THERE'S been a whisper about Gerry McNee, although, admittedly, ''whisper'' and ''Gerry'' don't easily sit in the same sentence. Mr McNee has his opinions and is not shy about broadcasting them. Today, though, is the end of an earache.

The whisper is that Gerry is commentating on his last match, appropriately an Old Firm game. His first broadcast was in Madrid in 1974, when the bad boys of Atletico beat Celtic in a European Cup semi-final. McNee started then, and has hardly stopped since.

Not even heart surgery could interrupt him. There was a report that McNee gave a running commentary as the surgeon delved into his chest, alternating between an encouraging assessment of the medic's skills and questioning his selection policy, suggesting that

the suction was applied too early and should have been kept on the subs' bench until the op went into extra-time.

Surgery apart, football has been a bloody business for Gerry. He has been punched by one Old Firm manager, while asked to step outside by another. The latter was all the more worrying, as both McNee and said manager were on an aeroplane at the time.

McNee, of course, is as bloody-minded as a butcher with an obsession for offal. Apart from dipping his pen in a substance that has been manufactured from the venom of one thousand black mambas (apparently the most lethal ice lolly of them all), Gerry has been known to be fairly combative on air as well as in air.

Gerry doesn't sit on the fence. In fact, he treats fences with the same respect as would a runaway Centurion tank. Gerry sees it, then Gerry says it.

This, of course, is not to everyone's liking. Many do not agree with Gerry. Indeed, in more reflective moments, I suspect that Gerry doesn't always agree with Gerry. But he is a powerful antidote to the somnolent blandness that infects broadcasting. Football, the cliched commentators tell us, is all about opinions. However, if these self-same pundits were taxed on the power of their opinion, they would be due a large rebate. McNee, on the other tongue, would be facing a tax bill that would embarrass a multi-national.

He is not always right. That, after all, is my job. But he certainly invests a match commentary with a zest that can provoke ire or strong agreement. He is simply good radio. And so, not uncoincidentally, is Radio Clyde, the station that employs him.

While Gerry's commentaries will be missed, there is a greater loss approaching over the horizon with the pace and purpose of a rhino with a grievance. It is this: Radio Clyde commentaries are in danger of being filed alongside dodo, dinosaur and Big Derek in the extinct file.

Someone, somewhere has decided to spend (pounds) 8m of our money to ensure that BBC Scotland covers Scottish games live and exclusive. Now, I rarely bother what anyone does with my money - after all, I have a small stake in a Polaris submarine, thanks to the government, and a smaller stake in an equally expensive pair of Rockport boots, thanks to my son.

But I do tend to get a little testy over a lack of choice. I believe the government should have shown me a catalogue of nuclear submarines so I could have made an informed choice, perhaps opting for one with a sunroof and spoiler.

Similarly, I regret not having a say on whether Clyde continue to do commentaries, particularly as it is my dosh, through the licence fee, that is putting them out of this line of business.

Clyde has always been music to my ears. They simply changed the way football was broadcast, bringing the open line to fans and an element of personality to the commentary. Thus we had Gerry shouting at Davie, Davie shouting at Gerry, Big Derek shouting, and everyone shouting at Hugh Keevins. We also had James Sanderson, who brought mendacity from the dictionary to the terracing and inquired whether you had been at the game. James would have considered Jock Stein's opinion irrelevant if the great man was delivering it from an armchair instead of from the dugout.

Clyde, of course, also have Paul Cooney, who could anchor the

QE2 in a storm, never mind a mere sports programme.

Clyde commentary, then, is something to be cherished for its energy, controversy and some-

times its downright absurdity.

It will be missed as much for its raucous anarchy as for its considered opinions.

Now Clyde will somehow try to keep a sports Saturday section on the go, doubtless using a mixture of ingenuity and wonderfully mindless chat. But diversity has gone.

I'll miss Gerry. But I'll miss that availability of choice more.