DavieCooper.com Editor’s Blog

“Alexei has a great economy of movement.”
Walter Smith

Rangers’ scrapbook is littered with press cuttings and photographs of flawed genius – Jim Baxter, Davie Cooper, Paul Gascoigne - players whose prodigious talent was sabotaged by a mutinous disposition. Another gifted enigma, who is often overlooked by the casual Gers’ fan, is Alexei Mikhailichenko (aka “Miko”): a pasty Ukrainian midfielder whose languid style and exquisite footwork, frustrated and thrilled in equal measure.

Winston Churchill once described the Soviet Union as “A puzzle inside a riddle wrapped in an enigma”. This is a suitable epigraph for Alexei Mikhailichenko – often marooned on the left flank; a pale hunch that shivered in Govan’s winter gaze. Miko’s endeavour off the ball was vaporous, his tackling supine, and body language nonchalant. At times he resembled a reluctant teenager, badgered into playing BB football by his pushy father. Alexei, it appeared, would rather be snug in his Bothwell muse, slurping Rassolnik and guzzling Dovgan. Yet, occasionally, he would emerge from this winter reverie; embarrassing defenders with a dainty pas de deux, conjuring up spells from the muddy touchline, unleashing a pass reserved for an idiot savant; before receding back into footballing hibernation – a wan droop of anonymity.

Aside from being rather indolent, Miko had a mischievous side, and perhaps even a supercilious regard for some of his Ibrox compadres. During a training session at Clydesdale cricket club, he took a notion to ridicule the mercurial John “Bomber” Brown. Big Mistake. Over the space of 30 minutes, the Ukrainian jester danced, feigned and skipped past Bomber, flicking the ball over his head, rolling it through his legs, poking it round his leaden frame - soon Brown resembled a ginger seal sliding around in the mud, lunging at a pale shadow, floundering under Alexei’s genius. Eventually the centre half snapped, bolted over, grabbed Miko by the throat and snarled, “Try that again and I’ll kick f*** out ye”. Despite Alexei’s elementary grasp of the Queen’s English, he understood Bomber’s tribal body language; cowering behind Kuznetsov until the bellicose defender regained his composure.

Miko’s off-field antics are just as amusing as his rumpus with the Bomber. Following a peevish phone call from his neighbours to Ibrox HQ, a bevy of groundsmen were dispatched to the midfielder’s Bothwell manor. On emerging from the conservatory into his back garden they were strangled by a thicket of nettles, Savannah grasses and misbehaving begonias. Abandoned in the corner was a lonely Flymo, slumped against a bin bag bustling with vodka bottles. Miko, it transpires, liked red labels, but not green fingers.

Football supporters are polarised on the merits of cult heroes like Mikhailichenko. Puritans preach that they are underachieving loafs, who squander their talent and indulge their vices - usually in the bookies and boozers of Western Scotland. While romantics wallow in the mystique of a troubled soul who is blessed with greatness. They tolerate their imperfections; compensated by squibs of brilliance that leave them starry eyed, drooling in the stands.

Miko’s foible wasn’t booze and burds, but lethargy and indifference. Walter Smith once quipped that he had a “great economy of movement”. His CV flirted with greatness – Dynamo Kiev, Sampdoria, - but body swerved glory at the eleventh hour. Perhaps by the time he signed for Rangers, aged 30, he realised his career was moribund and motivation slowly dwindled. Was his spell as a Teddy Bear just a frivolous cameo, a listless swan song? We’ll never know. But when the Slav reigned, it was majestic – no Gers’ fan can forget his two Ne’er day goals against Celtic.

Miko’s reputation as an exasperating savant was immortalised when he, ironically, saved his best Rangers’ performance for a meaningless Scott Nisbet testimonial - enthralling the sparse crowd with a virtuosos display; leaving them agape, scratching their heads; wandering down Copland Road dreaming about what should have been. He was indeed Rangers’ gifted harlequin - a puzzle inside a riddle wrapped in an enigma.

14 million pounds worth of unfulfilled potential, forsaken promises and state-of-the-art nothingness. Murray Park is quickly maturing into a prosaic shrine of under achievement. It transpires that its steel gates were forged to shut out talented youngsters, and incarcerate those destined for mediocrity. Occasionally an azure diamond emerges from the Milngavie mines, and is shipped to Walter Smith for polishing. But inevitably its sparkle is slowly dimmed by night club titillation, lack of first team exposure or injury. Frustrated bears grumble in the terraces, waiting for another Slim Jim to emerge from Rangers’ lavish crèche. Board members scratch their heads at the thimble of talent trickling down Glasgow road. What happened to David Murray’s Xanadu?

Let’s cross-examine the case for the defence:

Murray Park does produce prodigious youngsters, but they cannot break into a Rangers’ first team bulging with internationalists and foreign talent.

Bollocks. Gazza, Van Bronckhorst and Laudrup are now faded postcards – a sad reminder of a Rangers’ empire that wilted in the financial glare. The current squad is, largely, a shoddy United Nations scrounged from the flea markets of Europe. For example, Sasa Papac is consistently rote and Kyle Lafferty a gangly caprice, with the poise of a baby giraffe. If Steven Smith and John Fleck - two Murray park protégés - were superior in ability, they would surely commandeer these outfield positions.

Winning a league requires experienced pros that are consistent and “know what it takes” to win an SPL title.

A valid point, but precautious youth can be blended with sagacity, often with startling results. Derek Johnstone nodded the winning goal in the Scottish cup final at the thumb-sucking age of 16; Advocaat plonked a pubescent Bazza into the guts of midfield; Fergie won a Premiership title with a gaggle of spotty teenagers. It seems Walter has always been mildly allergic to juvenile vagaries - he bows gracefully to age and the soporific 4-5-1. A new manager may adopt a more cavalier approach. In any case, Rangers need S Forms to hose down Davie Weir’s Penny Farthing at full time.

Admittedly, there is a clump of green shoots sprouting in Murray Park, with John Fleck and Danny Wilson earning their stripes in the muddy trenches of Govan. But most supporters are haunted by a chill of under achievement, a latent dread that Murray Park is more of a first team training facility than a conveyor belt of excellence. Barry Ferguson is its solitary success story - a 1st class graduate, who graced the stadiums of Europe, before ego pilfered his humility; petulance ambushed his reputation; leaving him weeping, clutching a one-way Apex to Birmingham.

In fiscal terms, Murray Park is a prudent investment. Tore Andre Flo plundered 12 million from Rangers’ piggy bank; Murray Park cost 14. For that price Rangers accrued Barry Ferguson, Alan Hutton, Chris Burke, John Fleck, Steven Smith, Danny Wilson, 6 full size pitches, 2 half size pitches, a state of the art gym, lecture rooms, dining facilities, a video editing suite and a sumptuous bath that has massage jets and a moveable floor (Allan McGregor has ordered a replica for his dining room).

Perhaps we were beguiled by Murray’s vision of a Dutch utopia, where prodigious players could be manufactured like ginger bread men from a bakers mould. Our expectations were fanciful, and borne out of wishful thinking that bricks and mortar could facilitate genius. You can’t engender natural talent. Jimmy Johnston, Jim Baxter and Davie Cooper never enrolled at a Dutch style youth academy. They honed their skills by dribbling round the stanks, closes and cul-de-sacs of Western Scotland.  Greatness was embedded in their DNA. Youth academy’s just apply a lacquer veneer – teaching youngsters to forgo king rib suppers in favour of whole-wheat pasta.

Unfortunately, until Super Ally and Kenny McDowall become footballing alchemists – transmuting the likes of Kirk Broadfoot into Roberto Carlos – or a new epoch of young Scottish talent emerges; we will be left shivering in the stands, watching shadows dance in the mud - waiting impatiently for the next generation of great Rangers to graduate from Murray park.

He’s pacing up and down, prowling the touchline like an over zealous father on sports day. An apoplectic scream, his arms fling upwards, and the ball clatters into the advertising board just shy of the post. Then he’s pacing again, back and forth, wearing a rut into the soft blades of grass. “Boydy, for f*cks sake”, he bellows, “…get back on side”.

Father time ticks, but the shell suit won’t yield, and he’s back stalking every loose pass and mistimed tackle. His face sweaty and red, a supernova of burst capillaries, his thighs like two redwoods caught in a storm. Suddenly a raking pass and Boyd bursts clear, “Come on”, he yells, “F*cking, come on”, a flash of studs, a burst of dirt and the ball flies into the bottom corner. He’s jumping, screaming, laughing, punching – a blue blur of delirium. The stands erupt, a cacophony of cold joy. Then slowly, after an eternity of boos and jeers, the tin whistle peeps, the supporters trickle home, and an exhausted Ally McCoist trudges over to shake his opposite numbers hand. For the Rangers’ number two it’s just another quite day at the office.

There’s no doubting Super Ally’s passion for, and commitment to, Rangers. His relinquishment of lucrative TV contracts, to work as assistant manager at Ibrox, is proof of his unconditional love for the club. Especially considering Rangers were, at that point, in a moribund state – enduring their worst start in the league since 1978 and having just been trounced by Dunfermline in the Scottish Cup. He chose personal fulfilment over monetary recompense, a rare display of integrity in today’s climate of financial gluttony.

Being number two plays to his strengths: enthusiasm, motivation and man management. So it unsurprising that he has excelled as an understudy with Rangers and formerly Scotland. But, financial straight jacket aside, does he possess the myriad of talents required to manage the Govan behemoth? It’s debatable. Certainly his charisma and affability would buy him time with the fans and media, but style cannot masquerade as substance indefinitely. Tactical nous, transfer shrewdness and ultimately results would determine his long-term fate. A slew of heavy defeats and, not only his job but, his mythical reputation as an Ibrox talisman maybe in jeopardy. Remember when the storm clouds gathered above John Greig in the dug out?

The problem is that he is an unproven gaffer. His managerial track record is vaporous, and his first team experience with Rangers has been limited to a management cameo in the Scottish Cup. Even in that arena, Watty raced down from the stands to fire fight when the battle plan went awry. So his promotion to the Ibrox hot seat would be a high stakes gamble: would Rangers’ buyer be willing to plough millions into a club with a fledgling manager at the helm? I doubt it.

So what does the future hold for Alistair McCoist? Well it depends entirely on the new owners to be at Ibrox. If they share David Murray’s vision of McCoist being heir to the Teddy Bear’s throne, then he’s laughing. Otherwise it maybe a furtive retreat to the world of stage makeup, studio lights and Sue Barker - “Ally: Home or away?”

Whatever fate the footballing Gods have in store for Golden Balls, the one time womaniser and court jester has matured into an irreplaceable cog in the Rangers machine. He is part of the clubs bricks and mortar - blue blood coursing through his turgid thighs, bald spot glistening in the apricot sun, willing his team onto victory with every sinion of his stocky frame.

He may never manage Rangers but, like Ray Wilkins at Chelsea, provide a perennial link between the clubs illustrious past and it’s vagarious future. Whatever transpires with buyers and managers, let’s hope that ‘Coisty, in one form or another, is here to stay. As, in this period of turmoil, Rangers need all the true blues they can muster to man the pumps.

Walter Smith’s candid appraisal of our national game, last week, should be applauded. His comments weren’t exactly revelatory, but managerial confirmation of what every supporter, pundit and journalist has been saying for the last few years – Scottish football is shit. The blazers in Hampden Park will be squirming at his dissention; he’s shattered the pretence, perpetuated by them, that all is rosy in the SPL. SFA Chief Executive Gordon Smith, predictably launched a PR counter-offensive, spewing out a list of feeble stats that did little to appease our concerns:

- Per head of the population, more people attend football in Scotland compared to England
- The audience for the first Old Firm derby showing a 32% increase on the average for last season, and was shown on HD for the first time
- Scottish players now make up 60% of first teams in the league compared to 48% in 1998

Yawn.

At press conferences Smith is an impenetrable slab of granite. Stoic and grumpy, he has a palpable disdain for journalists and his rhetoric is often guarded and austere. So his unexpected fusillade on Scottish football was gold dust for a press core emaciated on a diet of verbal crumbs. Behind closed doors Watty is apparently a convivial and witty dinner companion – the antithesis of his public persona. It’s a shame he can’t muster a frisson of this geniality when the cameras are rolling.

But then again, look what happened to wee Gordon at Celtic; vilified by fans and the media for being a frivolous smart arse. This media game isn’t easy. Somehow managers such as Harry Redknapp manage to charm the press, effortlessly striking a balance between humour and solemnity. For those lacking in charisma, perhaps being factual and terse is a damage limitation strategy.

Maybe once Walter rides off into the Govan sunset, he will lower his cast-iron veneer and let us see the real touchy-feely Wally. Imagine “When Louis Theroux met Watty…” – Walter strolling along the beach in Helensborough discussing his prostate with the nerdy journo. I doubt it. I think Walter would give Louis one of his icy glares, followed by a swift kick to the chuckies. After all Walter Smith is no Jimmy Saville.

Swirling through the radio waves, cajoling, bruising, titillating, sweeping up through the valleys of Glenmore and down the streets of Glasgae…it greets us. Saturday lunchtimes, Off the Ball – the white dog turd of Scottish radio.

It is without doubt an endangered species; the thinking man’s football show. Effortlessly blending schoolboy jokes about dobers and fuds with philosophical musings on life. It races up and down the ladder of abstraction like a window cleaner with the skitters.

Stuart Cosgrove, the epitome of the liberal thinking Guardian reader, is the shows pedagogue. The definition of modern Scot – combining tales of single ends in Perth with lectures on Marcel Proust. Tam Cowan, his blue-collar foil; coarse, sharp, witty – the guy that makes you howl in the pub x1000.  It’s an over-simplification to say Cosgrove provides sustenance for the mind and Cowan tickles your funny bone, but that’s where their strengths lie. They’re both intelligent, funny guys.

The shows appeal is universal. Some of the football references may body-swerve the unenlightened, but Cowan’s carpet bombing delivery will have you grinning every 55 seconds (every 54 seconds a man thinks about sex). That leaves another 58 seconds for thinking about beer.

So next time, instead of surfing for porn, wrest your wrist, expand your mind and tune into Off the Ball. The Woody Allen of Football Shows (the early funny one that mixed Marx Brothers with Bergman, not the lurid pensioner):

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/scotland/tv_and_radio/7133168.stm

Summer’s glow bows to the sky, autumn winds chase the light – further, deeper, darker into the winding streets of Govan. We rise from the depths, riding an orange monster through the tunnels of gloom. Fried onions, Buckfast, scenting our trudge to the creaking turnstiles. Up we rise again, snaking through the steel and glass, laughing, moaning with our 90-minute friends. Our bodies framed against the blue plastic, straining at the garbled tannoy. Our heroes on green blades, toiling in the murky light. The weekend ritual of lost souls…

Deep in the bowels of Washington’s FBI headquarters Fox Mulder paces around his office, thumbing through a dossier of unexplained phenomena - alien abductions, supernatural sightings and Andy Murray’s 4th round US Open defeat. Behind him a tattered poster clings onto an inconspicuous grey wall. It depicts a saucer shaped craft floating above a pinewood forest, with the words “I WANT TO BELIEVE” scrawled below it.

Andy; I still want to believe.

Following Murray’s capitulation to Marin Cillic, at Flushing Meadows, there are now more questions than answers:

Is his playing style too passive?
Did he participate in too many tournaments leading up to the US Open?
Is he overly chummy with his coaching staff?
Does the Loch Ness monster actually exist?

Every journalist and pundit has their pet theory on why Murray buckled to lower seeds in the last few grand slams. If there’s one man who knows what it takes to win a slam it’s Roger Federer. Back in 2008, after losing to Muzza at the Dubai Championships, Federer remarked:

“He is going to have to grind it very hard in the next few years if he is going to play this way.”

“He stands way behind the court. You have to do a lot of running and he tends to wait for the mistakes of his opponent.”

“I gave him the mistakes but overall in a 15-year career you want to look to win a point more often rather than wait for the other guy to miss. Who knows, he might surprise us all.”

At the time it sounded like sour grapes - the churlish quip of a tennis legend that had been humbled by a young whipper snapper. But in retrospect, it’s the one criticism that has been consistently levelled at the Dunblane star.

Let’s look at the facts. Every time Murray has come up against an in-form big hitter in the last few slams he has lost – Roddick (Wimbledon), Gonzalez (French Open), Verdasco (Australian Open). Is the Muzz man letting his opponents blast him off the court by being too passive with the tennis ball? It’s a fair shout.

For Murray, the decision to change anything in his tennis world is a difficult one. This year has seen incredible progress: he has risen to number two in the world rankings, won several masters tournaments and improved on his previous showings at the French Open and Wimbledon. So you can understand why the youngster is reluctant to make any radical alterations to his game. But Andy is astute; a tennis connoisseur, and will intrinsically know that some minor tweaks are required if he wants to be a grand slam winner.

Andy; the truth is out there…

His career was a soap opera…then it was a pantomime…now it’s A-Farce. In 2000, Audley Harrison won an Olympic gold medal; a few months ago he was beaten by a Belfast cabbie. His journey from Olympic champion to laughing stock has been a humiliating debacle. Surely now, Harrison must abandon his dream of becoming world heavyweight champion. Think again - A-Force, relentless in his pursuit of serial disappointment, is staging another comeback. 

If self-delusion were currency, Audley Harrison would be a billionaire. Despite embarrassing losses to journeymen opponents, his advancing years (he’s 37), countless injuries, and the economic plight of boxing, Harrison believes he can return Phoenix-like to the higher echelons of the sport. Recently his media interviews have been peppered with desperate, self-motivating, psycho-babble: 

“It’s like the Michael Jackson song ‘Man in the Mirror’, I’ve looked at myself and the answer coming back has been ‘yes, you can’.“ 

A-Force is hanging onto reality by his fingernails. 

Maybe I’m taking his failure personally: I was a passionate Harrison supporter, and enjoyed many late nights watching his fisticuffs on the BBC. Some critics dismissed him as “another Bruno” who only brawled with second-rate bums. But I always felt he possessed far more natural ability than the HP sauce man. That’s why his recent capitulation is so frustrating. This British pugilist was talented enough to win a world title (remember the killer jab and lighting hands). So where did it all go wrong? 

In 2001, Harrison planted the seeds of self-destruction when he chose not to sign-up with a major boxing promoter. Instead, he opted to manage and promote himself using his A-Force Promotions company. The boxing establishment frowned at his decision and, at the dawn of his professional career, he had already irritated the major power brokers in the game.

Harrison’s next faux pas was to buy into his own mythology: the million pound contract with the BBC, the post-Olympics adulation, his “celebrity” status, all fuelled his burgeoning ego. Subconsciously, he was already celebrating in Caesars Palace - hoisting a gold plated, lacquered belt above his head. A-Force felt his sense of destiny would bestow greatness - it was a naïve and fatal assumption. There were years of hard grafting to be done first. 

On October 2, A-Force will have another last throw of the dice. He will be boxing in the Prizefighter event: an eight-man, one-night knockout tournament that includes British heavyweight Champion Danny Williams and Michael Sprott. Frank Warren is frantically promoting it, and a Harrison victory would help resurrect his flat-lined career.

We all have dreams in life – it’s healthy. Audley Harrison is no exception. His 2001 Autobiography was titled “Realising the Dream” and he often eulogises that “The dream is still alive”. But when your dream becomes a fantasy that you cannot relinquish, obsession lurks in the shadows. Audley if you lose your next fight – for your own sake - please hang up the gloves.

Somewhere high above the dripping streets of Glasgow, a private jet cuts through the night sky. Onboard a chief executive is deep in thought, pondering a career of tumultuous highs and farcical lows. He’s weary, but sleep evades him – running a football club, for the last 20 years, has nurtured a penchant for nervous tension.  

A few hours later and he is relaxing in the charming countryside of Provence. It’s a pleasant summers evening and he’s unwinding on a farmyard balcony; sipping fine wines and nibbling Camembert. He gazes down at the valley below, marvelling at a rural tapestry of winding streams and quaint stone villages. The dark streets of Govan seem a million miles away. After several glasses of Pinot Noir, Sir David Murray leans back into his wicker chair, closes his eyes and breathes a deep sigh of relief - this dapper bear is now in hibernation.  

Murray’s first decade as Ibrox chairman (1988-1998) was impressive: 9 Scottish league titles, glamorous international signings, stadium expansion, high profile managers. For a while he had the Midas touch. During the early 90s he vowed to make Rangers a credible force in Europe. It was a bold and daring vision that, aside from a few famous victories, was never fully realised. But the fans got caught up in the moment, and some of the Champions League nights were magical.

Murray’s final tenure as Rangers chairman (2004-2009) was an unconvincing cameo. The clubs crumbling finances forced him to adopt the role of a frugal accountant. It didn’t sit well with a man who had previously quipped, ‘that for every fiver Celtic spend I will spend a tenner’. He started making noises about leaving and it seemed the job he once loved had become a dull grind. You can understand why: no money to spend on star players, European success unrealistic, entry to the English Premiership a fantasy, mounting club debts, paltry TV revenues. The ball was on the slates. 

Sir David Murray’s resignation does not bode well for the Old Firm, or Scottish football in general. One of the countries most successful, respected businessmen wants out. What kind of message does this send out to future buyers of Scottish clubs? Surely even the most romantic of billionaires would wince at the financial practicalities of owning one. Right now, Scottish football is a hard sell. 

It looks almost comical, like an ornament crafted in Lilliput. But seldom in the world of sport has something so little been so highly coveted by two old enemies. After 5 test matches and 22 days of gladiatorial jousting, Freddie Flintoff hoisted a minute and rather unimpressive looking terracotta urn above his head. England had won the Ashes.

Over the last few weeks, I’ve been intermittently watching the Ashes saga unfold on television. I have learned that test cricket is an effective cure for insomnia (I can now throw my CD of whale sounds in the bin), and it is soothing background music when perusing the newspaper. Indeed, there’s something reassuring about the gentle thudding sound as the ball caresses the willow, the soft perpetual hum of the crowd, and the commentators’ sedate musings. For middle-aged men it shares all the cosy trappings of the maternal womb.

It may seem bizarre that a Scotsman could enjoy watching a sport that is as popular as Margaret Thatcher and Morris dancing in his native homeland. But during my childhood years I was friendly with a Pakistani boy who was cricket daft. He indoctrinated me into the strange world of googlies, cow corners and silly points. For a while I was hooked, and would dash home after school, throw on some tracky bottoms and scoot down to the local park to bowl a few wides. Life was simple back then.

Aside from misty-eyed nostalgia, the other big draw is Andrew Flintoff, a.k.a. Big Freddie - a bloke’s bloke.  He’s blessed with the navy drinking prowess of Oliver Reed, the natural cricketing ability of Sir Ian Botham, and the cheeky grin of a naughty schoolboy. He is the bad boy of English cricket - inheriting the title from Sir Beefy, who was the original beer swilling, curry-loving rebel. You can’t help but like the guy.

So it was fitting that one moment of Freddie inspired brilliance propelled England towards the finish line: Flintoff, virtually anonymous for the majority of the last test, suddenly burst into life, whipping the ball off the turf, then zinging it through the air to leave Ricky Pointing scrambling for safety - the stumps splayed, bails exploded upwards and the Australian captain trudged off the field crimson faced at having been run out. The Ashes were in the bag and Flintoff’s cameo snatched all the headlines. It was a fitting end to the 2009 Ashes and big Freddie’s test match career.