“ANDORRA, Wales have to beat Andorra,” said my mate Tam, reflecting on the arithmetic of the European quallies. “Rita Ora, yup, we couldn’t beat Rita Ora,” I replied with a slickness that disguised the reality that I did not know who Ms Ora was/is/will be.

The Euro 2016 campaign for Scotland has come to earth with such a thump that the search is on for the black box. The performance against Germany was described as “brave”. Yeah, I bet every SAS recruit blanches at the thought of running about for 90 minutes after a plastic-coated ball. But that was only the half of it. Given the weight of expectation, last Friday night was the worst result in Georgia since wee Rory McIlroy blew that lead in the Masters.

My mood is not helped by this being a period of my life when I am using my NHS debenture. There have been more cameras in me than at a live mating in the Maracana between Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus. The only consolation as I face the twin trials of a misfiring body and an impotent Scotland (are these adjectives in the right place? – Ed) is that my old mucker, James Lawton, has written another book.

Predictably, it is excellent. If Jimmy wrote a driver’s manual for a Ford Fiasco I would no doubt find it compelling. Forever Boys, though, has a more beguiling subject. It is the story of the Manchester City side that soared, entranced and significantly marked the late sixties and early seventies. It is a tale that lightly carries significant themes. There is the brilliance of Malcolm Allison that was fatally dulled by ego and alcohol. There is the unmistakeable, almost intangible dynamic that is at the very core of any great team. There is the fall-out years later between Franny Lee and Colin Bell that continues to this day, showing that hurt can linger in the best of men and that the closeness of friendship can quickly be replaced by the chasm of enmity.

Forever Boys is necessary reading for City fans in the same way that Hair Care Today is mandatory reading for the modern footballer. But Lawton’s book has a universal appeal that stretches beyond Maine Road or the Eatyerheid Stadium. This is an examination of football before it became another sport.

Lawton examines the personalities and the paths of the players and Allison, first the guru and then the martyr. He covers the matches that made City great, if only for a brief spell. But at its centre is the reality that football then is a distant relation to football now. It is not the humility and generosity of the players then. Believe me, there are humble and generous footballers now. It is not the riches, though this is a facet that separates the footballer of today from his 1970s predecessor.

It is, rather, that football post-millennium bears a resemblance to fitba’ 1970 in the same way I look like George Clooney. They are the same species but completely different in form and outlook.

The game of today is more athletic. It is quicker, not least because of the no pass-back to keeper rule, but also because players have become fitter, as in every other sport. The pitches are also better, contributing to a slicker game. The fields of old were once so pitted, rutted and downright dangerous that a team of Gurkhas refused to charge on them.

But the biggest difference, from this observer’s viewpoint, is that football is less violent. Lee, a combative and courageous forward, expected to be kicked relentlessly. It was a fate dealt to anyone who played up front. There will be those who point out that Lionel Messi can be the subject of rough treatment. But there is a difference. The forwards of old were assaulted from the back, with the tackle from behind being so reckless it could have been put on a death certificate, certainly in terms of careers. Referees, too, were complicit in this brutality. Not only were they so behind play they were barely in the same time zone, but they also had this unspoken rule of allowing the defender one assault before even talking to him. A booking would follow an attempted amputation without anaesthetic, a red card was reserved basically for fighting and that of the sort that would stir Madison Square Garden.

There is the oft-heard cry that suggests the players of old could not play in the modern game. It is, of course, ludicrous. The Big Three at City – Bell, Summerbee, and Lee – would have excelled in modern times. One of their rivals – George Best – would simply have been unplayable when protected by modern refs. All of the above, of course, could handle themselves in physical battles and were not adverse to “getting their retaliation in first”. But they could also play.

There is much in modern football that causes the older observer to wince, particularly at its facility for excess. But it is a better game and one that gives the talented the opportunity to excel. Can you imagine Wee Lionel playing in the English first division of 1970? Geez no, the ball boys would have given him a kicking. The diminutive genius would have been rendered lame, hobbled and hopeless. Which brings one back to the Scottish qualifying campaign. There is no escape.

Forever Boys by James Lawton is published by Wisden Sports Writing.