Eulogy for John Robertson: The Maestro with a Heart of Gold

Anyone who knows me knows that I'm a big Nottingham Forest fan and have been since I was about 6 years old, almost 50 years. I'm not from Nottingham, so they may seem like an unusual team to choose. The reason is just as unusual.

One of my earliest memories is watching a random Northern Ireland match with my Dad (more likely it just happened to be on the TV, rather than we were consciously watching it) when someone scored for the Irish. I distinctly remember the commentator announcing that the goal was scored by "Nottingham Forest's Martin O'Neill" In my childhood brain, that seemed like a good enough reason to pin my colours to a footballing mast in the East Midlands. Least of all QPR, who I'd briefly chosen because I they had a 'Q' in their name.

I didn't know it at the time, but the next few years were to be the most successful in Forest's history. A multitude of trophies followed, including two European Cups (now known as the Champions League), the Super Cup, League Championships, numerous League Cups and the Charity Shield. As a 55-year-old, I still support them now, although there are fewer trophies to cheer these days!

In those 50-ish years following Forest, my favourite player has always been John Robertson. I loved watching him play, and I modelled myself on him when I was playing football with my friends as a kid. I spent hours trying to dribble my way past players before a soaring run down the left wing. SPOILER ALERT: I didn't make it as a footballer, but John definitely did.

Sadly, John passed away on Christmas Day 2025. I didn't have the skills to be anywhere near close to his talent, but I can honour him in my own way with this, a eulogy for the late, great John Robertson. I hope it does him justice.

Creator: Daily Mirror | Credit: Mirrorpix

In the quiet days following Christmas, the world of football and all who knew him paused to remember John Neilson Robertson, or 'Robbo' to his friends.

His passing on December 25th 2025, aged 72, was a parting gift of poignant timing from a man whose career was built on it. Only he could make his final exit on a day of family, reflection and quiet magic, ensuring he would forever be remembered in the soft, twinkling light of the season of giving. A man who gave so much.

This is not a eulogy spoken from a pulpit, surrounded by flowers, but a written tribute from an admirer, an attempt to gather the scattered memories, the shared stories and the universal respect felt for a man who was a beautiful contradiction.

A genius who looked like your favourite uncle, a legend who preferred a quiet punchline to a loud celebration, and a footballer whose left foot wrote some of the most glorious chapters in the modern history of the beautiful game.

Born on 20th January 1953, we remember him, first and foremost, as that brilliant contradiction. From the streets of Viewpark on the outskirts of Glasgow, to the pinnacle of European football, he carved his name not with fanfare, but with a quiet, devastating artistry.

Despite growing up a Rangers fan, he described his coaching work in his later years at Celtic with Martin O'Neill as the best years of his life in football. Those contradictions never failed him.

As an adult, he was a wee, stocky fella who, let’s be utterly honest, defied every modern scouting report before a ball was even kicked.

If you saw him walking down Bridgford Road towards the City Ground, hands in pockets, you might offer him directions or assume he was the most dedicated pie connoisseur in Nottingham, not a man capable of dismantling the finest defences in Europe. That was his greatest magic trick. He was a footballing Houdini.

He lulled the world into a false sense of security with his unassuming gait, then - just like that - a drop of the shoulder, a blur of movement and he was gone, leaving a full-back grasping at air and curling a pass onto a sixpence from what seemed like an impossible angle.

He was the ultimate footballing illusion: the unathletic athlete, the gentle destroyer.

His professional soul was woven into the fabric of Nottingham Forest over 2 separate periods. Under Brian Clough’s majestic and mercurial reign, John wasn't just a player on the left wing; he was the creative pulse, the quiet conductor of an improbable orchestra.

That touchline was his office, his studio, his kingdom. From that station, he delivered the ammunition for miracles: the league title, those back-to-back European Cups that still defy belief today.

The image of him in Munich, 1980, coolly slotting home the only goal to win the greatest prize in club football for the second time in two years, is timeless. He even provided the assist for Trevor Francis to score the winning goal in the 1979 final. The quiet Scot, the unassuming hero, his left foot speaking volumes where words never could.

His story also winds through Derby County, which would lead to acrimony between Clough and Peter Taylor, but it was Forest, the club where a shy teenager began his journey and where, with characteristic loyalty, the veteran later returned to offer his wisdom.

To be cherished in both Nottingham and Derby is a testament not to political skill, but to a genuineness that transcended rivalry.

They recognised the same thing Scotland did when they gave him the dark blue jersey: they were in the presence of a pure footballer.

Playing for his country was a deep, proud honour, and he brought his serene brand of chaos to the world stage, letting that magical left foot do the talking for a nation.

After hanging up his boots, his foray into management and coaching was a natural, if understated, next chapter, born of a deep desire to give back to the game he loved.

He was never one for the technocratic, overcomplicated style that later came into vogue. His management, like his play, was built on clarity, trust and an innate understanding of the player’s mind.

He served as a trusted lieutenant to Martin O’Neill at Wycombe Wanderers, Norwich City, Leicester City, Celtic and Aston Villa, his presence a bridge between the dressing room and the manager’s office. Players knew that in “Robbo,” they had a coach who had seen and done it all, yet spoke their language without ego. He could explain the geometry of a perfect cross with chalkboard simplicity, and his dry humour defused tension and built camaraderie.

While he never sought the top job for himself, his influence as an assistant was profound; he was the quintessential 'steady hand on the tiller', the keeper of the culture, proving that genius on the pitch could translate into wisdom on the training ground.

He managed to impart his football intelligence to a new generation, not by shouting, but by sharing, a quiet mentor in a loud profession.

But to only speak of the footballer is to miss the man entirely, and it is John Robertson the man, the family patriarch, the dry-witted friend, the generous spirit, whose absence is felt so deeply now. This tribute is for him, too...

He leaves behind his second wife, Sharyl, and their children, Andrew and Mark; and Liz, a daughter, from his first marriage, to Sally, which sadly ended in divorce; and two granddaughters, Jess and Phoebe. John also had another daughter, Jessica, from his first marriage, but she sadly passed away in 1996.

To John’s beloved family, his wife, his children, his grandchildren and to his countless friends from every walk of life, and to the football family that loved him so dearly, this is for you too.

We mourn with hearts that feel two things acutely: a profound, aching loss, and an overwhelming sense of gratitude. Grateful that we were lucky enough to share time on this earth with John Neilson Robertson

He slipped away as quietly as he glided past a full-back, leaving us on a day of family, reflection, and, yes, a little bit of magic.

Always one for dramatic timing, Robbo.

It’s heartbreaking, but somehow, it fits. He leaves a void, but he also leaves a treasure trove of stories, memories and a legacy of laughter that we will all cling to and tell forever.

We are here to honour a contradiction, a beautiful, brilliant contradiction. A man who, with a left foot blessed by the footballing gods and curated on the streets of Viewpark, carved his name into the very bedrock of football legend.

His professional heart, of course, belonged to Nottingham Forest. Under the singular, brilliant, and often terrifying gaze of Brian Clough, John didn’t just play; he became the beating, creative heart of the miracle men.

That left-wing touchline wasn’t just a position; it was his kingdom, his study, his artist’s studio. From that hallowed strip of grass, he conducted an orchestra of talent.

Think of him there, ball at his feet, looking up to see Tony Woodcock or Garry Birtles making a run. It wasn’t a pass; it was a whispered secret, delivered with unerring accuracy.

He was the architect of the glory years: the First Division title, those two impossible, spine-tingling European Cups. I’ll never forget Munich in 1980, watching it at home in my full kit with a Forest holdall at my feet (for some unknown reason).

Before the 1980 European Cup final against Hamburg took place, John's manager, Brian Clough was being interviewed and was asked about how the great German right-back Manfred Kaltz would do trying to keep Robertson quiet.

"We've got a little fat guy who will turn him inside out" said Cloughie.

Sounds like an insult. It wasn't.

During a night of such tension, even I could taste it back in the UK, up steps John. No fanfare, no dramatic build-up. Just a shimmy, a touch, and a finish so cool, so composed, it seemed to slow time itself. Cloughie was right again.

The quiet man from the outskirts of Glasgow, with a left foot of pure silk, won the greatest prize in club football again for a team from the banks of the Trent. It wasn’t just poetic; it was a lesson in understated genius.

And then, the honour that made his chest swell with unmistakable pride: Scotland.

Pulling on that dark blue jersey with the lion crest was his ultimate validation.

He wore it with a fierce, quiet patriotism. He brought his brand of devastating simplicity to the world stage, facing the best, often on muddy pitches, and always leaving them knowing they’d been in a game with a master.

He may have been the quietest in a raucous Tartan Army dressing room, but when he did speak, the room fell silent. When he received the ball out on that left flank, a whole nation leaned forward in unison, expecting magic. He never let that hope feel foolish.

But today, while we celebrate the footballer, we must -we must - celebrate the man. The John away from the roar of the Trent End crowd. Because that’s where the true legend resides.

First and foremost, he was a family man. His home was his fortress, his sanctuary. The medals were tucked away, the headlines were just paper. What mattered was the quiet pride in his children’s eyes, the warmth of his wife’s companionship, and later, the utter joy he found in being a grandfather.

I'm sure he’d light up talking about them in a way that even a European Cup winner’s medal couldn’t compete with. He was the anchor, the steady, loving presence who showed that the greatest victories aren’t always won on grass.

On the training pitch and in the dressing room, he was the ultimate prankster, but never cruel.

His humour was dry, witty, and perfectly timed. He was the master of the deadpan comment that would have you spitting out your tea.

I'm sure there are a million stories, but one forever sticks in my mind. I heard this from a fellow pro.

It was a gruelling pre-season, and Cloughie, in one of his legendary motivational speeches, was lecturing the team on diet, physique, and professionalism. He paced the room, then suddenly pointed a finger directly at John, who was relaxing with his famously un-rigorous approach to gym work. “Look at him!” Clough bellowed. “Robertson! Does that look like the physique of an athlete? Does it?!”

The room froze. They all stared at the floor. John just looked up, gave a little shrug, and in that soft Scottish brogue, replied, “Aye, gaffer, maybe not. But you should see the other guy.” The tension shattered.

Clough tried to scowl, but a smirk broke through. He’d been Robbo’d. That was his power. He brought the giants of the game down to earth with a wink and a wisecrack. He was the glue that held the ego and the tension together.

His generosity was legendary, but never for show. He’d spend hours after a game, talking to fans, signing autographs and making a young lad’s day with a kind word. He remembered names. He asked about people’s families.

For the older supporters, he had a special respect, always taking time to share a memory. He understood he was in a people business, not just a results business.

John was brave. I don’t just mean on the pitch, where he’d get kicked and get up, time and again, I mean in life. He faced challenges and setbacks with a stoic resilience that was truly inspiring.

In his final years, Robertson was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease. A cruel disease by anyone's definition, but even that couldn't take away the man we all loved completely.

Challenges that many others wouldn't have overcome, he never complained, never played the victim. He met adversity with a quiet “Right, we’ll deal with that”, and moved forward. It was a lesson in dignity for us all.

In his later years, that dry humour never left him. If you met him for a coffee, I'm sure he’d have dissected the modern game with that sharp football brain, never bitter, always insightful.

“See that winger,” I imagine he’d say “he’s quick, I’ll give him that, but can he deliver a ball on a wet Tuesday night in Stoke with a defender hanging off him? That’s the question.” He valued craft over glamour, substance over style, every single time.

So, what do we say to this man? This genius with a left foot, this comedian with a heart of gold, this devoted family patriarch, this loyal friend?

We say thank you.

Thank you for the magic, Robbo. For the passes that seemed to defy physics.

Thank you for the laughter, for the quiet jokes that got us through tough times.

Thank you for your loyalty, your unwavering support in good times and bad.

Thank you for showing us that true strength is quiet, that true genius doesn’t need to shout, and that the greatest legacy is not in trophies, but in the hearts you touch and the lives you make brighter.

The footballing world has lost one of its purest talents, its last true old-fashioned winger of the highest order. The world, especially his friends and family, have lost our compass, our storyteller, our brother.

John, your left foot was a wand that painted masterpieces on the green canvas of football pitches across Europe. Your heart was pure, Scottish gold and your timing, as ever, remains uniquely, wonderfully yours.

Rest in peace. Up there, somewhere, I’ve a picture in my mind: you’ve already nutmegged an angel, you’re looking for Cloughie to ask for your win bonus, and you’re settling in to watch the next game, ready to deliver the perfect, dry one-liner about the full-back’s footwork.

Thank you, Robbo. For everything. The magic, the memories, and the man you were. We’ll miss you forever.

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What are your memories of John Robertson? Let me know in the comments below. I'd love to hear them.