"We'll set about ye," he famously squawked on behalf of his fellow Glaswegians. With horrible irony, Smeaton himself has now become their prey. After an initial period of indulgence, he's perceived to have become too big for the polished Ghillie brogues in which he's been swaggering around civic receptions from London to New York and Los Angeles. Despite acknowledging the part played by others in subduing the hapless assailants, he finds himself increasingly excluded from the circle of have-a-go heroes resentful that their own efforts haven't been similarly recognised. "Smeaton's all talk," they scowl bringing to mind a modern day equivalent of the tailor who killed seven flies before convincing his fellows that the notches on his sword could be accounted to desperados. Smeaton, whose public statements have evoked a band of brothers forever bonded by the co-incidence of their presence on that fateful day, must be wounded by their revised assessment of his own role. One can only surmise why individuals ostensibly determined to avoid the limelight should denigrate someone who revels in it. Like it or not, the roles have been cast! Smeaton is the undoubted star. Can we not share his pride and enjoy his bumptious exuberance? I urge his detractors to return their daggers to their scabbards before farce becomes tragedy.

As the dark clouds of envy and contention cluster around Smeaton's briefly iridescent star, we should recognise the plight of ordinary people who subject themselves to the limelight only to be found wanting. Which of us could withstand such remorseless attention? Like participants in reality television shows, Smeaton is discovering that those who enjoy his personality are less likely to make public their opinion than those who don't. "Nobody asked him to strut around blowing his trumpet," the reader might retort, but that's not the case. We invite people to express themselves and then make them egregious. Is there a more terrible reflection on our age than the sight of some unfortunate numbskull emergin from the Big Brother house, a tentative smile compressing into a pout of dismay as the disapproval of the mob becomes apparent. "We don't like you," they yell, regressing to the level of children turning on a red-headed class-mate. Let's not abandon John Smeaton to the same psychic annihilation!

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