Interview: Former Scotland and Hibs No 1 Jim Herriot on meeting the author and vet who took his name, and why he rubbed mud on his face before games

Goalkeeper recalls the good times at Easter Road and Dunfermline under Eddie Turnbull and Jock Stein

Jim Herriot, who used to rub mud under his eyes to stop the glare from the floodlights, after a Hibs-Rangers match at Easter Road in March 1973.

In February 1969 Scotland’s goalkeeper Jim Herriot readied himself for a game under the lights in the usual way, by picking up a dollop of mud from his penalty box and smearing it under his eyes. “I might have used a bit more than usual that night,” he says, and with good reason: this was an FA Cup fifth-round tie for Birmingham City against mighty Manchester United, the European champions and the tremendous trident of Bobby Charlton, Denis Law and George Best.

A crowd of 52,500 packed into St Andrews witnessed what the modest Herriot says was a “no’ bad” performance from the custodian who believed that the glaur helped him combat the glare, with Birmingham holding the swashbuckling superstars to a 2-2 draw. Best was a bit more forthcoming a few days later. “He wrote in his News of the World column that ‘Jim Herriot was safer than the Bank of England.’ I already admired George fine, of course I did. I loved him after that.”

But that wasn’t the end of Herriot catching the eye. A young veterinary surgeon, Alf Wight, saw the tie and, as well as marvelling at his saves, liked his name. He was writing a novel called All Creatures Great and Small and needed a nom de plume. This one would do fine.

Jim Herriot limbers up before a Hibs-Dundee fixture at Easter Road in August 1971.

Herriot has reached the grand old age of 80 and I wouldn’t really need much excuse to phone him up for a chat, but this year being the 50th anniversary of the much-loved book gives me one. The Yorkshire Dales-set saga produced an equally celebrated TV series and it’s about to be revived. Our man has good stories about explosive European ties and explosive managers, curling with Jock Stein on a frozen pitch, being one of Turnbull’s Tornadoes, being floored by a punch and getting up to save a vital penalty and impersonating movie tough-guy Robert Mitchum. We’ll get to all of that shortly, but let’s continue with the literary link.

“I suppose it made me slightly more famous than I was,” he laughs. “When I found out about the book I just thought ‘Oh, that writer guy’s got the same name as me’, but then my niece told me she’d read in Reader’s Digest that he’d borrowed mine.

“Folk I’d never met before would tell me that my life tending all those animals in such lovely countryside must be wonderful. I’d sometimes say: ‘Well, I’m the real Jim Herriot. I live in Larkhall and don’t even own a goldfish. But my life is no’ bad either’!

“Eventually I met Alf. He told me that while he was still working as a vet he had to take a different name for his writing. He gave me a first edition of All Creatures Great and Small and I gave him one of my Scotland shirts. After that we sent each other postcards and Christmas cards.

“I remember his son Jim phoning me to say he’d passed away. It was lovely to be invited down to Thirsk for the unveiling of his statue. I took my granddaughter Lisa with me and she was thrilled to meet Christopher Timothy [who played “Herriot” in the series] and the other stars.”

But the tale doesn’t end quite there. I tell Herriot about the part played in it by Tom Jarvie who was notable for turning down Manchester United for Hamilton Accies in the 1930s and, like Wight, graduated in veterinary studies from Glasgow University. The pair became friends when both were in practice and according to an obituary of Jarvie – later the Blue Peter vet who had one of the show’s cats buried in his garden – they’d watched Herriot’s heroics together. Knowing that the latter was an ex-Douglasdale Juniors boy like him, he’d enthusiastically supported Wight’s choice of pen-name.

Unaware of this, Herriot is grateful for some new info for his regular talks at a local reminiscence group. Douglasdale, when they were around, had a keen local rivalry with Douglas Water Thistle. These are pimples even on the South Lanarkshire map but the football heritage is rich, the area having produced among others Doug Baillie (Rangers, Airdrie and Falkirk) and Bobby Prentice (Hearts). And the literary heritage isn’t bad either: Douglas Castle was Sir Walter Scott’s Castle Dangerous.

Herriot’s yarn begins in 1939. I assume, because he was born at its outbreak, that he doesn’t remember much about the Second World War. “Oh yes,” he says, “there was that time all our windows blew in. Hitler had just bombed Clydebank. I remember other nights, my mother carrying me in a shawl, when the sky lit up with more bombs, offloaded on the journey back to Germany. My father was an infantryman. Every time he came home I burst into tears and I’d ask my mother: ‘Why’s this man in our house?’”

Cricket had been Herriot’s first love but he quickly made a name for himself as a Junior, proof of the scene’s status at the time and also that of South Lanarkshire as a hotbed of talent. “The old [Glasgow] Evening Citizen had a report saying Leeds United and Blackburn Rovers were watching me. That got me really excited but I knew my mother wouldn’t have wanted me to go to England. So I signed for Dunfermline.”

He got there in time for the Stein revolution, played until the quarter-finals of the 1961 Scottish Cup glory run, lost his place to Eddie Connachan, was “bloody jealous” of his rival’s brilliant form in the final – but was in awe of the boss’s psychology.

“It was simple stuff, really, a few words for each player. ‘You know, you could really help yourself if you did this .... ’ Jock could make you feel like the best in the world. I wouldn’t say his tactics were special – he was good at picking up tips from studying other coaches – but he was the best at man-management.” It was Stein who suggested the mud-in-your-eye trick. “He got it from American football. Rugby Park, with the lights on the roof, was the worst for glare but I also had a problem on really sunny days. The mud worked.

“Jock really put Dunfermline on the map,” Herriot continues. “The Glasgow media had to pay attention to us. Our wee trainer, Jimmy Stevenson, would rush up to Jock when he was taking a session on the pitch: ‘Boss, the Daily Record’s on the phone.’ He’d go: ‘Aye well tell them to wait.’”

In ’62, though, Everton’s cartography skills were found to be lacking. That is, they were dismissive of the Pars in the Inter-Cities Fairs Cup, though this would be to their cost. “Everton were known as the Merseyside Millionaires, a fancy team that had cost a lot of money. We only got into the competition after a Greek side withdrew and when we arrived at Goodison they looked us up and down like we were country yokels. Jock was raging.

“They won the first leg, a right tousy affair, with a goal which didn’t cross the line. Willie Cunningham went mad at the ref. Billy Bingham, who knew him from Northern Ireland, said: ‘It’s only a game, Willie.’ Willie said: ‘Oh you think so? Wait til we get you back to East End Park. We’ll be wearing the pit-boots with the steel toecaps.’ They turned up very nervous and were beaten before the game started.”

The following season – Dunfermline in the 60s were Euro regulars – a tie at VfB Stuttgart put Goodison in the shade for violence. “They were awarded a penalty which caused the most almighty rammy. The ref lost control and didn’t see their left-winger slug me in the stomach. I was on the ground for a while. Jimmy Stevenson got me back on my feet and then I had to face the kick. I’d only ever saved a penalty before in the Fife Cup against Cowdenbeath but I managed to guess right.” Once again Dunfermline progressed.

That game sounded like it needed Tiny Wharton in charge. Does Herriot have a story about the man-mountain of whistlers? “I saved a shot with my bollocks and Jimmy was required again. Tiny said: ‘Mr Herriot, are you going winching tonight?’ I said I hoped to be. He said: ‘I think you’ll be alright once Mr Stevenson had administered his tender mercies.’”

Footballers are kicking their heels right now – does he have a story about how best to beat the boredom of a shutdown? “During the bad winter of ’63 there were no indoor halls so Jock would take us to the beach. But it was so cold at Pettycur Bay the waves would freeze as they turned. He took us to a curling rink, which was good fun, so he borrowed some stones and we played on the pitch at East End.”

All of Herriot’s eight Scotland caps came when he was a Birmingham Blue, all granted him by Bobby Brown, and he was thrilled to find himself in the company of Alan Gilzean, Jimmy Johnstone and the rest. He was a virtual spectator for two big wins over Cyprus, 13 goals in two World Cup qualifiers, and also had a fine view of Tommy Gemmell booting West Germany’s Helmut Haller up the backside. “That wasn’t just a wee flick. Tam went Nanny Rooney.” (I have to ask what this means. Mental, apparently).

For a ’69 Home International against Northern Ireland the big talking-point was the crowd – just 7,455. The Scottish football public, who’d normally have filled Hampden’s slopes, were offered with a rare live transmission and had grabbed it. In this they were like mud hut-dwelling South Sea islanders corrupted by the medium.

Still, at least Herriot’s father Archibald, a miner to trade, was able to attend one of his son’s games again, a renewal of the duel with Best. Herriot laughs, because when the old man got home and his mother, Bessie, asked how their boy had played he couldn’t really tell her. “Dad got awfully nervous at my games and that night he couldn’t look every time Bestie crossed halfway so he got his pals to commentate for him.”

Herriot’s late wife Ann was more brave, bashing a Rangers fan with her brolly for his derogatory remark after the keeper, in a green jersey, had kept goal rather too well for Dunfermline. She also bristled at Big Jock’s criticism of Herriot’s performance when Scotland lost 4-1 at Wembley, asking the then Celtic boss: “What about your three guys – were they even fit?”

After Brum, Herriot headed for South Africa and Durban City. He admits he didn’t properly think that move through and was dismayed by apartheid. In the company of Gordon Banks, Francis Lee and Johnny Haynes the stay was brief, although it had been long enough for him to acquire a cult following among Asian fans penned behind his goal who, when they found out he was leaving, bombarded his hotel with phonecalls pleading for him to stay. Eddie Turnbull had just summoned him to Easter Road.

First game, a ’71 friendly at York City, it was Herriot’s turn for a nom de plume, being listed as “A.N. Other” to keep the signing secret. In two seasons that Hibs supporters rate as the most fabulous since the heyday of the Famous Five, the Tornadoes lost a Scottish Cup final to Celtic then gained revenge to win the Drybrough Cup and the League Cup. There were thrilling European nights to rival those of Dunfermline and the 7-0 thrashing of Hearts.

“What a wonderful team that was,” says Herriot, “I cannot speak too highly about each and every one of them. Pat Stanton was the greatest Hibee since Lawrie Reilly – he never had a bad game. Alan Gordon was so classy, Jimmy O’Rourke so underrated. First time you saw John Brownlie he looked awkward but what a brilliant attacking full-back – and was there ever a player braver than wee Alex Cropley? John Blackley could be casual and sometimes I’d have to give him a row – but a great defender who always wanted to use the ball, they all did.

I played with Alex Edwards at Dunfermline when he was a right scallywag but at Hibs he hit the best crossfield ball in the land. He’d aim for Arthur Duncan and nobody could catch him. They called Arthur the Roadrunner and every time he bombed down the Easter Road slope a guy in the enclosure would shout ‘Beep beep!’” It was Edwards who reckoned Herriot walked like Hollywood’s Mitchum, very suave, and nicknamed the keeper Big Bob.

But – and there’s a big but. The Tornadoes could have achieved more. “Eddie was my greatest coach. Nowadays I see Scott Brown regarded as a superstar, but for what? He passes the ball sideways! If that happened three times when Hibs trained, Eddie stopped the session. I see players taking throw-ins not knowing what to do, these modern coaches just as clueless. At Hibs every shy was worked out. We could start an attack from one right down at our corner-flag. But Eddie broke up that side too soon. He was a better coach than Jock but Jock was better at handling players. Eddie was nearly always falling out with someone and bore a grudge.”

The end for Herriot came shortly after Hibs crashed out of the Cup-Winners’ Cup and his final few days seemed cruel, when he was left on the pitch, injured and briefly forgotten, after a reserve match at Motherwell before reading he’d been freed on a newspaper billboard.

But he bears no grudge. “I played for my country, for a fine Dunfermline team and a brilliant Hibs one.” We began our tale with Herriot defying Bestie; we end it amid a fusillade of firecrackers at Hajduk Split, one of his lesser performances. “Ach, I didn’t have a good game. The pitch sloped so judging crosses was tricky. A couple of steps backwards and it felt like I was stumbling down a hill.”

Maybe he could have applied a bit more mud, I say. He laughs: “Nah son, that just wasn’t my night.” This is life for goalies – all keepers great and small.

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