Just for kicks
This is an article by John Mullin, that appeared in the Guardian on 17/2/96.
Even his name is daft: Chic Charnley. There are a few blokes around with the same first name, most famously and fittingly the comedian Chic Murray. Mr Charnley's mum goes daft when she hears his son's name on the telly, and that's because she christened him James. Still, her wee boy used to sell poultry round the doors of Springburn, and so the nickname stuck. Mr Charnley is what might be termed unorthodox.
Old boys in grimy pubs all say the same thing: there's a dearth of characters in the game of football. There must be some truth in this, otherwise fat buffoons from Geordie-land would be lauded rather less. But exceptions prove the rule. Step forward Mr Charnley, Clown Prince of Scottish Soccer. Unconventional. A brilliant maverick.
Many are the features of Mr Charnley's game that win him this title. He has a funny way of running for a start, and not too quickly, his feet splayed at 10-to-2 ( he was once caught within ten yards by a policeman who suspected him of drunk-driving.) His chest is all puffed up like a chubby pigeon, and his shoulders seem to come out of his ears, as if on a coathanger. Most awkward. Then there's the pantomime huffing and puffing, and the grimaces at the crowd.
"I like to entertain," he explains. He once had his fans in raptures when he crept up behind the Ranger's mascot Broxy Bear and bashed him over the head before running off. Never liked the Rangers, has Mr Charnley.
But when he moves into space and the ball arrives, he is suddenly the only real player on the pitch. A man capable of scoring goals the like of which will never be seen until he himself does it again; driven shots from the centre-circle, still rising as they hit the back of the net, cunning free-kicks; and sensational goal-bound dribbles.
Hardly surprising, then, that he has been adored by the fans of all the clubs he has turned out for in his 15 years in the middle-ranks of middle-ranking Scottish footie: St Mirren, Ayr, Clydebank, Hamilton, Partick Thistle, St Mirren (again), Djurgardens (a Swedish side for those who thought they might be the latest Highland entrants into the Senior ranks north of the border), Partick Thistle (again), Dumbarton, and now Dundee. He even had a spell on loan at Bolton. Phil Neal, the then manager, was bemused: "I never knew quite what to make of him."
If Mr Charnley is such a fine and amusing player – and take it as read that he is – there must be some reason that he has failed to make it on a rather more impressive stage. Indeed there is. Mr Charnley has, according to the football authorities, the worst disciplinary record of any player in the British game. He has been cautioned on no fewer than 59 occasions, although he himself has lost count. The red card, that marker for an early shower, has been brandished at him 14 times. "I'm not a dirty player, but my temper can be a wee bit suspect," he says. He has taken drastic action to avoid further punishment. He once nicked the referee's cards and hid them down his socks.
Mr Charnley stirs himself a little as he watches Emmerdale Farm in the lounge of his third-floor flat. "I am what I am," he says with a shrug. Except the list includes spitting at an opponent. It was the last minute of a St Mirren game against Ayr – Ayr had just scored the winner, whereupon the defender who'd been thumping him all day put Mr Charnley on his backside, again. St Mirren, who had paid 225,000 for a player they had released a couple of seasons before, sacked Mr Charnley, although he believes they did it because they owed him money. He won his appeal for the cash, and then went off to Sweden to lighten up the dark Scandinavian nights.
Clydebank got rid of him too. He had a fight in the dressing room with one of the coaches.
There was a stamping or two. Elbow incidents also feature – one earning his latest sending-off in only his second game for his new club, Dundee. He had scored one of his long-range specials on his debut, prompting manager and friend Jim Duffy to tempt fate the morning of the Dundee derby with United: "He'll either score tonight or be sent off." Mr Charnley was testing the hot water 10 minutes before anyone else.
He's not one to watch his team-mates during his frequent suspension periods. He once gave St Mirren a miss, opting instead for his boyhood heroes, Celtic. He tried to tell the manager he'd been ill. But the camera rarely lies, and there was Mr Charnley, with his pals, celebrating in fine style as Celtic scored against great rivals Rangers.
He went every week to watch Celtic when he was at school. So he never played seriously throughout his adolescence. He regrets that he was never coached more. then again. He thinks a little, and says: "They'd have taken it all out of me."
Happy, though, was the day a couple of years back when he was in the local with his pals. "I was half-pissed, then I got a call asking me to go and play for Celtic in Mark Hughes's testimonial in Manchester. I thought it was a wind-up, but I got there and there were 85,000 people at Old Trafford. Everyone knows I'm a Celtic fan, and they all started singing my name. I just stood there greetin' like a wean." Charnley went on to play well, setting up two goals in Celtic's 3-1 win. There is a picture classic: "Eric Cantona was coming towards me, so I bluffed him. I opened my legs wide to tempt him to nutmeg me, and shut them when he fell for it. I went away with the ball." There picture shows Cantona bemused, and a look of delight on Charnley's face. It is buried, carelessy, in a pile of pictures in his boy's bedroom. "He looked a real mug."
The big money move to Celtic – predicted after that performance – never materialised. He never thought it would. "I could have done a job for them then, even at 30. I wished I knew back when I was 19 what I know now. But I'd do daft things, like eat bags of crisps and fish suppers on the way to play."
Mr Charnley has never made a fortune out of the game, and has had spells on the oil rigs, labouring and even as a bouncer when money was tight. But his family lives comfortably enough these days.
There is, though, one more story that sums up the legend of Mr Charnley, footballer, comedian and brooker of no nonsense. He was training one day in a public park with Partick Thistle when a couple of local hard-men approached. There was a swapping of insults, Glasgow style. Mr Charnley suggested they return after he had finished training. They did. With a samurai sword. He ran after them, chased them down the street, and gave them what might be termed a doing. Mind you, he did scratch his hand in the process.
Tammies off then to Mr Charnley, that wonderful combination of the brilliant, the gallus and the naughty. Never can there have been, even in Scottish football, such a glorious failure. For those who watch football outside the pampered world of Manchester United or Glasgow Rangers – and let us proclaim ourselves the real fans – there can be no finer tribute to a man's talents.