Glenn Gibbons: Celtic managerial role still a plum job despite the ravages of time

THE high offices of state have been filled much more quickly than the vacancies for a manager and a chief executive at Celtic and the Scottish FA, reinforcing the widespread contention that, north of theorder at least, football is much more important than government.

Events in London these past few days suggest, too, that there were fewer candidates for the various ministries in Whitehall than there will be for two of the most significant posts in the Scottish game. Particularly for the one at Parkhead, despite some nonsensical comments by media observers that the discredited Tony Mowbray has, in effect, turned it into a poisoned chalice.

There is little doubt that the economic discrepancies that now exist between Celtic and, say, the upper half of the Premier League in England will render the Glasgow appointment less enriching (in every way) than it would have appeared when Martin O'Neill succeeded the hapless John Barnes ten years ago.

Nor is there any prospect of Mowbray's successor being afforded the level of funding the Irishman enjoyed in 2000 and subsequent years. Even so, it is laughable to ask, as one journalist did, "Who would want the job?"

If the board invited all interested parties to Celtic Park on the same day, in the manner of a theatre director auditioning for a chorus line, the arrivals would fill the main stand. Of course, 99 per cent of those aspirants would have the same chance of landing the job and doing it successfully as the people who normally occupy that stand on match days, but their presence would testify to the desirability of the position.

Much has been made this season of the "trials" of Walter Smith at Rangers, the Ibrox manager often portrayed as some kind of martyr to Sir David Murray's past extravagances. In the wake of the team's second successive championship, Ibrox midfielder Steve Davis was quoted as saying that "so much was stacked against us, but we stuck together." This implied a weekly defiance of all but insuperable odds.

The more relevant facts were that, despite lacking the funds to recruit before the start of the season, Smith already had the most expensively-assembled squad in the country; they were already champions; and their only serious rivals in their defence of the title were in the charge of a dud manager with a clear talent for acquiring moderate players and no talent at all for inspiring them.

None of this should be construed as a belittlement of Rangers' feat, as their triumph was clearly warranted a long way from the end of the campaign. But it does entitle anyone to ask: what manager in the country would not have loved the opportunity to have been similarly "up against it"?

In the case of the empty managerial chair at Parkhead, the same principle applies. With the possibility of 60,000 fans at every home match (given a resurgence of allegiance to the new man), a clear chance of winning trophies and European football (at whatever level) guaranteed every season, the willing takers would outnumber the refuseniks by a thousand to one.

EVEN if Fabio Capello's Italianate predilection for life's fineries – they include a top-end art collection – will most assuredly require what is known as high maintenance, anyone would have thought that an annual salary of 6 million would have just about had it covered.

Apparently not, however, as the England manager revealed this week an eagerness to augment his income by associating himself with a commercial venture that carried the unmistakable odour of meretriciousness.

This was a World Cup-orientated gimmick that would be known as the Capello Index, the upshot of which would be that, within two hours of the completion of any and all of their matches in South Africa, the England players' individual ratings would be posted on the net.

The scheme, promoted by an online gaming company, would involve ranking each player according to statistical data, rather than interpretive analysis, and Capello would have no input. But his name on the product would have made him inseparable from the idea that he would be exposing his own players to the risk of public embarrassment.

It would not be difficult, either, to imagine those squad members who are as renowned for their self-absorption as they are for their talent rushing to their screens to discover their "grades" and flouncing off in a fit of pique to confront the manager.

No amount of assurance that he did not actually compile the "marks" would have been sufficient to secure his release from, say, an agitated John Terry.

The episode was the first crack in the Italian's previously unblemished reign and, if allowed to develop, might have become a series of irreparable fissures. But Capello was saved from himself by his employers at the FA, who prohibited the arrangement.

His readiness to go ahead in the first place, though, prompts the question: how much does he need? It is reminiscent of the time the mountainously-rich John D. Rockefeller, founder of Standard Oil, was asked by a reporter how much money is enough. He replied: "Just a little more."

At this veteran columnist's age, even 30 years ago tends to feel like yesterday, but, in terms of the great sea changes to have occurred in the game, it does seem a very long time since Ally MacLeod, in the run-up to the 1978 World Cup, had to supplement his meagre wage as Scotland manager by selling a few carpets.