Celtic manager plays the shrink
Gordon Strachan has become the Dr Frasier Crane of Scottish football. It is only a matter of time before he moves a psychiatrist's couch into his office.
First it was and his spoilt schoolboy strop after he ignored orders from the bridge. On a ship they call that mutiny.
But the action of the Celtic manager was swift and effective. Don't walk the plank, just don't bother collecting two weeks' wages and have a wee sabbatical.
McGeady, an extraordinary football talent, cut his manager deep. I honestly thought the lad would never again play for Celtic, at least not under Strachan's administration.
To even consider appealing the punishment was insane. Did he really think the gaffer, who had the backing of the board of directors, would make a u-turn and concede he had been a little hasty?
The player was never going to win the battle. He had even less chance of winning the war.
The kid has a spark about his temperament which comes as a package deal with his winged heels, a huge - mostly justifiable - belief in his own ability. But he is not yet too old for a clip about the ear. For his own good.
I suspect in years to come he will look back on this little affair and see the wisdom of his manager's reaction. This, as I understand it, was no normal dressing room dissection of the game.
They have both done well to heal the wound. The manager has delivered a gold star performance.
In the wake of his declaration of McGeady's punishment the a-to-z of coastal erosion or the effect of splitting the atom.
Reporters despatched to interview him on the issue were advised to wear battle fatigues.
But trust me, he was astounded, angered and hurt by McGeady's fiery dressing room reaction to his post-match analysis of the game. It triggered a grand canyon of a rift between them.
And yet there was McGeady not only playing for the club again, but also , which, curiously enough, soothed the burning embarrassment of the next patient on the manager's couch.
The Holy Goalie. What an unholy mess.
The loss of Celtic's first goal against Dundee on Saturday was wholly ridiculous.
McGeady's domestic is one thing; Artur Boruc's inclination to moments of football comedy is another altogether.
No wonder the hairs on that ginger mop are greying by the day. It is as if they are taking it in turns to test the gaffer's man-management skills. The headline making Pole is next for shaving.
I would imagine the words "you got a minute, Artur?" have already been uttered at Lennoxtown this week.
Strachan has three options here: to drop the Pole and install Mark Brown for the game against Aberdeen at the weekend; throw money at Dundee United to persuade them to accelerate the release of ; or keep the faith with Boruc.
We await his decision with interest but it will not be taken without deep analysis of the state of mind of this tormented goalkeeper who at times looks as if he could have trouble keeping a beach ball out of a keyhole.
And you thought managing a football club was just about signing players, picking teams and juggling tactics?
Dr Strachan begs to differ.
"Tell them who you are and what you are about," they said. To be honest, there are days when I struggle to remember myself. Forty years toiling at the coalface of football journalism does that to you. But I have reason to believe that I have reached the heady heights of the title of Football Correspondent of ´óÏó´«Ã½ Scotland which gives me a renown, in Scottish terms, of somewhere between Alex Salmond and the deep fried Mars Bar.
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