ONCE had a team-mate called Civilisation.

He was so named because of all the cultures represented on a bandage he wore during every match.

On his retirement, the bandage was passed to the Infectious Diseases Department at Stirling Royal and proved the basis for the vaccine that provided protection against 15 separate diseases though, curiously, the obsession to stick the head on any passing male was stubbornly resistant to its considerable powers.

Mick's bandage was an affectation. It was also an aberration, infection and the inspiration for Outbreak, the story of how one bug could annihilate human life. But Mick basically wore the sullied strip of cloth because he felt comfortable in it.

It proved useful after he retired because on days when it was not employed at the Infectious Diseases Unit it could be played as lone striker without any fear of close marking.

Mick's bandage was also unusual because in those days of rudimentary football, one did not go on to the park with a surfeit of accoutrements. There was little or no jewellery, no kinesio tape, no ankle supports. We went out on to the park decorated by scars, marked by tattoos and burdened with a sense of bitter resentment.

Yes, there was the odd bandage and the even odder Elastoplast over a corn so large it should have been harvested rather than treated. There were also the eccentric personalities. These were most visible in works football, a step below amateur in the same way that grievous bodily harm is a step below ruffling your mate's hair.

The Stirling Observer team of the 1970s had Willie, the Linotype operator. He set words in metal for readers. He inserted metal studs on the opposition for the team.

He was called a deep-lying centre forward, basically because he could not tell the truth. He had a free role in that he would wander out to the wings to partake of the kerry-oot lying by the side of the pitch. He would then wipe his mouth with an oily rag, or the caseroom apprentice, and pull his fags from deep inside his capacious shorts and shout instructions to the rest of us while he pulled on a Capstan. This last sentence could be construed as euphemism for a heinous offence. But, hey, it was the 70s.

So Willie was unusual is so many ways, but mostly because he came on the park with his accessories, notably a lighter, a packet of fags and an insatiable thirst.

Now it is all so different. The advent to the pitch comes with lucky charms, sponsors' equipment, and intricate ceremonials.

In the past few weeks, one has witnessed some new developments in the Coming on to Pitch/Court with Unusual Accoutrement which is either a category in Pointless or an object for sale in Bargain Hunt.

One had Paul McGowan playing for Dundee with an electronic tag after a disagreement with Her Majesty's Constabulary. Strangely, I did not raise my eyebrows at this. I have been experimenting with Botox.

I also have experience of playing in teams filled by those who played with the fervour of their previous convictions. It was not unusual when the ref asked one of our players for his name that he would relay that he was saying nothing until he had seen his lawyer.

So I have never played with someone wearing an electronic tag but with several who were on bail and others who should have been on death row.

I also have never played with anyone who placed their wedding ring on their footwear as in the case of Andy Murray. It is obvious that tennis in Madrid does not have quite the same belligerent overtones of amateur football of central Scotland of the seventies otherwise Murray's prized possession would not have survived an opening exchange and he would have by end of play be wearing it. Through his nose. Or in a position where it could only be extracted with the aid of a local anaesthetic and a trained proctologist.

All jewellery in my day was left in the changing room so it could be stolen by local worthies.

But the most extraordinary development of bringing an accessory on to the pitch occurred in Holland. The Ajax players came out to play holding the hands of their mothers.

This was in tribute to mother's day and it was all very nice, very laid-back, very Dutch. Some mothers said later it had been the best day of their lives. But if it had happened in Scotland in the 1970s, it would have been the last days of the players' lives.

The witnessing of a team holding their mums' hands entering the field of battle would have so stirred up the opposition that the nearby hospital would have had to issue an emergency appeal for blood donors.

The whole point of amateur football then was to allow women some time away from males of a certain type. That is, the amateur footballer.

Some women were committed to their football playing partners who were, in turn, committed to insane asylums or extreme bail conditions. But they did not want to go anywhere near them on match day.

This is because women have a regard for civilisation. Not Civilisation. Civilisation's mum would not have held his hand even if it contained a winning lottery ticket.