FOR a decade, Gordon McQueen's voice could be heard all over Britain.

Over the past four months he hasn't said a word in public, and there was a week when he didn't even speak privately. Not a sound passed his lips. No-one would accuse this giant football figure of living the life of a Trappist monk and his silence was far from voluntary. Strapping McQueen, the larger than life blonde Clydesdale of 1970s Scotland teams, was rendered quiet as a mouse by cancer of the larynx.

He was last seen on television in September, croaking and rasping his way through his work as a fun and popular pundit on Sky Sports. Viewers noticed he was struggling and wondered if he'd come to the studio with a bad cold or after a heavy night out. When the same thing happened the next time he was on, there were telephone calls to the station asking if he was okay. McQueen merely suspected he'd caught an infection.

"I was on Sky in September and my voice was rough. I was having trouble when I was doing the television. Folk noticed, they were ringing in. I thought it was a cold and went to the doctor, who said to leave it for two weeks. After four weeks it wasn't better and I knew something wasn't right. I was coming back from working on Sky one night when I took out my iPad on the train and looked up 'throat problems' on the internet. It said, 'if you have a hoarse voice for more than three weeks it's serious'."

Within days he had seen a doctor and a specialist. A camera was put down his throat, an invasion he has had to get used to and will face for many more months. "The specialist said, 'This doesn't look good, I think that's cancer'." A biopsy confirmed those fears.

For a month he had daily doses of radiation, lying motionless while a mask was placed over his face and bolted to the operating table on either side of his head. The treatment became progressively more uncomfortable and sore. There was a week when it became so sore he couldn't speak at all. "I just couldn't. Couldn't utter a sound. That was weird." He was reduced to eating little more than protein shakes, ice cream and jelly and his weight dropped by a stone. He longed for a beer and set himself the target of having one on Christmas Day when his family was around him. That turned out to be too ambitious. "It was like drinking poison. It wasn't going down well at all. It was New Year's Day before I could manage that."

McQueen refers to himself as a heavy drinker. If Leeds United, Manchester United or Scotland boys were bevvying in the 1970s or early 80s, he'd be in on it. His social life continued to revolve around the pub long after his distinguished career was over. Alcohol can be a contributory factor in cancer of the larynx, as can smoking, but he isn't bothered by that. "See with these things, it's your Donald Duck [luck]. They can blame it on alcohol or they can blame it on smoking. I smoked when I was playing, but I gave up about 12 years ago. Smoking and alcohol get blamed for everything. If you go in with an ingrown toenail, they blame it on alcohol. If they tell me to stop drinking, I'll change my doctor."

His treatment began in October and he wanted to be well enough to go on a mates' trip to the Lake District in January. That was the first proper session he could manage since the diagnosis. "I'm talking about serious drinking, not just a pint or two. My problem is I'm nearly 60 and I carry on like I'm 35 and fit as a fiddle." He is lively company and predictably blessed by an endless array of friends, including Joe Jordan, Bryan Robson, Charlie Nicholas and Jim White. While back in Glasgow this week, he caught up with Davie Provan and Gerry McNee. All guys he's known for years.

Last March Robson was treated for throat cancer. He was the one who encouraged McQueen to release a brief statement in October announcing what was wrong, so that people wouldn't speculate over why he'd disappeared from television. "I did that and I was a bit surprised by the reaction. I thought it would be a wee line in the papers. The response was unbelievable. Cards, texts, letters, best wishes. The biggest reaction was from Scottish people. I think people knew and remembered that I got more of a thrill from playing for Scotland than from winning a cup final with Manchester United or winning a league title with Leeds. I wasn't a Kenny Dalglish or anything like that, but I think I still had a good relationship with Scottish fans.

"The response was lovely. To be honest, I was embarrassed by it. When the story came out the phone started ringing, people asking, 'How's Gordon, how's Gordon. It was on the front page of the Daily Record! Jesus Christ! The coverage was all nice, but I wasn't looking for that. That's why I'm doing this interview, because people are wondering, 'How's he doing, is he still alive?' Well, I am.

"The problem you have after the treatment is that you're not going to be on the telly for a while, you're not going to be working, you're not going to be speaking. My voice hasn't been good enough to speak to all the people who ask how I'm doing. I should have a sign round my neck saying, 'I'm fine'."

Feeling uneasy with the level of attention he received was one thing. Harder was how self-conscious he felt while being treated alongside others who were clearly far more ill. "When I went to the hospital for treatment I felt a bit of a cheat, to tell the truth. I was driving to the hospital, walking in, feeling fine, driving home. There were people turning up in ambulances, having chemo, spewing and all that. Compared to that I felt okay. I never felt really bad. I felt like a cheat compared to them. My throat was only sore for the last two weeks [of radiotherapy]. I had to rest it all the time and stop speaking. It's still swollen. Still a bit raw."

We talk for an hour and at no point does he need to stop or clear his throat. He sips water – he'd have a pint, but he's driving – and is in no real discomfort. His voice rasps and occasionally he's hard to hear in the busy Glasgow city centre pub, but he's used to that. His voice is slowly regaining power, but it may never do so to the extent that he can work again on Sky.

He spent over a decade there (his daughter, Hayley, is now one of the station's rising stars). "The people at Sky have been absolutely fantastic. They just said, 'Take your time'. Even now, my voice isn't that strong; it's not good enough to work on television again. It maybe never will be. They say my voice will be stronger again, but they can't say how strong it'll get, and you need quite a strong voice to be on television."

Years ago he was a co-commentator, but realised he was "crap" at that. "I didn't have the concentration. I realised the writing was on the wall when they sent me to bloody Wigan every weekend. They just looked for the shittiest game on the coupon and gave me it."

He was far more at home in a studio for Midweek Soccer Special. His on-camera reaction to James McFadden's famous winner against France in Paris is YouTube gold: "Goal! I don't believe it! I don't believe it! Jesus!" When he could speak on Sky, he spoke his mind. He was so critical of Berti Vogts' reign as Scotland manager that the SFA complained about him. He wouldn't change a thing. "Berti Vogts with his tartan scarf, haggis and whisky. Get tae f***. He's f****** German!"

He has lived in England since 1972, yet remains the quintessential patriotic Scot. Every one of his 30 caps was cherished and he "detests" the idea of anyone born in England playing for Scotland. "I'll never accept it." Nor does he tolerate Steven Fletcher's decision to turn up his nose about playing in dark blue. "I don't know the ins and outs, but if someone refused to play for Scotland that would be it for me. If people say Craig Levein is stubborn about this then I hope he stays stubborn, because I would never pick him. I just wouldn't. And I come back up here and see stuff in today's paper about Rangers [potentially] going into administration. Jesus Christ, what's happening? They get 50,000 at every game! I'm a Rangers supporter."

His most recent check-up was 15 days ago. Another camera down the throat, rummaging around, looking for cancer. Nothing was found. The treatment has worked so far. He will need these checks every six weeks until, after a year, he can be given the all-clear. Crucially, the cancer was caught early and he can't do enough to praise The James Cook University Hospital in Middlesbrough, near his North Yorkshire home. "The prognosis these days is not bad. It used to be a death sentence, but not now. The hospital has been absolutely fantastic. It's NHS. Sensational. The way they look after you is terrific. It's not bothering me at the moment, I'd just like my voice to be stronger. When I'm in the pub – which I am, a lot – and I start speaking to the guy next to me he sometimes can't hear me."

After the interview he heads to his home town of Kilbirnie, Ayrshire, to visit someone special he hasn't seen since before the diagnosis: 84-year-old Tom McQueen, his dad. His mum, Mildred, was a non-smoking teetotaler. She died of throat cancer.

"This was probably hardest for my family. The kids worried. They still do. For a while my voice was so terrible I couldn't even speak to them on the phone. Actually I think the biggest worry is after your last treatment, when you have to wait a month until your next check-up to see if it's going to plan. That's a bit of a worry. But I feel I've maybe got a cheek worrying because there are people who have things a hundred times worse, even football people like John Hartson. I felt like a bit of a cheat compared to those guys.

"What it does is make you appreciate what you've got. I've always tended not to go to football dinners and stuff like that. I think I'm going to go to more of them. Instead of just the great wee pubs in my village, where the people are great, I'm going to go out and about a bit more." He admits to being bored out of his mind without the Sky job. He hasn't coached or scouted since leaving a role at Middlesbrough a year ago and arthritis in his ankles means he can't play golf.

Pals and the pub are his escapes and there's always his wife, Yvonne, for company. "I'll be 60 this year. I don't like that. My wife's 62. One minute you're 'young blonde-haired centre-half, shows promise,' the next you're waking up next to a f****** 62-year-old! What happened in between? But no, my wife's been all right. I think she's disappointed I'm getting better. She enjoyed the silence."