He’s the most successful manager you’ve probably never heard of. He is John William Madden and Rangers players, and perhaps even supporters, will get to know about him. One of the stands in Slavia Prague’s Eden ground – Rangers are drawn to play Slavia in the last 16 of the Europa League – is named after the Scotsman who is regarded as the father of Czech football.

It’s a romantic and unlikely story. Madden was born in 1865. He worked in the Glasgow shipyards and first played for hometown club Dumbarton before signing for Celtic, twice. He was Celtic’s first-ever centre forward. He scored 49 goals in 118 appearances and netted three league titles and the Scottish Cup. He also got two caps, scoring five goals.

For some reason he fell out with his family and moved to what was then Bohemia, a region of the Austro-Hungarian empire. He had actually played for Celtic against Slavia in a friendly in 1904 and although the Czechs lost 4-1 he had been impressed with their skill.

Slavia approached Madden to become their first professional manager and he accepted. Asked why he took the job, he said: “Well, it beats boiler making in the shipyard.”

Madden professionalised the club, banned the players from smoking or drinking, and Slavia won the Czech league four times under him. The apogee of his success was the 1929/30 “Invincibles” season with the cervenobílí [red and whites] winning all 14 matches.

The last match of the season was against the other half of the Czech Old Firm, Sparta, which Slavia won 3-2. Madden was then 65. He was asked to speak after the title was awarded, although his Czech halting. “I quit,” he responded. “I cannot give you more.” And he couldn’t be persuaded otherwise.

Madden survived the Second World War and the German occupation, and the takeover by the Soviet Union. He died in Prague in 1948. His coffin was draped in red and white and he was given a guard of honour by Slavia players in their team strips. To this day, on April 17 each year, the day of his death, supporters lay flowers on his grave in Olšany Cemetery.

Taking the Michael

I HAVEN’T had a proper natter with my old pal Michael Gove since he was a striking journalist at the Aberdeen Press and Journal some years ago. It’s all gone south for him since, and I don’t just mean to London. I have seen him a couple of times to nod to, but now I’m reliably informed that he’s changed his Zoom name for his online meetings.

The new name is 1707 which is, of course, the date of the Act of Union which joined Scotland and England, agreed by Scottish noblemen, or a parcel of rogues if you prefer Burns’s description. In this he has followed Nicola Sturgeon whose Zoom name is 1314 (the Battle of Bannockburn).

But I’d like to knock on the head the scurrilous rumour that Rangers manager Steven Gerrard’s is 1690.

Doggone pooch poo

I’M sick of tramping through dog deposits. I know most dog owners are responsible and try to clean up after their pets but if it’s not dodging dung it’s discarded chewing gum. It may be rare but some nasty diseases can be picked up from dog poo, like salmonella and who knows? If you can catch Covid from a bat in Wuhan nothing is too far-fetched.

It’s time to reintroduce the dog licence. It was scrapped in 1987 when it was 37p which wouldn’t have covered the cost of collecting it, although most dog owners didn’t even pay that. You still have to have one in Northern Ireland where it costs £12.50 a year. In early all the EU countries there’s a fee – in the Netherlands it’s €112.80 for the first one up to €224.16 for the third.

So a hundred quid per dug seems about right.

Post-Covid reckoning

I’VE had the vaccine. It was the Pfizer one and it was painless. Mild irritation next day which was a bit like muscle strain, but no other symptoms. The UK Government has been widely praised for the rollout of the vaccine – indeed the Tory poll lead has gone up by a couple of points, largely as as result – but why?

Matt Hancock (more likely his civil servants) was quick off the mark in ordering from all the available manufacturers and deserves credit, but there was nothing remarkable about getting it distributed. The NHS and the established mechanism do it every day, with drugs delivered to hospitals, GP practices and chemists.

This obscures the absolute bourach that not just the UK Government but our own has made of the Covid pandemic. Britain has the worst record in the world dealing with it, in terms of deaths, which is the only meaningful figure and judgment.

We’re top of the league you’d want to be bottom of, higher than the United States, Spain, France or even Brazil whose government had a laissez-fair attitude to coronavirus. Our death rate per million population is 1.798, Italy is second on the chart of shame and the US is third. More than 120,000 grieving families don’t want this forgotten – those responsible must be held to account.

Weight of fame

PHOTOGRAPHER Wattie Cheung, a friend of mine, recalls it was 25 years ago that Trainspotting premiered at the Odeon in Glasgow and that he spent much time on a stepladder taking pictures of the stars and famous guests as they walked the red carpet. They were being co-operative, except for one – Robbie Coltrane – who wouldn’t engage. Until one snapper shouted “Hey fat boy!”. Only in Glasgow.