Through a combination of shrewd tactical know-how, ruthless flint-faced calculation and incredible self-belief, he came to be acknowledged, with all respect, as The Godfather.
But to everyone else, he is simply, Fergie.
Born and raised in the bucolic village of Govan, where a pastoral, sleepy setting camouflaged an underbelly of inherent corruption and wrongdoing, the young Don Fergie instinctively appreciated how self-respect, hard work and, most of all, loyalty to the family could lead to success and fulfilment.
And he doesn’t even have a nice personality.
I say 'he' because I’ve always seen Mr Booze as a particularly masculine sort of substance. Oh, I know it can turn women mental too – believe me I know – but nevertheless, there’s something essentially mannish about The Swally.
Not very subtle. A bit brutish, sometimes. Not easily given to compromise, but, in the right circumstances and controlled quantities, not a bad bloke really.
Having lived in New Zealand for a couple of years, I generally find your average Kiwi to be amazingly Scot-like in his demeanour and mien – a bit dour and remote until you got to know him, but then funny, engaging, loyal and fiercely patriotic.
That initial crabbiness could well be - like ours - a result of having a larger, more confident nation as neighbours (in their case Australia, in ours, of course, Wales), a neighbour what’s more, who constantly delights in making cheap stereotypical jokes at the expense of the poor old put upon Kiwi or Scot.
‘You’re not being censured for going to the funeral’, said the chairman of the disciplinary committee convened to chastise the hapless miscreant. ‘You’re being censured for not dancing on the grave’.
As news of Mrs Thatcher’s demise found its way to Australia, with clips of suspiciously-too-young-to-remember-her post-punks dancing Highland flings in George Square appearing on telly a lot more often than any reverential tributes did, I felt a bit like the Wee Free man at the funeral mass.