Charlies Nicholas. Man oh man.
I know people, many people, who grew up idolising Champagne Charlie.
They saw him play, and they remember a graceful, skilled scorer of wonderful goals who seemed destined to be a Celtic legend. They talk about him with such affection it amazes me and others of my generation who simply remember a self-important playboy who couldn’t wait to leave Glasgow.
I heard a story about him once, and I have no idea if it’s true or not, but it’s believable enough and in keeping with the guy I see on the telly now that I’ve never had any reason to doubt its veracity; in that tale, Charlie Nicholas has not long announced his intention to move from our club, and days later was standing on top of a flat-back lorry in Maryhill, wearing tight leather trousers, and campaigning for a wannabe Tory MP.
It could well be bollocks, but that’s the guy I know from the media, to a T.
Nicholas is a selfish twat. He always was.
His football career threw up a string of bad choices; he should have gone to Liverpool and played in a gloriously attack minded team that would have suited his style perfectly and seen his career end with an armful of honours that would probably have included a European Cup or two. He chose Arsenal, for money and because London was where he wanted to be; he made the decision to enhance his social life.
There’s nothing about the guy that I like. His brief forays into journalism have been characterised by sheer ignorance and partly by spite. He is know-nothing who thinks he knows it all. Brendan would not be the first Celtic manager to take him to town for his comments. He would not be the last either.
As long as Nicholas can, he will attack us.
Today, that rancid rag The Record is running a story where he attacks our manager and our players over the “diving” incidents in the Motherwell games. What I find interesting about The Record’s story is that it’s not their story at all; it’s a word for word cut and paste from Nicholas’ column in The Express yesterday; I know that because I was going to do a piece on it. To find it published, verbatim, on The Record website tells me something.
It tells me that Nicholas didn’t get the publicity he wanted for that piece, as nobody within 100 miles of where I am sitting actually reads the right-wing arse-rag that chooses to publish his flim-flam. I might have a downer on The Daily Mail that extends to me ruling out ever picking up a copy except with asbestos gloves on and only then because the inside of the toilet needs a wipe, but I know it’s regarded as mildly entertaining by some who do.
The Express has all the xenophobia of The Mail but without any of the allegedly redeeming qualities.
Nicholas is a pure publicity whore.
He has jumped into a subject about which a million words had already been written to launch an attack on us not because he personally feels any inclination to stand up for Motherwell or because he cares at all, but because he knew it would get him some sliver of attention. His capacity for self-love and need for affirmation is boundless. And when he didn’t get the coverage he expected he went with the story to the people he knew would give an anti-Celtic piece the megaphone treatment he craved all along.
You’ll have noticed that none of this in any way engages with the points he made in the article itself; I have no intention of doing any such thing and I never did. It is garbage, the sort that flows all too easily from his lips whenever he sees an opportunity to swing at us.
The only publicity I ever intended to give to it was the spotlight that it turns on Nicholas and his character, the lowest of the low.
This is the measure of the man.