Joking John shows he's no dull bhoy

0 Comments | Sunday Herald, The, Dec 12, 1999 | by Ron McKay

What a welcome transformation in the mood at Celtic Park in just a week. Gone was the nasty, reactive, snarling response to criticism (he was probably out on the golf course again!) and John Barnes was in glorious form at Friday's weekly press conference.

Asked about Amoruso's 'black b******' quote, Barnes expressed surprise that it hadn't been directed at him, took a hack humorously to task when he confused the day of yesterday's Aberdeen fixture (a reference to the Dundee/Dundee United faux furore) and concluded his summation of Henrik Larsson's recovery by saying that he was working out on a special piece of equipment, a trampoline, "from Toys 'R' Us".

It brings back the memory of the Liverpool fancy dress Christmas party where Steve McMahon was on the door and a figure turned up in Ku Klux Klan gear. "You can't come in like that," said McMahon, "John Barnes is in there."

"No," responded the visitor whipping off the hood "he's in here."

Channel Five. It's much more fun than watching real telly! The odd station, filled with cheap US TV movies and rip-off ideas, really excelled itself last week with its coverage of Rangers' clash with Borussia Dortmund. The match was boiling to a climax, the collapsing Jerries had just been denied a penalty and the crowd were baying for blood. And then, for viewers in the London area, it all went truly gruesome. With no warning the live pictures were suddenly replaced by scenes from the New Munsters' Christmas Show while the commentary doggedly continued. Gary Bloom excitedly commenting "fantastic tackle" as Herman made overtures to the delectable Lily.

It was all clearly too much for Joe 'Lurch' Jordan in the studio who, from then on, repeatedly referred to the German side as Bayern Munich.

Is nothing sacred? Trust the Yanks to try to remake the classic Monty Python dead parrot sketch. This one involves a dead ferret, a former world boxing champion and a zany character called CJ Jones, of 24 Carat Ferret Rescue.

Jones and another ferret rescuer were called to Mike Tyson's Las Vegas mansion a couple of weeks back to find one dead ferret and another malnourished one frantically pacing its cage like a flyweight in the ring with Iron Mike. "It's a clear case of neglect," said CJ, who rather remarkably has 35 ferrets at home (not sure about any significant other). "All I want is for him (Tyson) to face up to the ownership of these animals," she said. "Step up to the plate and be a man," she continued before pointing out that a ferret mistreatment bust could result in six months in jail or a $1,000 fine.

Apparently Tyson used to have a bit of an animal kingdom in his backyard but since prison and his fall from pugilistic grace his menagerie has been culled and he was down to his last two ferrets, now one.

After a bit of what the Americans call a stushie, one of Tyson's personal assistants stepped forward to save Mike from the rap and claimed responsibility. "Mike ain't no animal abuser," said a well- fed Darryl Francis. "Just picture Mike taking care of some ferrets. He's hardly ever in town."

He's shortly to be leaving town again for Manchester and a fistic match-up with British horizontal heavyweight (he soon will be) Julius Francis. Non-boxing people should note that it's not a dead ferret, but a crotch guard, that Mike's got down his trunks.

Is Love Street haunted? I inquire following a strange, otherwordly experience at the ground last Saturday following the Saints victory over Falkirk. The lights had gone out and three hapless scribes were locked inside hollering for release as the haar came down and the only illumination of their plight was from the tail lights of planes coming into land Glasgow Airport.

We, sorry, they, were in a sticky jam for sure, those three Unwise Men baying and banging on doors and praying fruitlessly for help. And then it happened. A ghostly ectoplasmic figure materialised somewhere around the centre-circle. The three cried out imploringly: "For pity's sake, in the sacred name of Alex Ferguson, help us. Show us the way out before our buttocks are ice-bonded to the press benches!" The figure ignored us, rather them, and slowly and eerily moved across the grass to the terrace, floated up and disappeared into the night sky.

The three eventually secured their release. It involved tunnelling, the cannibalising of the main stand and all manner of heroics too complex to go into. But anyone else who has encountered the Love Street ghost should write in. An exorcism may be needed.

The Chelsea coach Graham Rix, recently Her Majesty's guest following a spot of under-age rumpy-pumpy, is back out and putting the youngsters through their paces (enough double entendres. Ed).

A local journalist had cause to phone him at home and a foreign, but strangely familiar, voice greeted him. It was Chelsea coach Gianluca Vialli, round at Graham's for a cup of tea and a spot of tactical brainstorming.

"Gianluca," said my man, "would it be possible to speak to Graham, please?"

"Sure" replied Vialli, shouting: "Oi, Gary Glitter, it's for you."