Fitba Hell

JIMMY Johnstone was a footballing genius revered for his mesmeric skills; Brian Mitchell was a workaday full back whose career petered out in the English lower leagues. You’d be right to wonder, then, why the former’s death sparked my memories of the latter.

Mitchell played sporadically for Aberdeen in the mid-1980s. He was a traditional full back far removed from the flying wingbacks of the modern game. A willing if not particularly gifted player with a physical solidity verging on a paunch, he filled in whenever the more established defenders of that great Aberdeen team were otherwise indisposed.

Johnstone’s fame endured beyond his playing days. Obituaries told that he revelled in the continuing adulation he received from fans, eager for his tales of skirmishes with thuggish full-backs and oar-less boats. That made me think of another footballer’s reaction to fanboy attention.

Mitchell’s retirement saw him retreat back into anonymity. On a night out with a fellow Aberdeen fan a few years back, I spotted a vaguely familiar figure queuing to get into a nightspot on less-than-salubrious Justice Mill Lane. We squinted, then simultaneously blurted out: "That’s Brian Mitchell!" Mitchell’s sheepish smile suggested his modest fame hadn’t been outed in a while. He turned to a friend and thumbed in our direction, as if to say, "Can you believe someone recognised me?"

Johnstone was exalted for his awesome skill, but also because he was a link back to the heady youth of many a Celtic and Scotland fan. Brian Mitchell may not have had the same talents, but he’s still a bridge back to thousands of happy childhoods. He’ll get occasional, dewy-eyed Aberdeen fans pestering him for years to come.

THE abuse dished out to porky galactico Ronaldo continues an alarming trend. Aston Villa wanted to prosecute David Ginola a few years back when he appeared at training with a sneak preview of his middle-age spread, while Belgian club Standard Liege gained international fame after threatening to fine players £332 for each excess kilo they carried. Unless a campaign is started soon, body fascists will succeed in culling the fat footballer entirely.

The game would have been deprived of some of its most memorable exponents if such draconian measures had prevailed a century ago. Legendary Sheffield United, Chelsea and Bradford City goalkeeper William 'Fatty' Foulke reputedly weighed 25 stones by 1907, yet still managed to play for England once and establish himself as a master of penalty saves. No wonder, since, playing when keepers didn’t have to stay on their line, he charged jittery spot-kick takers with every intention of trampling them underfoot. Fatty was also notorious for meting out his own violent justice to any fan who suggested he’d had a pork pie too many.

Everton and Wales goalkeeper Neville Southall preferred a less confrontational approach when rival supporters drew attention to the inexorable expansion of his waistline in the 1980s: he would munch on the pies that rained into his six-yard box. And Cowdenbeath manager Mixu Paatelainen is another who didn’t take the terrace taunts to heart, as I witnessed for myself. While warming up at Pittodrie during his Dundee United days, he responded to suggestions that he excelled at a form of Japanese hand-to-hand combat by slapping his thighs, puffing his cheeks out and lumbering past a bemused Merkland End, face contorted in mock anticipation of a showdown with a 30-stone nappy-wearer.

But the best fat footballer story dates back to 1953 and England’s first home defeat against a non-UK team. Prior to their 6-3 drubbing, one England star took a look at chunky Hungarian Ferenc Puskas and uttered the immortal words: "Look at that fat little chap. We’ll murder this lot."

A HOT favourite has emerged in the race for the Most Disingenuous Statement of the Year award. The Herald reports today that UEFA is investigating Rangers fans for alleged bigoted chanting during the Champions League matches against Villareal. The piece features a quite staggeringly shameless response from Mark Dingwall, editor of the Rangers fanzine Follow Follow. Rather than display any contrition or suggest - reasonably - that we should wait for the findings of the investigation, Mr Dingwall has this to say:

"I have no idea what a discriminatory song is or which part of the Rangers repertoire could possibly be viewed as such. For over 20 years, the behaviour of Rangers fans home and away has been second to none and Ibrox Stadium has a wonderful reputation as a safe place to watch football in a family atmosphere. Hysteria over one alleged incident should not be allowed to obscure that marvellous record.”

To which I would respond with that old anthem of international brotherhood and spiritual understanding: "We’re up to our knees in Fenian blood, surrender or you’ll die".

We live in a country obsessed by a single sport, resulting in saturation coverage. Yet sectarianism, the single greatest affliction of Scottish football, is scarcely mentioned by sports journalists. On the rare occasions that it is debated, many scuttle for the safety of the old cliché that it’s only a "mindless minority", even as the massed ranks belt out "F**k the Pope and the IRA" to a Tina Turner tune. Pundits actually reassert bigotry in the mainstream each time Rangers and Celtic play each other, when they slaver about the "biggest derby in the world" but ignore the bilious fuel that creates that unique Old Firm atmosphere.

And there are other guilty parties – me and the thousands of Scottish fans who rail against bigotry yet resign ourselves to its inevitability. UEFA’s action should prompt us to write to Lennart Johansson next time we hear Rangers fans glorying in the slaughter of Catholics; let them know we don’t accept it either, before any more damage is done to the reputation of Scottish supporters.

By progressing to the last 16 of the Champions League, Rangers opened up the behaviour of its supporters to wider international scrutiny. They're already finding out that the sensibilities of continental Europe, whose populace knows all about the perils of unchecked extremism, are somewhat different to our insular little nation.

THERE was a clatter and splash of flying crockery, quickly followed by a hiss of anger from my mother. Try as I might, I couldn’t recreate what I’d seen the previous night.

Old Hampden, 1984: like a Victorian alleyway in gaslight, the pitch is rescued from its gloomy environs; the stands are dark recesses of humanity.

Kenny Dalglish tames the ball on the right-hand corner of the box. He shifts his weight and coaxes the ball inside. There is no pause before his next devastating movement: the instep of his left foot strikes with piston-like fluidity. The ball hurtles, its trajectory never deviating. Arconada, the Spanish goalkeeper, flings his body in a graceful but futile grasp at thin air. The ball skims inside the junction of post. It slithers down the old-style net draped deep behind the posts and is enveloped, as if by a parent reunited with a lost child. Dalglish, beaming with delight and incredulity, wheels and raises both arms in unselfconscious triumph.

The next day I took out my Adidas Tango in an attempt to recreate the perfect goal. I succeeded only in shattering a quiet afternoon of tea and biscuits in the back garden.