Issue #20 of
The Football Pink is out soon. It's a brilliant publication and I implore you to get a copy from https://thefootballpink.bigcartel.com/product/pre-order-the-football-pink-issue-20 as it is the best football publication out there. I've honoured to be in there, with this piece on Ally McLeod's personal nightmare in Aregentina 1978 -:
The
distinguished football journalist, social media agent provocateur and diehard Dundee fan Patrick Barclay still
maintains that his favourite international tournament was the 1984 European
Championships in France. He further contends that victory for the outstanding
Platini-inspired hosts was only part of the appeal; other reasons for opting
for this contest above all others include the absence of England, meaning the
incidence of patio furniture being used as weapons while brawling with the
gendarmerie in late medieval back streets was much reduced, and the fact only 8
teams competed, making every game crucial to progression. In this era of
bloated 32 team tournaments suffused with banal games of minimal import, there’s
a great deal to be said for Paddy’s logic I must admit. Sadly, those days of taut,
meaningful competition are gone, other than in the amazing, shrinking cricket
World Cup, but don’t let me get started on that outrage or I’ll never get this
piece finished.
When
the tumultuous events of winter 1989 enacted a chain of events that resulted in
the dissolution of the Warsaw Pact and the attendant fragmentation of
associated, symbiotic deformed workers’ states into a multiplicity of
ethno-nationalist proletarian Bonapartist heimats,
the World Cup and indeed the Eurovision Song Contest, would never be the
same again. As a direct result of the Berlin Wall coming down, UEFA has
expanded from 24 constituent members in 1991, to 56 at the time of writing; far
more than the 42 countries permitted to enter the Eurovision Song Contest.
The
establishment of newly independent countries created increased pressure for an
expanded World Cup, with an enlarged television audience demanding more games.
As well as providing FIFA with untold opportunities for corrupt kickbacks,
sweeteners, brown envelopes and all manner of shady deals, the false flag of meritocracy
was shamelessly waved outside the Nyon Kremlin. Initially designed for 16
finalists, though the 3 pre war tournaments charmingly hovered both below and
above this number in the dotage of casual Corinthianism, the World Cup was
modified to include 24 teams in 1982 and then 32 from 1998; no doubt Blatter’s
farcical plan to have 48 finalists by 2026 will come to fruition and eventually
the whole bloody circus will incorporate every land mass, atoll and coral reef
that has been claimed as sovereign territory, whether inhabited or not, playing
7 days a week, 365 days a year in a never-ending series of attritional goalless
draws, disfigured by biased refereeing, risible theatrics and ever more
infuriating varieties of time wasting.
Forty
years ago, the world was not a gentler or less cynical place, but we
inhabitants of Great Britain were a simpler breed. Amidst the dying embers of
the post war social democratic consensus and the crepuscular gloaming of the
sun setting on the economic marvel of full employment, the singular motive for
most workers was a simple desire to put food on the table and keep the wolf
from the doors of every nuclear family. Ordinary folk knew their worth and
their power. Industrial action was endemic in the struggle for a living wage
and safe conditions of service, while sport, music, television and the cinema
were strictly for entertainment purposes only. In these days of post industrial
ennui, the needless nature of so much of that which is called work, allows for
endless hours to be spent at employers’ expense engaged in social media
discourse, either furtively on smartphones hidden below desks or brazenly at PC
terminals. Debate and interaction on those topics formerly regarded as pastimes
now occupy the greater part of the minds of countless millions on a daily basis,
from clocking on time to logging off. Fear not for capitalism though; it
remains in rude health, as the subsistence bundles doled out by swaggering
plutocrats to disenfranchised and alienated wage slaves is smaller year on
year. Back in 1978, ordinary people knew their enemies, which is why Scotland,
the same as had happened in 1974, took the best wishes of a whole nation, not
just their fellow Scots, with them as they flew off to Argentina. As “comedian”
Andy Cameron so eloquently remarked on his hubristic top ten chart hit -:
We're representing Britain
And we're gaunny do or die.
England cannae dae it
Cause they didnae qualify.
We're on the march wi'
Ally's Army.
We're going tae the
Argentine
And we'll really shake
them up
When we win the World Cup,
Cause Scotland is the
greatest football team.
With
West Germany having qualified as holders, the remaining 31 members of UEFA were
divided into 9 groups, to compete for 8 guaranteed places in the final. Four of
the groups had 4 participants, while the other 5 had only 3, which seems
incredible in these days of 7 or 8 countries per group. Those who qualified
outright were: Poland, Austria, Holland, France, Sweden, Spain, Scotland and
Italy, who finished ahead of England. The group winners with the worst record,
Hungary, played off against Bolivia, the side that finished bottom of the South
American qualifiers. The not quite so
magnificent Magyars prevailed by a margin of 9-2 on aggregate, claiming the
tenth European spot in the finals. But what of the other 15 participants?
Argentina were there as hosts, joined by Brazil and Peru from Latin America.
Tunisia were Africa’s sole representatives, with Mexico from Central and North
America. Iran meanwhile had the honour of representing the whole of Asia and
Oceania after an exhaustive process involving 21 other countries. To be frank,
the whole charade was more than a wee bit Eurocentric. Yet England still
conspired to miss out for the second tournament in a row.
To
this day, received football wisdom lays the blame for that failure at the door
of Don Revie; the man whose historical reputation in the popular imagination is
a synthesis of Shakespeare’s Richard III and Al Capone. Without question, Revie
was an unmitigated disaster as national team boss, and nothing became his
tenure more than his vacating of it. Indeed, both England and Scotland changed
managers during the qualification process. England, having started the campaign
well enough with back to back wins over Finland, suffered the only blemish on
their record with a 2-0 loss to Italy in Rome on a Wednesday afternoon in
November 1976. As Revie’s side had failed to reach the European Championships
that had taken place that summer, despite defeating eventual winners
Czechoslovakia 3-0 in the opening qualifier, growing disquiet in the tabloid press over
the national team’s lack of identity or a coherent game plan began to make the
legendary paranoid capo feel
uncomfortable. Even a 5-0 win over Luxembourg did not silence the critics.
These days international friendlies are viewed with abject scorn by almost
every football fan, but back in the 70s they really meant something; Alf Ramsey
bemoaned the criticism his team endured after trouncing Austria 7-0 at Wembley
in September 1973, while England’s 2-0 triumph over World Champions West
Germany in March 1975, inspired by Alan Hudson and Malcolm MacDonald, was
optimistically viewed as ushering in a whole new era. Of equal import were the
venerable, end of season Home International Championships and what did for Don
Revie were disastrous defeats at Wembley to Wales and then Scotland in a 4-day
period. Losses on such an unacceptable scale saw his castigation in the popular
press reach vitriolic levels. Such opprobrium forced Revie’s hand and resulted
in him missing England’s tour of South America, where creditable draws against
Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay were seen as largely incidental. Instead he was
in the UAE, negotiating a contract that dripped petrodollars to manage their national
side. The FA, who had been hoodwinked into believing Revie was actually away on
some kind of a scouting mission, were outraged and banned him from working in
England, though this was rescinded after Revie took them to court; judgement
was long in the future when Revie fired his typically mendacious and fraudulent
departing shot -:
I sat down with my wife,
Elsie, one night and we agreed that the England job was no longer worth the
aggravation. It was bringing too much heartache to those nearest to us. Nearly
everyone in the country wants me out. So, I am giving them what they want. I
know people will accuse me of running away, and it does sicken me that I cannot
finish the job by taking England to the World Cup finals in Argentina next
year, but the situation has become impossible.
Revie’s
replacement was the studious and kindly Ron Greenwood, who led his new charges
to a morale boosting 2-0 victory over Italy that gave them a slim chance of
qualification. Sadly, in those days before the infamous Austria v West Germany
sporting Anschluss of Spain 82, there
was no compunction to have crucial games played simultaneously. Consequently,
Italy eased to a 3-0 win over Luxembourg and pipped England on goal difference
in December 1977. Meanwhile Scotland had been celebrating their qualification
for 2 months already. Drawn in a 3-team group with Wales and Czechoslovakia,
they bounced back to top the group, following a 2-0 loss in the opening game in
Prague and the subsequent, unexpected departure of manager Willie Ormond in May
1977, who had decided to take the hot seat at Tynecastle, which was either a
brave or foolhardy thing for a Hibernian legend to do. Career wise, it was the
equivalent of resigning as chair of News International to run a corner paper
shop.
Into
the breach stepped Ally MacLeod, with a managerial CV boasting 9 years of
shrewd husbandry among the Honest Men of Ayr United and two successful seasons at
Aberdeen, where he’d won the Scottish League Cup the year before. His
appointment was clearly the meritocratic principle of management writ large; a shot
at the big time for the immodest mouse that roared "My name is Ally
MacLeod and I am a winner” to the assembled gentlemen of the fourth estate at
his inaugural press conference. Incidentally, MacLeod got the job only a year
before Jock Stein left Celtic and a matter of weeks before Tommy Docherty’s
love for his physiotherapist’s wife cost him the gig at Old Trafford. Still,
I’m sure the blazers at Park Gardens had no regrets over their actions when
MacLeod’s first two competitive games saw a 3-1 victory over the Czechs at
Hampden and then a 2-0 success away to Wales, courtesy in part to Don Masson’s
somewhat controversial penalty, in a game played at Anfield, ostensibly because
of crowd trouble at Ninian Park the year before and the perceived unsuitability
of Wrexham’s Racecourse Ground. In truth, the perennially hard-up Welsh FA
sought a larger venue in order to maximise gate receipts which, in those
far-off more innocent times, were the main source of revenue. Unfortunately, in
making that decision, they handed the initiative to the Scots who travelled in
huge numbers, effectively turning the ground into a Hampden on Mersey.
At
some point between October 12th, 1977 and the end of May 1978, Ally
MacLeod lost the run of himself. Despite a moderate set of Home Internationals,
capped by a single goal defeat in Glasgow to England, Hampden became the
setting for the most premature adulation in the history of the game. Instead of
setting off for Argentina in a low-key, professional manner, a wholly
unnecessary farewell parade was arranged, whereby an emotionally overwrought
MacLeod announced to 25,000 near hysterical fans that his team would return
with "at least a medal." Perhaps hindsight may have been kinder to
MacLeod if he’d confessed to a bout of temporary insanity, whipped up by the
fervour of a partisan crowd, but there seemed little chance of this when, about
to board a flight from Prestwick to Buenos Aries a few days later, he responded
to being asked what he would do if Scotland somehow won the World Cup with a
terse, though deluded, “Retain it.”
The
bald statistics of Scotland’s actual performances in Argentina are well known
to all who remember or care: firstly, a 3-1 loss to Peru, whose play was as
stylish as their red-sashed shirts in the opening game. Despite Joe Jordan
giving the Scots the lead, Teófilo Cubillas ran the game from midfield, scoring
twice himself, though if Don Masson had not missed from the spot, the game may
have been closer. It appeared Scotland and by definition MacLeod had not simply
underestimated their opponents, the wave of sentimental delusion that had borne
them across the globe meant they had not given their opponents a second
thought. The subsequent revelation that Willie Johnston had failed a drugs
test, having taken a cold remedy that doubled as a stimulant, and was being
sent home, did little to restore bruised team morale. Gross, incompetent
amateurism had fatally holed Scotland below the waterline after a single game.
Meanwhile,
Holland strolled to a 3-0 victory over unfancied Iran, though Peru held them to
a goalless draw next time out, though that game received absolutely zero
attention when compared to events in Cordoba where Scotland contrived to draw
1-1 with Iran, who gifted them the lead with an own goal.
When
selecting the go-to iconic image of Argentina 1978, the blizzard of confetti
floating down on the thermals to coat the pitch before kick-off whenever the
home side played is certainly up there. The stirring footage of Archie
Gemmill’s wonder goal that gave Scotland a 3-1 lead over Holland in a game they
valiantly, though vainly, won 3-2, when a 3-goal margin was needed to make the
second round, must also be in with a shout. Sadly, none who saw it can ever
forget the haunted sight of MacLeod, frustrated almost to the point of tears,
slumped on the bench, head in hands; it was fate, cackling maniacally at the
man who would be king. Four decades later, I can close my eyes and picture it;
the television footage drenched in the same weird yellow hue I recall from the
whole tournament.
Scotland,
who had gone out to Argentina as lions rampant came back home like slaughtered
lambs. Their silence spoke volumes about failure and regret. The whole Tartan
nation united in grief and recriminatory contempt, though sympathy south of the
border was brief and in short supply; essentially, English pity was of the kind
that now accompanies any defeat in a Grand Slam event for Andy Murray.
Scarcely
believably, MacLeod did not choose and was not required to fall on his sword.
Instead he clung painfully to power for one last fateful defeat; a 3-2 loss
against Austria in the opening qualifier for the 1980 European Championships
tolled his funeral bell after a mere 17 games. Jock Stein, hastily regretting
his move to Leeds United, emulated Brian Clough by leaving Elland Road after 44
days, albeit in very different circumstances, and took on the permanent role of
national team manager that he’d overseen on a part time caretaker basis as far back
as 1965. It was a posting he would fulfil with honour and integrity until his
death in September 1985.
As
for Ally MacLeod, there would be redemption in club management. He would take
charge at Motherwell, Airdrie, his spiritual home of Ayr United for a second
period (where he won the Second Division title in 1989) and finally at Queen of
the South. Remarkably, aged 61, he turned out for their reserve team and scored
a penalty. Meanwhile, with the passage of time, his reputation was
rehabilitated, and he became a respected elder statesman of the game, being
presented with a Lifetime Achievement award by the SFA at Hampden in 2003, the
year before he passed away. Perhaps MacLeod’s epitaph should be his own words,
when asked to summarise his career -:
I am a very good manager
who just happened to have a few disastrous days, once upon a time, in
Argentina.
