venue was handed over to the public in 2001 – meaning that the team, who now has an average age of 45, have compensated their loss of speed with an injection of guile and determination.

Peter FitzSimons is a Herald journalist, columnist and author, based in Sydney. He is also a former Wallabies player.

Source: https://www.smh.com.au/sport/slater-case-proves-nrl-justice-is-indeed-blind-and-just-plain-stupid-20180928-p506nm.html

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olwog · 7 years

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So Peeps, Today we’ll learn about the joy of walking on the North Yorkshire Moors and a couple of anecdotes about a condom. It doesn’t have to be warm to walk and it’s even enjoyable in the rain.

It’s been a hectic summer and my adventures in France and Spain with the superheroes and the Pilgrim are a wonderful memory.

George has been beavering away arranging a walk from Swainby to Lordstones and back varying the route a little to capitalise on our priceless countryside.

I pack my stuff into a day bag and include a camelback water holder that I’ve found so useful in hotter climes I’m trying it on the local walks, it certainly saves on carrying plastic bottles and is instantly available encouraging me to drink; to quote Louise Graydon, “If you’re not peeing, you’re not drinking enough”.

Abbott’s excellent bus service to Swainby is leaving the Parish Church at quarter to ten and I’ll be catching it nearer my home a little later. The last time I caught this one I alighted to an empty coach having been the subject of some misunderstanding when the walk was postponed to the following day! I’m stepping on to the coach today with some trepidation. No worries, there’s a couple of smiling faces in the naughty boy seats towards the back.

I arrive at the back to a chorus of, “Now then”. If you live in Yorkshire you’ll recognise this brace of opposing adverbs as a greeting, if you live elsewhere it’ll probably have you scratching your head. Whilst Yorkshire folks don’t show a lot of emotion (except me who’ll be cry if there’s sad music on the radio and be rendered distraught if an animal dies in a story or film) so these two seemingly conflicting words, one representing the present and the other the past, when combined, don’t make any sense but in Yorkshire they represent an affectionate (but not too affectionate) greeting and sometimes have the addendum, “How you doing?” but that element is assumed.

So when used in entirety we have “Now then, how you doing?”. So the “Now then”, is the cue to listen and the, “How you doing?” means I’m your good friend and I’m interested in your health.

Of course, it can also be used with a cursory nod of acknowledgment that you actually exist but I prefer the former.

George and Dave are full of beans and the short journey to Swainby which is free for old farts with a pass hence the term “Old farts pass” when referring to our magic card. It’s about the size of a credit card with a mug shot that looks like it was taken prior to being locked up and it takes us around our area for free. There are rumours of people using these to travel around the country by virtue of ritualistic study of local timetables and linking one local service to another. You need a lot of time on your hands for this though and we prefer the train for longer journeys, the fare is heavily discounted, of course, by our ‘senior citizens’ discount cards though so it’s win – win.

We’re dropped at Swainby and Peter is all togged up with his best waterproofs and looks set for a week on an Icelandic Trawler.

Pete has a new camera! It’s a wonderful bridge camera, although it can be used for portraits and landscapes too and it’s rekindled his passion for photography a hobby, it has to be said, that he is both proficient and gifted and I’ll probably steal some of his output today for this piece.

We set off immediately along Swainby High Street adjacent to the stream that’s usually in full flow. Whilst not short of water it’s surprising how little there is today. The trees are still in full summer plumage but there’s a hint of autumn. Looking at the leaves carefully you can see an edge to them and there’s the odd one that’s already started to make the transition from green to the beautiful golds yet to come. We make a left along Scugdale Road and on to Holgate.

A mile and a half in and we’re turning off the road onto the Cleveland Way. Pete calls a photo stop at the gate (so it’s a gate camera too, it’s very versatile) then starts the ‘up’.

We did this walk in the spring when the gorse was in full show of almost perfect yellow and the spring flowers were waking from their protective sleep through the winter. Today it’s overcast and grey but that’s OK, you don’t have to squint and the slightly lower temperature means walking is comfortable.

Another half mile and we’re through the gate and here starts the proper ‘up’. The steps are not slippery at the moment but the weather forecast is poor so they’ll be a bunch of laughs when we return in the afternoon. In spring the woods here were alive with birdsong and although we hear the odd crow it’s quiet with the exception of an occasional grunt as we negotiate these carefully positioned stones that represent the Cleveland Way proper.

The gate is both a barrier for the sheep further up on the moor and a delimiter, on one side is the wood and relatively clear of ground cover whereas the other represents the moor proper and abundant ground cover largely of ferns. Pete takes a couple of photographs of both ferns and sheep (this device is priceless, not only a bridge camera but also a fern and sheep camera). There are few trees on the moor and the path disappears through vibrant ferns that overhang. They’ve been known to gather water from the mizzling rain that we occasionally get through the night and then deposit on the unsuspecting passer-by so the day may be blue sky and sunshine but you still end up well and truly soaked. Fortunately, it’s not like that today and although still grey above we exit the ferns still dry from the elements but wet from sweat – you can’t win!

There’s a lot of ‘up’ it’s just over 400 metres at the top but from a mental prospective you wouldn’t know it as the surrounding moor is not much short of that; however, you really do know it in terms of exertion but that’s part of why we do it, the feeling is great.

Towards the top of Live Moor there’s a cairn that turns out to be an ancient burial ground and a stone has been placed with a little plaque explaining this and asking that you don’t add stones. We were not aware of this and on occasion, in the past, have been guilty of the odd addition with a thought for those that have gone before. Pete takes a couple of photographs (so it’s a cairn camera too, it’s been a good purchase).

It’s down and then back up Gold Hill then along Faceby Bank towards and around Carlton Bank. At times we just stop and admire the view of the Cleveland Way as it stretches in front of us zigzagging its way into the distance. We take a few photos but it’s best to be here and there’s a couple of observations that this is one our best walks, with the wind (and even occasional rain) together with blue skies when we’re lucky, there are some of the best views across the heather that you’re likely to see. Just beautiful.

It’s all down now to Lordstones and we arrive just as the rain starts, perfect timing. Only down side is that their gas is off so no cooked meals. We ensconce ourselves under the huge covers outside and arrange for various beverages and sandwiches to be sent to our wooden bench seat outside where we can keep an eye on the beautiful chaffinches and their young that are flitting between the vacated tables that have a few crumbs on each. They’re fascinating to watch and Pete has his camera framed on them in seconds (so it’s a bird camera too, versatility knows no bounds).

After twenty minutes a guy dressed completely in leathers and looking like a man from the Lordstones chapter of Hells Angels turns and addresses me, “Now then George”, see, there that phrase again.

“Now then Alan”, I return. Now, this is a little underwhelming considering I’ve only seen him a couple of times in 30 years so I go across and give him a hug. A man-hug obviously, no kissing the air on each side of the head or anything like that but affectionate all the same. We spend some time catching up, he already knew about my circumstances but he had bad new from his perspective and told me that his wife had had a stroke and now struggled a bit.

//*I add this to this lighthearted transcript because I’d like you, Dear Reader, to tell your loved one(s) how much they mean to you whenever you can and to live in the moment and to start each day with a clean sheet no matter what happened or was said the previous day. */Sermon over

It’s raining heavily now but we must start our return so our wet gear is sourced and donned. As we set off Johnny Ray is buzzing in my head, how this could be so when “Just a’ Walkin’ in the Rain” was a hit in 1956 and I was 5 is anyones guess but here it is. The rain is blowing from the North initially so it’s a bit nippy and I have a walking stick which is essential on walks with stones as steps, they become lethal; however, when you have to carry something and your hands get wet they soon become excruciatingly painful. If you’ve worked outside you realise that this transient and will soon pass, they’re still cold but don’t feel it anymore and over the next twenty minutes that’s exactly what happens.

We reach the top of the back of Carlton Bank and begin the easy walk back down towards Holey Moor, Live Moor and the south side of Faceby Plantation then the anecdotes started- if you’ve any issues with rude stuff it might be best if you stopped reading…

Undivided attention again eh?

Just incase you’re not sure what a shoe horn is, it is a device that you put into the back of your slip on shoes to ease the shoe onto your foot. They’re still around but rarely used. Now here’s the anecdotes…

We’d been talking about embarrassing times when one of the team recalled an amorous interlude at the end of an evening on a snicket between South Parade and Thirsk Road when two nineteen year olds were becoming more familiar with each other. It was at a time when going back to either home was really not an option for horizontal jogging and they chose to do a bit of vertical stuff against the fence. They’d settled on that particular place where there is a dog leg in the snicket as it is easy to see both ends. After (not much) preamble our speaker tells us of fumbling about in his wallet for a condom that he’d secreted in there some time ago (it was actually two years ago and at that time it was wishful thinking). After retrieving the wrapper and removing the dust and fluff, clearly with one hand as the other was meant to be maintaining interest, he bit and tore the end off the packaging to remove the contents. Now at this point we’re interested from the point of view of ‘did he damage the latex contents’, he didn’t; however, on removal he somehow reversed the teat and whilst he’d practiced the manoeuvre in the privacy of his own home on occasion he hadn’t tried it blind fold or in the dark. Now a condom is meant to be removed from its packaging and the teat end pinched between finger and thumb then rolled on naturally like putting on a tight sock (or for the ladies like putting on tights). He’d removed it and in the excitement of the moment had managed to turn it inside out…

…on this occasion it didn’t end well but they remained good friends.

As with all good anecdotes the next tale was told in an effort to ‘out condom’ the last and Walking Chum number 2 (what’s said on the walk stays on the walk) and after the laughter from the first dies down he chirps up…

“Well I never practiced trying to get the thing on, I thought it would be easy”, says he, “And, not surprisingly, it was something of a disaster”.

So, we’d dried our eyes and regained our decorum and walking steadily again.

He continues.

“My tale begins in a car.” He mentioned the car but I’ll hold that back as it may identify the innocent.

His oratory went like this:-

“Englebert Humperdink was singing ‘A Man Without Love’ and Love Affair were singing ‘Everlasting Love’ both of which were entirely appropriate.”

“We’d stopped in a gateway of a field not far from…and been ‘chatting’ for a while.”

We’re still walking and the view down Scugdale is getting better but I’m not sure it was noticed.

He continued, “I asked if she’d like to get in the back and she said no, I’d rather stay in the front with you. OK that bit didn’t happen but I couldn’t resist it.”

Off he went again, “We were in the back and I too had a condom that had lain dormant since purchase.

Having spent some time doing a bit more ‘chatting’ I retrieved said condom and began the process of opening it and here’s the issue – I didn’t know that you were supposed to roll the thing on – so I unrolled it. Now, believe me, an unrolled condom is just not going anywhere it just is not designed for that kind of fitting.”

We’ve cleared Faceby Wood and making our way down Hollin Hill but no one had really noticed.

He cleared his throat, “So here I am with a lady in good spirit, we’re both giggling nervously and neither of us have a clue. So in an effort to lighten the situation and with reference to getting the condom on I said ‘I could do with a shoe horn.’”

“The atmosphere changed and her immediate response was, ‘We do it naturally or not at all.’

…It was some time before another opportunity arose”

So we’re into Clain Wood and heading down hill towards Swainby.

The weather is still variable and we sit in the bus shelter waiting for the Abbotts return service to Northallerton ‘Old Farts Passes’ at the ready.

It’s been a good walk and the tales were fun too. No ladies names were divulged during the above and no-one but the speaker was compromised.

The walk is just short of 11 miles and is a little bit challenging at both ends but well worth the effort. It does help if you’re walking with people you like and just for information the anecdotes are not often quite as rude but it’s funny when they are.

Acknowledgments: Photographs from Peter Hymer, George Renwick and me.

Swainby to Lordstones Return – Oh, and a Condom Anecdote So Peeps, Today we’ll learn about the joy of walking on the North Yorkshire Moors and a couple of anecdotes about a condom.

#Anecdote #Cleveland Way #Condom #Funny #Landscapes #Lordstones #North Yorkshire Moors #Photographs #Photos #Pictures #Rude #Swainby #Walking #Walks #Yorkshire #Yorkshire Moors

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celticnoise · 7 years

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Those who think I never give the Scottish media credit ought to be surprised that Alan Puttulo earns some much deserved praise this morning for a fascinating, and insightful, interview with our very first General Manager, Jock Brown.

His appointment was 20 years ago this week, and if that makes you feel old then you’re not alone.

Pattulo clearly spoke to him at some length, and it’s not surprising to find that Jock Brown comes across a whole lot better, with the benefit of hindsight, than he did in his time at Celtic Park. He knows he’ll never be the big hero.

No-one will ever invite him to unfurl a flag and we wouldn’t name a toilet stall after him far less a stand …

And yet, I can’t help but wonder if history might not eventually grant him a full, and honourable, rehabilitation if not a rave review.

We’re in a different era now. Celtic is a more confident club than it was back then, and we’re more tolerant and open-minded as fans than we’ve previously been. We appreciate that there are considerations beyond whether someone is “Celtic minded”.

You get the best people for the job, you pay them well, and you let them get on with it.

When Gerry McCulloch was made our head of digital media recently I wrote an article saying that any talk of it being some sort of homecoming was ridiculous considering what he presided over at Radio Clyde but that as a straightforward appointment it was first-rate work from the club because he’s a consummate, insightful, professional who knows his stuff.

I like to think I’d have been just as understanding about Jock Brown.

See, I don’t remember this guy as a commentator. I have no idea whether he was fair to us or not, but I know that I wouldn’t care what his background was now if he had been brought to Celtic to fill a certain role and he had the skill-set required to do it. Fergus sure as Hell didn’t, and whilst Jock Brown was never a “Rangers man” as some have alleged, I know for a fact that Fergus hired a guy to work in a high profile role at the club who was a season ticket holder at Ibrox, and who did a pretty damned good job whilst at Parkhead.

Above all else, Fergus was a believer in getting stuff done.

Jock Brown was brought in to fill a role. Fergus was only interested in his ability to carry that out. What’s pretty clear is that this couldn’t have mattered less to the hacks. Brown had been one of them, and he moved over to us. Whether it was pique born of jealousy or some belief that he’d jumped the fence (in every sense of the word) they never gave him a chance. They were set on poisoning the well from the very first day.

Just the other day, I wrote an article on why most of the Celtic bloggers were glad to see the back of Mike Ashley, and in that piece I said we had helped to create a perception of him that was toxic in the eyes of their fans. I didn’t suggest we made them hate the guy or that we got rid of him … I said we coloured the picture a little.

We made a contribution.

A lot of people assumed I was bragging and trying to claim credit. I wasn’t. The idea is insane. A lot of others assumed I was having a laugh at the Sevco fans expense, and I kind of was … but it wasn’t a joke. I meant every word of that piece.

I never alleged a conspiracy though, I said we gave it a nudge.

I used a comedic line “I love it when a plan comes together” to highlight the piece, and of course that was a little tongue in cheek. But it wasn’t just for giggles. We happily helped paint the picture of Ashley as a guy with only evil intent and on some level we all knew we were stirring the soup … but no-one got together and co-ordinated it.

Nobody had to.

It just kind of happened.

I do believe the Celtic sites had something to do with that and I know how much it grates on their fans to admit that we manipulated them even a little bit. As a couple of the others guys have said this weekend, the Celtic fans, by and large, ain’t exactly sad to see Ashley go.

Even if the possibility of his putting money in was low, it was still too high for our liking.

Why is that important?

Well, I have a degree in media studies and more years in political activity than I care to remember and this is not a tactic that I am unfamiliar with. It’s a technique the media is very practiced in; they have it down to a fine art. It’s been used on every Labour leader I’ve ever seen in my life, for openers and they aren’t shy about the way they do it.

Neil Kinnock got attacked as the “ginger whinger.” Ed Miliband got it for the way he ate a bacon roll. It’s worked to a great extent in damning public perceptions about Alex Salmond. It is in the latter stages of utterly destroying the career of Theresa May.

I saw the sports press try to destroy two of our managers, Wim Jansen and Jo Venglos, before they’d taken charge of a single match. Martin O’Neill eventually sued them over suggestions that he was talking to clubs whilst contracted to Celtic. Expect similar tactics, and hopefully a similar response, about Brendan as he takes us closer to ten in a row.

And of course, they tried it with Fergus – you only have to remember the headlines comparing him to Saddam Hussein.

Before the internet, before the Bampots, when all we had to punch back were the fanzines, those things worked, to one degree or another. They coloured our perceptions, in Fergus’ case so much so that he was shamefully booed as he unfurled the flag.

Jock Brown got the same treatment, and it started at his first press conference where every inquisitor opened with a question about his “Rangers background”, which everyone now accepts was absolutely non-existent. That didn’t matter, far less that everyone who attended, many of whom had worked with the guy for years, must have known that; it was the start of it, of wrecking this guy in the eyes of the fans before he even had his pencil box unpacked.

The tabloids were the lead-off hitters, as per usual, christening him “Joke Brown” the following day.

They paid no heed to his credentials or knowledge of the game.

They saw a chance to score a cheap and easy hit and they took it.

He never recovered.

It’s fair to say too that he fulfilled the role Fergus had obviously hired him for, although whether he fully grasped it at the time isn’t clear, which was that of lightening rod and taker of flak. A lot of the fall-outs he had with players and coaches – most famously, aside from Jansen and McLeod the bonus row that led to a spectacular bust-up with Paul Lambert – were clearly a result of instructions he’d been given by the guy in the bunnet … he was never going to win a popularity contest inside Celtic Park. And to be fair to him, he knew that himself.

But as the bad moments are all fresh in the memory – his weasel words on DiCanio are particularly grating to me – “He wasn’t sold, he was traded …”, an evasion right out of the Big Book of Dave King – his successes and accomplishments have long since been forgotten by most, if not all, Celtic fans.

He took the blame for everything that went wrong … but never the credit for what went right.

And there were a great many things which did.

As Pattulo says in the piece, his time at Celtic was bookended by the signings of Henrik Larsson and Lubo Moravcik.

In the latter case, he knew exactly what the media would make of the deal but he wholeheartedly trusted Jo Venglos (who he calls “the finest person I ever met in football”) and his judgement on the matter above all else.

He also jokes (in a dark way) about the AGM after we’d won the title, where he had announced sterling results; a League Cup, a League Championship, nine signings … and a £7 million profit. And what credit did he get? A guy asked him, “Why are you making a profit?”

When Peter Lawwell announces last year’s numbers – provided we get investment in this squad and qualify for the Champions League groups of course haha – he’ll get a standing ovation. And he’ll have wholeheartedly earned it too, and I write that as a guy who’s a self-confessed wearer of a “Not His Biggest Fan” badge.

Jock Brown is best known, of course, as the guy who “drove Wim Jansen out of Celtic”, a story that’s only halfway true.

Fergus himself describes Wim as almost impossible to work with on any kind of long-term project; he famously refused to submit a Season Two plan to the board, although they asked him for one on repeated occasions.

I’ve always wondered if perhaps there weren’t two sides to that debate, although only one ever got to the papers. (Or at least, only one was ever reported by them.) It helped drive another nail into Jock Brown’s Celtic Park coffin.

The great irony is that it was probably the signing of Lubo which was the straw that broke the camel’s back. The media response to that was every bit as venomous as Brown, and Venglos, had feared it would be whilst discussing the deal.

And of course, Lubo famously took his first Celtic bow on the day Brown’s resignation was accepted, and announced by the club.

The game, against Dundee, ended 6-1 to Celtic, and we saw enough from our 33 year old signing to suggest we might have something there.

A fortnight later, he took Rangers apart single-handedly and the legend was born.

That was the same day as the press announced that we’d agreed a deal to sign Mark Viduka. Brown would have deservedly got credit for that had he still been around, although when Viduka went AWOL after just four days he’d almost certainly have got the blame.

It summed up his time at Celtic; the guy just could not win.

Twenty years after he first took his bow at a Parkhead press conference notorious for the level of spite that he had to endure, he and Fergus are still good friends and see each other from time to time. For all that happened to him at our club, Jock Brown has never uttered a negative word against us. We didn’t have to fire that guy. There was no animosity in his departure. When things got to a certain point he walked, of his own volition.

There’s a certain honour in that. A certain integrity.

For Celtic fans, he will never be a hero.

But I’m not convinced he was ever a villain.

He was a victim of his own role, that of Fergus’ hatchet-man, the guy who did the cutting when there was cutting to be done. On top of that he was one of the principal targets of a vicious campaign by a bloody minded media, who were trying everything they could to derail our club in the Year That Stopped The Ten. Wim got the same treatment and, in their spite at losing, Jo Venglos after him. Brown was collateral damage, in the wrong place at the wrong time.

For all that, he was, and remained, a consummate pro. History will judge him far less harshly than some of the assorted goons who’ve had similar seats at Ibrox and Hampden, and who destroyed the newspapers they worked on.

Jock Brown helped to build something.

They wrecked what was in their charge.

I know, now, who I would rather have at the helm.

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#CelticNoise #Celtic #CelticFC #TheCelticBlog #News

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