On a recent visit to my daughter’s house in darkest Dalkeith recently, I was heartened to see my 16-year-old granddaughter Hannah enjoying the sun in the back garden. She wasn’t lying incommunicado with a set of headphones stuck in her lugholes – rather she was engrossed in a good book. And not on one of these technically fangled Kindle things – it was an actual hardback book, leather bound with actual pages that required turning.
I was delighted to see Hannah has her
ageing grandfather’s aptitude for reading. I had rather wished I had taken the book
I’m presently engaged in – Alex Brown’s excellent Niddrie Boys, an autobiographical tale of a lad of similar age to
me growing up in Edinburgh’s Niddrie/Craigmillar area and the trials and
tribulations he went through.
It was whilst reading Niddrie Boys
that I heard the recent sad news of the passing of one of Scotland’s finest
defenders – Gordon McQueen.
There’s a chapter in Niddrie Boys where Alex Brown detailed his adventure to Wembley in
1977 to watch Scotland play England in the bi-annual pilgrimage to old London
town. In what were less technically operated times, Brown sneaked on a London
bound train without paying at Edinburgh’s Waverley Station and joined the
thronging masses for the journey south. Brown regales us with the story that
the train was so ‘rammed’ as he puts it that there was next to no chance of any
ticket inspector even attempting to check tickets of passengers, the number of
whom far exceeded the capacity of the train. The Niddrie Boy then fell off the
train at London King’s Cross and staggered his way to Wembley Stadium where he
– and doubtless countless others – managed to climb into the stadium without
paying.
Brown said he had a great view of Gordon
McQueen heading home Scotland’s first goal. It was one of those goals you never
forget and never tire of seeing. The towering figure of a Scots warrior,
leaping above a hapless English defender, his mop of blonde hair straddled over
his head which bulleted the ball past England goalkeeper Ray Clemence. McQueen then
ran to soak up the acclaim of an adoring Scottish support, given another shot
of adrenalin just as the effects of copious amounts of alcohol was beginning to
wear off.
That Scotland team of 1977 had the fans
daring to believe. McQueen was a tower of strength at the back while the genius
that was Kenny Dalglish, wing wizardry of Willie Johnston and the power of
striker Joe Jordan were huge contributions to a team that was genuinely
considered by some to be among the best nations in Europe. After all, hadn’t
Scotland eliminated reigning European Champions Czechoslovakia from the
qualifying group for the World Cup finals in Argentina the following year?
Dalglish scored a second Scotland goal in
the second half before England pulled back a late goal. The Scots won 2-1 and
thousands of them – including Alex Brown – poured on to the hallowed Wembley
turf before demolishing the old stadium. Bits of Wembley turf and goalposts are
still to be found all over Scotland to this day.
My favourite tale from that afternoon was
from manager Ally MacLeod. Before Wembley, the ebullient Ally wasn’t quite as
well known down south as he was in his homeland. MacLeod struggled to get back
to the dressing rooms after the game and with panic setting in amongst what
little security there was – the 1970s were different times, dear reader –
MacLeod had difficulty persuading one of the security staff that he was indeed
the Scotland manager. As MacLeod himself put it – “eventually I made it to the sanctuary of the dressing room and found
goalkeeper Alan Rough in the bath – with two Scotland supporters…”
The tragic passing of McQueen brought
memories of that day flooding back for me and, unquestionably, thousands of
others. In later years, the great man became a summariser for Sky Sports and
his reaction in the studio whilst watching James McFadden score an absolute
screamer for Scotland against France in Paris in 2007 became iconic. McQueen
did well not to lapse into a sweary rejoice when he shouted ‘Goaaaaaaallll!’
although the presenter’s subsequent question of ‘who for, Gordon?’ was the
definition of the term pointless.
There was sadly something symmetrical
about reading author Alex Brown’s account of that day whilst hearing about McQueen’s
death, attributed to the effects of dementia, aged just 70. The footage of
McQueen during his spells at Leeds United, Manchester United and, of course,
Scotland mean the big fella will never be forgotten.
Thanks for the memories, big man.
Mike Smith
Twitter @Mike1874
