NTV 252

On sale from September 16th.

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Includes paper copy and PDF.

 

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Jabba’s Dream Job…

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Jabba ‘James’ Traynor

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‘A long time ago in a galaxy, far, far away…’

Well that’s quite enough lines from the George Lucas Space Opera but the line nevertheless serves as an appropriate introduction to one of the more bizarre, grotesque and ludicrous inmates of the crypt.

At time of writing this piece Jabba Traynor had not been – officially – employed by The Rangers or the company with a similar name which went into liquidation in the summer of 2012 but you’d never have guessed it.

Though perhaps not the most shamelessly biased apologist for the worst Ibrox had to offer – a title held previously by Willie Allison and then, probably, by David Leggat – he had been the most persistently high profile and, superficially, articulate. Rumour had it that Ol’ Jabbs is set to become Head of Public Relations (or some similarly pompous title) at Sevco. Neither Traynor nor I believe all that much of what we read on internet websites and blogs and I have to say that this story really strikes me as being too convenient to be true but if it is it will be the final step in a long journey to his spiritual home for Jabba.

One that began a long time ago in a North Lanarkshire, far, far, away.

Born in 1953 in the Lanarkshire town of Airdrie Traynor was a keen and, one assumes, thinner version of his later self. He was lithe enough to be offered schoolboy forms to sign for his local club but instead Jabba chose to enter the fourth estate and had become a sports journalist by his early twenties.

By the late eighties he had become the chief football writer on what was then known as the Glasgow Herald. That newspaper had had a few decent writers in its recent past such as Ian Archer and Jim Reynolds and initially Traynor seemed a worthy enough columnist and pundit. Perhaps a bit too purple in the prose and, as I discovered when he phoned me up in response to a letter I had written to his paper in which very mild criticism of one of his columns appeared, somewhat thin skinned, but far from totally objectionable.

The early nineties was a dark time for Celtic as well as being, by all accounts legitimately, a successful one for Rangers. Traynor wrote several articles which were critical of Celtic’s failing board – not dissimilar in feel to contemporaneous articles in NTV in fact – and he backed the winning horse by supporting Fergus McCann and the rebels as they sought to take over Celtic.

Although few would have felt that Jabbs – by 1994 already significantly portlier than in his playing days – was much of a Celtic sympathiser he seemed a million miles away from the slavish sycophancy towards Rangers adopted by his peers such as Chick Young, Ken Gallacher and the aforementioned Leggat. And then, because they paid him better, he joined the Daily ‘Getworse’ Express – at that time still a big seller though very much a low quality title which had seen much better days. For Traynor the once idealistic reporter the rot and cliches set in.

And he was getting fatter.

Traynor’s articles for the Getsworse were much more slackly written than in his Herald Days and it was clear that he yearned not to be the new Hugh McIlvanney but the next Alex Cameron and so inevitably after less than a year he joined Scotland’s then most widely read – and the world’s crappiest – daily newspaper the Daily Record or, as it has also been known, the Rectum and, more pertinently, the Daily Ranger.

Celtic won their first league title in a decade in Jabbs’ first season on his new paper but there was little that was congratulatory towards the club in Traynor’s pieces.

When Celtic played dreadfully in Zagreb in the second leg of a Champions’ League qualifier his assessment of the game seemed unusually personal in its criticism.

And then came a trip to the Channel Islands and an article which appeared in the Record on Thursday 19 November 1998 – two days before a Celtic versus Rangers match curiously enough*.

The piece is one long toadying apologia masquerading as an interview with the then Rangers chairman and main shareholder David Murray. The article itself can still be found in its servile entirety on the Internet but is remembered best for two words- ’succulent’ and ’lamb’.

A new career as the unofficial chief propagandist for Murray and Rangers- coupled with frequently vituperatively anti- Celtic articles such as one which appeared a couple of days after the infamous match of May 1999 refereed by Hugh Dallas – had begun.

And he was getting fatter.

I have to admit that over the fourteen years that have elapsed since the Succulent Lamb tribfest I have tried to avoid Traynor. As Radio Shortbread was marginally and arguably preferable to Radio Clyde in this period I tended to hear him pontificate on the phone-in show Your Call rather than read his prose in the Rectum but with the rise of Facebook and the regular regurgitation of parts of his by now dismal hack prose on various Celtic sympathising websites he became difficult to avoid.

Whatever the issue – whether it be the slavish adherence to Murray or the tolerance of the Famine Song as mere banter – he always seemed to be wrong.

When Rangers went first into Administration and then Liquidation Traynor was still steadfastly refusing to acknowledge that their downfall had had much to do with the stewardship of the club by David Murray whilst simultaneously propagating the myth that it was all that Craig Whyte’s fault, even though initially Jabba had been as welcoming to the one-time Billionaire as any fully paid up member of the Laptop Loyal could have been.

When in November of this year it was announced that the First Tax Tier Tribunal had deemed that though the Employee Benefit Scheme had been an aggressive attempt at tax avoidance it was not strictly speaking illegal this ‘glowing’ endorsement of Rangers in the first decade of this century was seen by Traynor as vindication of Murray and his club.

One wondered what, beyond some fine comestibles, Murray gave Traynor all those years ago.

On Monday the third of December 2012 Traynor’s last article appeared in the Record. The first half – an affectionate time looking back on his career in journalism – is pretty saccharine but for the second he dips his pen in vitriol and lambasts those ‘bilious types [that] have been allowed to emerge from the shadows and spew invective that sadly became regarded as fact’.

I’m not such an unqualified fan of the Internet Bampots myself but they revealed more of what was relevant about the conduct and morality of Rangers and David Murray since 1998 that Jabba Traynor was.

As a sign off piece overall it was the most self aggrandising, flatulently, pompous drivel since Dave Lee Travis resigned ‘on-air’ from Radio 1 in 1993.

What Jabba – now heftier than his cinematic namesake – does now he has hung up his laptop is mere speculation. That he is a worthy admission to the Crypt is not in question though.

Git.

 

JIM PAYNE

* Celtic won this match 5-1

STOP PRESS : The internet bampots strike again- Jabba became the new Director of Communications at The Rangers.

12 Arsehole Men

A rerun of a classic courtroom drama from 2012…

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“Sooner or Later They’ll Get the Winner.”

“Sooner or later they’ll get the winner.”

Inter captain Picci to goalkeeper Sarti.

Inverting The Pyramid is Jonathan Wilson’s superlative book on the evolution of football tactics. Here’s an extract from his chapter on Catenaccio, in which the author offers an interesting pespective on that famous day in 1967 from the point of view of some of the Italian players on the receiving end of Jock Stein’s attacking tactics.

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Above: Helenio Herrera, Inter coach in 1967. He pioneered the use of psychological motivating skills including slogans that were often plastered on billboards around the ground and chanted by players during training sessions. He also enforced a strict discipline code, for the first time forbidding players to drink or smoke and controlling their diet – once in Inter he suspended a player after telling the press “we came to play in Rome” instead of “we came to win in Rome”. He also sent club personnel to players’ homes during the week to perform ‘”bed-checks”. He introduced the ritiro, a pre-match remote country hotel retreat that started with the collection of players on Thursday to prepare for a Sunday game. Apart from that he was quite laid back.

It was in 1967 that Herrera’s Inter disintegrated, and yet the season had begun superbly, with a record breaking run of seven straight victories. By mid-April they were four points clear of Juventus at the top of Serie A, and in Europe had had their revenge on Real Madrid, beating them 3-0 on aggregate in the quarter-finals. And then something went horribly wrong. Two 1-1 draws against CSKA Sofia in the semi-final forced them to a playoff – handily held in Bologna after they promised the Bulgarians a three-quarter share of the gate receipts – and although they won that 1-0, it was as though all the insecurities, all the doubts, had rushed suddenly to the surface.

They drew against Lazio and Cagliari, and lost 1-0 to Juventus, reducing their lead at the top to two points. They drew against Napoli, but Juve were held at Mantova. They drew again, at home to Fiorentina, and this time Juve closed the gap, beating Lanerossi Vicenza. With two matches of their season remaining – the European Cup final against Celtic in Lisbon, and a league match away to Mantova – two wins would have completed another double, but the momentum was against them. If Inter were going to defend, the logic seemed to be, Celtic were going to attack with everything in their power.

And Inter were set on defending, particularly after Mazzola gave I hem a seventh-minute lead from the penalty spot. They had done it against Benfica in 1965, and they tried to do it again, but this was not the Inter of old. Doubts had come to gnaw at them, and as Celtic swarmed over them they intensified. ‘We just knew, even after fifteen minutes, that we were not going to keep them out,’ Burgnich said. ‘They were first to every ball; they just hammered us in every area of the pitch. It was a miracle that we were still 1-0 up at half-time. Sometimes in those situations with each minute that passes your confidence increases and you start to believe. Not on that day. Even in the dressing room at half-time we looked at each other and we knew that we were doomed.’

For Burgnich, the ritiro had become by then counter-productive, serving only to magnify the doubts and the negativity. ‘I think I saw my family three times during that last month,’ he said. ‘That’s why I used to joke that Giacinto Facchetti, my room-mate, and I were like a married couple. I certainly spent far more time with him than my wife. The pressure just kept building up; there was no escape, nowhere to turn. I think that certainly played a big part in our collapse, both in the league and in the final.’

On arriving in Portugal, Herrera had taken his side to a hotel on the sea-front, half an hour’s drive from Lisbon. As usual, Inter booked out the whole place. ‘There was nobody there, except for the players and the coaches, even the club officials stayed elsewhere,’ Burgnich said. ‘I’m not joking, from the minute our bus drove through the gates of the hotel to the moment we left for the stadium three days later we did not see a single human being apart from the coaches and the hotel staff. A normal person would have gone crazy in those circumstances. After many years we were somewhat used to it, but by that stage, even we had reached our breaking point. We felt the weight of the world on our shoulders and there was no outlet. None of us could sleep. I was lucky if I got three hours a night. All we did was obsess over the match and the Celtic players. Facchetti and I, late at night, would stay up and I isten to our skipper, Armando Picchi, vomiting from the tension in the next room. In fact, four guys threw up the morning of the game and another four in the dressing room before going out on lhe pitch. In that sense we had brought it upon ourselves.’

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Jimmy Johnstone and Willie Wallace size up their oppoents while walking onto the Lisbon pitch. Jinky seems to have spotted someone he can swap jerseys with – a wildly optimistic idea for more reasons than one.

Celtic, by contrast, made great play of being relaxed, which only made Inter feel worse. In terms of mentality, it was catenaccio’s reductio ad absurdum, the point beyond which the negativity couldn’t go. They had created the monster, and it ended up turning on its maker. Celtic weren’t being stifled, and the chances kept coming. Bertie Auld hit the bar, the goalkeeper Giuliano Sarti saved brilliantly from Gemmell, and then, seventeen minutes into the second half, the equaliser arrived. It came thanks to the two full-backs who, as Stein had hoped, repeatedly outflanked Inter’s marking. Bobby Murdoch found Craig on the right, and he advanced before cutting a cross back for Gemmell to crash a rightfoot shot into the top corner. It was not, it turned out, possible to mark everybody, particularly not those arriving from deep positions.

The onslaught continued. ‘I remember, at one point, Picchi turned to the goalkeeper and said, “Giuliano, let it go, just let it go. It’s pointless, sooner or later they’ll get the winner,’’’ Burgnich said. ‘I never thought I would hear those words, I never imagined my captain would tell our keeper to throw in the towel. But that only shows how destroyed we were at that point. It’s as if we did not want to prolong the agony.’

Inter, exhausted, could do no more than launch long balls aimlessly forward, and they succumbed with five minutes remaining. Again a full-back was instrumental, Gemmell laying the ball on for Murdoch, whose mishit shot was diverted past Sarti by Chalmers. Celtic became the first non-Latin side to lift the European Cup, and Inter were finished.

Worse followed at Mantova. As Juventus beat Lazio, Sarti allowed a shot from Di Giacomo – the former Inter forward – to slip under his body, and the scudetto was lost. ‘We just shut down mentally, physically and emotionally,’ said Burgnich. Herrera blamed his defenders. Guarneri was sold to Bologna and Picchi to Varese. ‘When things go right,’ the sweeper said, ‘it’s because of Herrera’s brilliant planning. When things go wrong, it’s always the players who are to blame.’

As more and more teams copied catenaccio, its weaknesses became increasingly apparent. The problem Rappan had discovered – that the midfield could be swamped – had not been solved. The tornante could alleviate that problem, but only by diminishing the attack. ‘Inter got away with it because they had Jair and Corso in wide positions and both were gifted,’ Maradei explained. ‘And, also, they had Suarez who could hit those long balls. But for most teams it became a serious problem. And so, what happened is that rather than converting full-backs into liberi, they turned inside-forwards into liberi. This allowed you, when you won possession, to push him up into midfield and effectively have an extra passer in the middle of the park. This was the evolution from catenaccio to what we call “i! giocco all’ Italiano” – “the Italian game”.’

In 1967-68, morale and confidence shot, Inter finished only fifth, thirteen points behind the champions Milan, and Herrera left for Roma. Catenaccio didn’t die with la Grande Inter, but the myth of its invincibility did. Celtic had proved attacking football had a future, and it wasn’t just Shankly who was grateful for that.

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Daffodils and that…


 wee friend with the black beard was a Protestant clergyman, a refugee from the military regime in Argentina. He taught Greek and Hebrew to bible students at the University of Paris. He was telling us about the state of the modern French novel. “Tres, tres beau,” but penetrated with sadness. “When you are young, do your parents ever say you poetry?”
“No,” I said, but my father said me teams. ‘Shevlin, McNair and Willie McStay; Jimmy McStay, Cringan and McFarlane; McAtee and Patsy Gallagher, Cassidy, McLean and Paddy Connolly.’”

That my parents did not ‘say me poetry’ was no deprivation. I got soul from a load of Irish 78s and an old wind-up gramophone. There was one sad disc with ‘The Laddie From Cardenden’ on one side and ‘The Scottish League’ on the other.
My father crossed from Donegal to the Gorbals at the end of the First World War and Celtic’s first spring and was weaned on the sides of the Thirties. I suppose I must have slept through the record attendance final of 1937 in my cot in Rutherglen Road where Basil Spence’s abominable ‘Galleons Under Sail’ now stands and was probably down to bed in Stamperland by the time Celtic and Everton kicked off at Ibrox on June 10th 1938 to contest the destination of the Exhibition Cup.
The long winter began that summer’s night. The second spring was almost thirty years away.
The first game he ever took me to was Third Lanark A versus Celtic A at Cathkin Park on August 26th 1944. I still grieve for the demise of Thirds, my second team. Celtic were in green shirts, black shorts and hooped socks. Rolando Ugolini was in a grey jersey in goal and Bobby Evans and ‘Hooky’ McPhail played for Celtic in a 2:2 draw.
We were back at Cathkin just over a year later, October 14th, the big teams this time, Celtic winners by 2:0. Jackie Gallagher shot into an empty goal when Peter McBride and Matt Balunas got in a fankle, and there was a penalty, I’m sure, a few minutes later, that Delaney blasted into the roof of McBride’s net.
It may seem nugatory to record details like this but every Celtic win of the period was received as being at last the turn of the tide. In the same futile hope we had applauded McGrory’s appearance in the stand (did he ever sit on the touchline?) at the pre-season trials of August 1945 when he took over as manager for the next (long) twenty years. (“Today they are ringing their bells – tomorrow they will be wringing their hands.”)
Rangers were supreme at the time that I remember staring in disbelief at a headline in the Daily Record which read Clyde 4 Rangers 3, and when they went down in Germany 6:1 to a team from the British Army on the Rhine I just could not credit it possible.
“Why are Rangers such a good team Daddy?”
“They’re not a good team. It’s just that they’re better than any of the others.”
(At the Kelvin Hall circus every January there were two teams of performing dogs, blues versus greens, with a balloon for a ball and goals. I don’t think I was ever there when the greens won. Our luck was right out.)
I experienced my first sadness like a coal hammer to the heart when dear Jimmy Delaney moved to Manchester United in February 1946. The second was Willie Miller’s failure to get the nod over Frank Swift for the Great Britain side versus Europe at Hampden in 1947. The third was in a closemouth in 1948 when the news came down the street that Celtic were out 0:1 to Morton in the Scottish Cup semi-final. It wasn’t quite the same anguish when Collins and Fernie moved on in 1958. Close enough, but I was older then, if not wiser.
We were at Charlie Tully’s first appearance in the pre-season trial of 1948. My father was not impressed but was willing to make excuses for Charlie’s new boots worn especially for the occasion. He never did acquire a love for Tully. Charlie didn’t have Delaney’s modesty. “Jimmy Delaney would come out of Parkhead, pull down his hat over his eyes and away. But this Tully fella… Celtic should have let him go years ago when West Bromwich were after him.”
After a very good league win over Thistle, Colonel Shaughnessy promised us that Celtic would be back and the Evening Times in May 1947 predicted our troubles would be over if we could only get Parola, the Rest of Europe centre-half, a big Italian. Feelers even went out to Middlesborough for Wilf Mannion.
My father had no time for Bob Kelly. To paraphrase Montaigne somewhere: run a mile from a man of principle. “McGrory’s just a yes man up there. The only team I’m interested in is Malky’s (Malcolm MacDonald was manager at Brentford before coming back to build the Kilmarnock side with which Willie Waddell won the league).
After modern day setbacks I look back and wonder how my father’s generation coped. Mine was born into dearth and defeat and took it for normal, but they had seen the happy times and burst with pride for the old Celtic. They knew what it had been like to win leagues and cups and now there was nothing.
Celtic in the 40s and 50s used to go to Ibrox with no strategy or tactics at all and play well if they held Rangers to a 4:0 defeat or even got a goal themselves. There were real stoics in those days! We expected to get thumped and Rangers expected to thump us. Yet what an incredible amount of talent was streaming in and out of the club!
Bob Kelly in his book ‘Celtic’ says that Parkhead never had a proper replacement for John Thomson until Ronnie Simpson. This was an insult to the memory of Joe Kennaway but above all to one of the greatest ‘keepers ever to pull on a Celtic shirt, Willie Miller, who between 1946 and 1950 performed heroics behind a defence that would have destroyed Thomson’s confidence as well. He played Rangers on his own at Hampden on May 30th 1946 and gained Celtic a 0:0 draw. He was a magnificent ‘keeper, brave agile and safe.
I was not privileged to watch Peter Wilson and I thought Bobby Murdoch could certainly pass a ball in his first game for Celtic, but the greatest midfielder ever in my experience was Bobby Evans, whose transformation into centre-half was equally stunning. Bobby was an all-action footballer whose only peer for energy and endeavour was Harry Mooney of Third Lanark. I stood in an Arnhem churchyard one sunny Sunday morning in 1958 and listened to a Dutchman who had seen Evans on TV in a Scotland team hammered 4:0 by England wax lyrical about the classiest defensive performance he had ever witnessed. This was before Evans played Uwe Seeler out of it against Germany at Hampden in 1959. Bobby Evans in his prime simply never turned in a bad game. He and Willie Miller were worth the turnstile money on their own. So were Tully, Fernie and Sammy Wilson alongside Billy McPhail.
Season after season the Kelly years began with dash and promise and wasted away before Ne’erday. Celtic went to Wembley to see the Hungarians tear England apart, crossed to Switzerland for the World Cup but never seemed capable of realising football ahead and the A Team without a plan was an anachronism. The only thing modern about that Celtic was the pre-match record selection from the Top Twenty.

Jock Stein enabled my father to rejoice in his old age, same as Maley (if not to the same extent) in his youth. He was at Celtic Park in the New Year of 1966 because Stein had given his beloved Bhoys back their pride and watched in delight a 0:1 half-time deficit turn into a 5:1 lacing of Rangers. I was with him in the stand for the League Cup match against Rangers on August 30th 1967 (the night The Fugitive was ending on TV) with Celtic 0:1 down and 12 minutes to go. We got three without reply and the whole stand resounded to the noise of stamping feet.
We walked on flowers from London Road to Argyle Street. “Changed days,” I said to him.
“Aye, changed days,” he said. Pure poetry.
We got a 39 bus in Midland Street but could have walked home to Pollok through the sweet night air.
It is a sobering thought, like contemplating the existence of God in the void of time, but where might Celtic be today without Jock Stein? My pensioner father would certainly not have been able to sport a button in his lapel with a big ‘9’ on it – surely an impossible feat for Celtic before Stein and without his like impossible again.
Stein brought leadership, he brought strategy, he brought tactics match per match. He prepared a one half team to play a whole 90 minutes and exploited the potential of the playing staff in hand (nobody of my acquaintance had much time for the side he took over in March 1965). He fed the hungry and he gave drink to the thirsty. He set the prisoners free. He must never be forgotten.
My father died in the close season of 1984 – one of Celtic’s more modern no-formula, no-use, no-win years – with nothing to cheer him from Celtic Park. He used to tell me I couldn’t call myself a Celtic supporter because I didn’t pay often enough to see them. I had lived in exile in London for 30 years. Concern is supposed to wane over the years, but I used to stand at the Arsenal (where a Celtic win against Rangers got as big a roar as a Gunners goal) like the shadow of the Valois – yawning – hanging on in nervous suspense for the Scottish Premier Division scores, worried sick if we were away at Tynecastle, Tannadice or Pittodrie and praying that Billy McNeill and Tommy Craig had got the game worked out or the defence were putting up a real stuffy performance.
No doubt about it, by the Centenary season the second spring had degenerated into lazy, hazy days. The worst Celtic result I heard that season was the 7:2 League Cup win over Hamilton in August. To lose two goals to toothless Accies! A few days later it was five to Rangers.
A wee African priest on a visit to Glasgow went to the big match. The crowd was enormous and he stood on the packed terracing waiting for the kick-off. Then the earth began to tremble through the soles of his shoes. Overhead the sky split. He was hearing his first Hampden Roar as the Champions of Europe appeared in the sunlight to play Spurs in a friendly. Every time I meet him he shakes his head in disbelief and lights up at the memory: “My God, the passion! The noise! Cel-tic! Cel-tic!”
Did your parents say you poetry? Yes indeed, we had the lot; lyric, epic, bathos, pathos, turgid doggerel and triumphant ode.
We are Celtic supporters. Thanks be to God.

DANNY PARK
The Celt (1989)

NTV 247

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