A hero in an adopted country where he lived and raised a family and yet, famously, he was on a deserted golf course when England were winning the World Cup.
He argued with Jim Baxter – another handy craftsman of the trade – when we ripped the English at Wembley in 1967.
James wanted to extract the urine with keepy uppy and nutmegs. But, then, the 9-3 humiliation of 1961 hadn’t involved our clowning prince as it had the king.
Denis wanted to hammer the nails into their coffin.
They should lay the great man to rest in a dark blue crew-necked long-sleeve shirt with 10 on the back.
I’m envisioning the image of him turning from another goal even now.
Ah Denis, you and your impish sense of fun.
At first he hated Jonathan Watson’s caricature of him in Only an Excuse, but grew to suffer it so much that at the 1990 World Cup in Italy he agreed to sneak up on the wee man while I persuaded him on TV to impersonate the Lawman.
Johnny’s face was the colour of Denis’ Manchester United top.
At this point I kind of feel I should list the Scottish greats of my time on earth… but I won’t.
Denis Law was stand-alone stuff. Standing. of course, one hand raised to the skies.
Not an ounce to spare, constructed with, it seemed, the hovering engineering of an angel. He was Scotland’s best. Ever.
If you weren’t there, then I put my fingers to my lips and urge you to be humble and appreciate the wisdom of those who were. We are about to lay the king to rest.
Sleep well, my hero.