Celtic and Irish Politics

With a battle going on for the heart and soul of Celtic Football Club it's perhaps important to look back at its formation. Doing so might help many develop a more informed opinion about the current debates raging, specifically the club's relationship to Ireland and Irish politics.

To do so I looked out an old copy of Bill Murray's The Old Firm, Sectarianism, Sport and Society in Scotland. Although first written in the eighties it remains the most researched and respected independent body of work on this subject that I've stumbled across, and I cannot recommend it highly enough to anyone wishing to broaden their knowledge on a subject that continues to dominate the lives of many thousands of football fans and the wider community.

Most fans know one of the reasons Brother Walfrid set up Celtic Football Club to help feed and clothe immigrants in the East End of Glasgow. This charitable ethos is one the club is currently trying to reclaim through the Celtic FC Foundation, and for this they must be commended. Of course, there's always going to be some for whom the club isn't doing enough. This was highlighted at the most recent AGM when the resolution for the club to introduce a living wage was rejected. However, there is no doubt the club does more than any other football club. But is this enough to boast about being more than a club? Other recent issues like the no political banners or songs, while playing Let The People Sing over the Celtic Park tannoy, looks a tad hypocritical to many.

What is not so well known about Walfrid was his fear that Protestant soup kitchens might tempt young Catholics into apostasy. He was also worried about the dangers of young Catholics meeting Protestants in their place of employment or leisure and being led astray. A Catholic football club, then, could serve the dual purpose of easing the pain in starving stomachs and keep young Catholics together, free from the temptations of Protestants and Protestantism. 

But Walfrid wasn't the only man involved in the formation of Celtic Football Club and Protestants have played in Celtic teams right from the beginning. In 1895 a resolution was put before the committee that the first team be restricted to three Protestants but it was rejected. A counter-proposal established that the club sign as many Protestants as it wanted. This remains the case to the present day.

There is no doubt that in the first decade of Celtic's history many charities benefited from their visits. When Celtic became a 'business' in 1897 the charitable ideals were dented but not extinguished altogether. 

Tom White, who joined the board in 1906 and was chairman from 1914 until his death on 1947, never wavered in his belief that Celtic were founded to cater for the Irish people in the west of Scotland, and many of the players and directors were intimately and very visibly involved the politics of the Motherland. 

The Irish origins of the club were even more obvious than the religious, highlighted by the club's colours and the flying of the Irish flag at Celtic Park. In the early days they were often referred to as 'the bhoys' or 'the Irishmen'.

On their first tour of the United States in 1931 they were wanted to play under the Irish flag and be introduced by the Irish national anthem. It's worth pointing out that even back then Rangers played under the Union Jack rather than the Scottish flag.

The Emerald Isle was the homeland and its ills were as real to those born in Scotland as to those who had never left Ireland.

If Celtic supporters today can be distinguished by their green and white colours, often with shamrocks and representations of the pope superimposed, changes from the early days have been of degree and not of kind. 

The brake club gatherings broke up to the singing of God Save Ireland. At the Saint Patrick's Day Dinner in 1936 the toasts were to 'The memory of St Patrick' and 'Our Homeland', while the words of The Soldier Song were included in the menu, presumably to bring the proceedings to a rousing conclusion.

No group of Irish expatriates could avoid politics in the late nineteenth century, and the Celtic Football Club, as such a body, were no exception. Irish immigrants and the first generation born of Irish immigrants were more concerned about the politics of the Motherland than the politics of their adopted land.

The club were involved in such politics from the early days, but informally, through prominent players and officials, rather than officially through the club itself, but they were involved nonetheless.

When Michael Davitt was invited to lay the first sod of 'real Irish shamrocks' at the new Celtic Park in 1892 he was received by two young lads dressed in Robert Emmet costumes. After that sod of turf had been stolen the thieves are said to have invoked the 'curse of Cromwell' to 'blast the hand that stole the sod that Michael cut'.

When businessmen took over the club in 1897 they faced a revolt by brake clubs who not only claimed they'd been cheated out of reduced rates on their season tickets, but also that the club wasn't Irish anymore. 

The then Celtic chairman, John McGlaughlin, was the least sympathetic of all the top Celtic officials to the cause of Irish nationalism, and in 1899 went so far as to speak out against the nationalists and add his support to a motion which resulted in the SFA contributing 100 guineas to help the families of British soldiers fighting to defend the empire in South Africa.

There were calls for a boycott and the United Celtic Brake Clubs passed a motion that he be condemned 'in the most emphatic manner' and declared that he would never be given a place of honour in their association. As a result support for the club subsided for a while. The board sat tight, rode out the storm and refused to condemn McGlaughlin. It was clear in any case that McGlaughlin was a lone voice speaking out on behalf of British Imperialism: the other directors were committed to the cause of Ireland, and they and several other prominent players were to be found on platforms supporting Irish nationalist causes.

In 1896 William McKillop and John Glass were noted among a large and enthusiastic audience of Nationalists in Glasgow to celebrate St Patrick's Day and make speeches about Home Rule and the release of Irish political prisoners. Later that year they were joined by Tom Colgan in again demanding the release of Irish political prisoners.

Among the many Celtic supporters, players and officials at such meetings Tom and Alex Maley were more frequently reported than brother Willie. But the Celtic manager was no political agnostic.  In June 1910 the Glasgow Observer reported:

'Mr W. Maley, secretary of Celtic Football Club, gave a political address in Partick on Sunday under the auspices of the United Irish League. Although the Maley family are best known by reason of their football fame, the various members of it have always taken a keen interest in politics. Mr T.E. Maley is a constant figure on the Nationalist platforms, and Mr Alex Maley took prominent part in the affairs of the Pollokshaws branch of the United Irish League, while Father Charles Maley has never suffered his political sympathies to be secreted on the shady side of the bushel.'

Along with the Kellys and the Maleys, the name most associated with Celtic is White. Tom White joined the board in 1906 after the death of John Glass. White did not allow his position with Celtic to dampen his nationalist ardour, and in 1908 could be found talking on Irish politics at a nationalist meeting at Barrhead where current and past stars Quinn, McMenemy, Campbell and Somers were present. 

Probably the most prominent of all Celtic officials involved in politics was William McKillop. When he died in 1909 he was sent to his grave with a papal blessing at the request of His Grace the Archbishop of Glasgow.

But the link between Celtic and Irish politics is most clearly seen in the person of John Glass, whose untiring efforts to found the club and then establish it seen him duly rewarded with 300 fully paid shares when the club became a limited liability company. When he died his obituary appeared not in the sports, but in the political pages. Apart from the energies devoted by Glass to Celtic, he had been a founder and member of the O'Connell branch of the Irish National Foresters, a foremost worker for Catholic Union, a silent worker for the United Irish League and a treasurer of its Home Government Branch.

The granting of partial independence to Ireland by the creation of the Irish Free State in 1922 took some sting out of the political issue in Scotland but according to the Glasgow Observer the Celtic Brake Clubs had adopted Kevin Barry as their patron saint. 

The politics of Irish nationalism was not fought in or around Celtic Park, and the nationalists, within the club as in the community at large, were bitterly divided among themselves, as the tragic civil war following partial independence was to show. But to the general cause of a free Ireland there was a strong commitment by Celtic and their supporters, albeit romantic and in writing rather than in conviction and fighting.

If the Irish in Ireland were oppressed by the English, the Irish in Scotland suffered from the arrogance, if not the bigotry of Scots, and this drew them together in a community where common religion and nationality often transcended economic ills or grievances.

Celtic in those early days, and for a long time thereafter, were the proud symbol of what appeared to be a closely knit community. Part of the surge of optimism that carried Catholics forward at this time was the success of their football team, where every victory was notched up against their detractors, where every cup or flag won was a slap in the face to the Scottish Establishment.

The last few weeks have seen the club fined by UEFA for fans displaying a banner with a political message on it. As this isn't the first time that's happened the club decided enough was enough and stated that no more political banners will be allowed in Celtic Park. 

Yesterday it was announced that no flags or banners will be allowed into Celtic's game against St Johnstone on Perth. This means that for probably the first time in Celtic's history there will be no Irish flags in the crowd. 

As no other fans have been targeted in this manner many Celtic fans are up in arms about there being an agenda against them. Some believe the club are part of that agenda in an attempt to sanitise the support and cleanse any lingering attachments to the cause of Irish Nationalism, which is now unpalatable to many due to the bombing campaigns and tactics of the Irish Republican Army during The Troubles. 

One wonders what the position of the Celtic board and fans would be if the whole of Ireland was still part of Britain and fighting for independence and not just the six counties. 

Whether or not a twenty first century football ground is the place to be continuing that fight, albeit it only in song and banner, is a debate that looks like raging for some time yet. 

The club has many new fans who have no interest in Irish politics. They also have a much broader fan base with different cultural and religious backgrounds. But surely, as both the club and fans profess to being a club open to all, common ground can be found that satisfies all members of the Celtic family, whether new or old school. Tolerance and respect are the keys. Insulting or demeaning others with an opposing view is not the answer, and it's not the Celtic way.

Celtic Anthology: What's it all about?

With the Celtic Anthology now available and popping through letter boxes daily here's a few words reminding everyone what it's all about and why we want you to get involved. 

Motivated by the spirit of Walfrid the Celtic Anthology aims to breathe new life into the ancient art of Celtic storytelling for modern times and donate proceeds from the book sales to the Celtic FC Foundation.

To help achieve these goals we've collected various tales and poems from around the world. Many stories are told in English. Others, in an attempt to capture a wide range of diverse voices, are written in various styles of the local dialect heard on the streets of Glasgow and the stands of Celtic Park. 

These voices, heard over the years singing and roaring Celtic teams to glory, have seldom been represented in the vast canon of literature relating to the club, yet they represent the roots of the Celtic support.

You can find out more about the project here -

http://www.celticanthology.com/buy-book/

If you enjoy the stories and poems in the book we hope you'll help spread the word and encourage others to get involved. Whether that entails buying further copies of the book as presents, or writing a story, or poem, or song, or whatever inspires you, is up to you.

The book is available to purchase here and should be delivered in time for Christmas. 

http://www.amazon.co.uk/gp/product/1493694383/ref=olp_product_details?ie=UTF8&me=&seller=

Merry Christmas.

@oldpesky

No One Likes Us, We Don't Care

'No one likes us, we don't care' is the battle cry of supporters of a football team from Govan. Many words have been written, myself included, about how hollow those words turned out to be once negative stories started appearing in the Scottish Press about their team. When chairmen of other clubs spoke out they too were targeted by the new wave of bloggers capable of stringing a few sentences together and more than willing to do so. As it it became apparent that very few did actually like their team it became increasingly apparent that Rangers fans did indeed care what others thought of them. The term 'Rangers-hater' was then thrown around like confetti at anyone, and I mean anyone, who dared say anything negative about Rangers. Lists were compiled of the enemies of Rangers along with thinly-veiled 'Lest We Forget' threats of future retribution.

Such was the liberal use of the term 'Ranger-hater' it soon lost its intended impact and became nothing more than a cliche, like 'obsessed'. In a quite remarkable turnaround it is mainly used these days by different factions of the Rangers support to insult one another. 

Of course, to spectators like myself it is all mildly amusing. Expressing my amusement is what led me to being labelled an 'obsessed Rangers-hater', which, of course, I also find mildly amusing. For the avoidance of doubt, I don't hate anything or anyone. I don't even hate the intolerance of bigots, whether religious, political or class, although it does irk me somewhat.

In recent weeks both the Celtic team and Celtic supporters have taken some hammerings on and off the park. These have been well-documented elsewhere so I won't dwell on them here. The point being the negative cumulative effect it's had on Celtic and its fans.

In particular, a small, vocal section of the support appears to be circling the wagons and adopting a 'no one likes us, we don't care' philosophy. I have no problem with them doing so. To have a problem might be perceived as bordering on intolerance. Instead I look at each respective issue individually and try to form a learned opinion based on the evidence in the public domain and not on the alleged groups involved.

I have no issue with any banners, whether displaying political slogans or pictures of zombies. Unfortunately, I'm not in charge of UEFA. 

It should be remembered that clubs must apply for UEFA membership. It is a private members club. As such, it makes the rules for everyone wanting to play in their competitions. So, if you want to play in the Champions League you must adhere to their rules. If their rules state no political chanting or banners then anyone found guilty of breaking these rules will, undoubtedly, be punished in some way. 

But it's against the law to prevent me from exercising my right to freedom of speech is something I've heard frequently. 

This is where some people get confused. 

But, and this needs constant reinforcing, private member clubs, like EUFA, or the SFA, can dictate their own rules. If you don't like those rules you can always go and play elsewhere.

Last year Rangers took the SFA to court for handing out a punishment that Rangers felt wasn't in their remit. Rangers won the case but ended up accepting the original SFA punishment in order to play in their competitions. Lesson learned.

It can also be confusing because the SFA or SPFL have no rules about political chanting or banners. They had the chance to introduce tougher rules on racism and sectarianism earlier this year and the clubs voted against it. 

So, we have one rule for Scotland and another rule for Europe. If the Scottish football authorities had more bottle they would be telling the clubs these are the new rules rather than asking them. This would also make the ridiculous Offensive Behaviour at Football Act redundant. 

If clubs were fined or had points deducted there would be no need to arrest teenagers for singing songs, which, incidentally, is an attack on their right to freedom of expression.

Last night a number of plastic seats were broken in one of the stands at Fir Park during the Motherwell v Celtic game. It's true that this type of seat can be easily damaged when an exuberant crowd jumps around for ninety minutes. Accidents can and do happen. 

But on reviewing the damaged area one can't help but come to the conclusion that not all of those seats were broken accidentally. Like I said, I have no doubt some of the breakages were indeed accidents, but even if half of those broken were an accident that still leaves around sixty seats whose fate wasn't accidental.

Why do some fans feel the need to break seats? Alcohol? Wanting to be part of something? I honestly have no idea. It just looks like mindless vandalism.

It comes as no surprise to me, or many others, that even in light of the damning evidence there are still those who not only defend such behaviour, but take a warped pride in being part of an ever-decreasing group who act without a care for the thoughts of others.

While the majority of the Celtic support may not be completely supportive of everything the club does they don't feel the need to do whatever possible to hurt the club. Most realise that the so-called Celtic Family is bigger than single issues. They might not agree on everything but respect is given to those with opposing views, like it should be.

However, there is a vocal minority who are intolerant of other Celtic fans' views. They are becoming a law unto themselves and don't care about the club's reputation. Part of me admires their stubborn resistance, but another part of me cringes at some of their actions.

I will support people's rights to freedom of expression until my dying breath, but I can't support or condone out and out mindless vandalism. 

Those guilty of wrecking seats have today been called 'Celtic-haters' by other Celtic fans. Such a term, like the 'Rangers-haters' one now used by warring factions from the other side of the city, is completely wide of the mark. 

The Celtic fans guilty of destructive behaviour are no more 'Celtic-haters' than Chris Graham or Bill McMurdo are 'Rangers-haters'. Both groups might have strong negative feelings towards the board of their respective clubs, but that doesn't make them haters of their clubs for doing so. They all just have different opinions on what their clubs represent and how they should be run. 

So to those in the Celtic support who continue to defy the majority of fans as well as the board I ask why are you so intolerant of other opinions? Because from where I'm sitting it looks like you should be singing that empty battle cry usually heard in the Ibrox stands: 'No one likes us, we don't care'.

Columbo, Carnegie, Capone and Dave King

Idiots! They're all idiots. No, that's too kind. They're all loonies. Yes, that's it, loonies. And trolls. They're all looney trolls. Not to forget obsessed. They're all obsessed looney trolls...and idiots, too. Yes, don't forget they're still idiots. And sick idiots at that. Sick, obsessed, idiot, looney trolls. 

Who are these people and why are they all deemed sick, obsessed, idiot, looney trolls? 

Let's look at the case of The Scotsman's Tom English. 

Mr English's alleged crime has been to continually ask questions about the, some would say, dodgy past of potential Rangers investor Dave King, and whether or not he is a fit and proper person to be involved in running a football club in Scotland.

It's only fair at this stage to point out that many others don't consider Mr King's past to be in the slightest bit dodgy. This also gives me the opportunity to say that, even though I don't agree with their analysis of the situation, I won't resort to calling them idiots or obsessed loonies. Neither do I think Mr English is an obsessed idiot.

The highlight of this supposedly dodgy past was Mr King's guilty plea of contravening the South African  Income Tax Act on forty one occasions. There were other, more serious, charges dropped in the agreement between Mr King and SARS (South African Revenue Service). But even without the fraud, money laundering, racketeering and Exchange Control Act charges the High Court still sentenced Mr King to a grand total of eighty two years imprisonment. 

Now, no matter how you look at it, eighty two years in jail is an eye-watering headline.

Mr King, however, managed to buy himself a get out of jail card by agreeing to pay an equally eye-watering sum of approximately £44,000,000.

With this payment Mr King exited the High Court a free man and his debt to South African society was paid, or at least had been agreed to be paid.

This brought to an end a process that started through the courts when he was arrested in 2002.

During that lengthy process High Court judge Justice Southwood labelled Mr King as a glib and shameless liar and mendacious witness who had no respect for the truth and won't hesitate to lie.

But at the end of it all Mr King pleaded guilty in a High Court to forty one contraventions of the Income Tax Act. 

Now, I don't know about you, but I believe anyone who pleads guilty to any offence deemed worthy of being dealt with in the High Court is, by definition, a criminal.

Does that make me an idiot?

Does it confirm my status as a looney?

Am I sick?

Am I obsessed for pointing this out?

If you believe the answer to any of the above is yes I'd love to hear why. In the meantime let's get back to Mr King because the roots of his downfall are far more interesting.

In May 2000 Mr King attended an auction in Johannesburg and purchased a painting called Cape Girl with Fruit for the princely sum of £140,000. 

Considering the sums of money now associated with Mr King £140,000 is a mere drop in the ocean. But at the time Mr King claimed his earnings that year were only £6,279 and had asked his name be taken off the register of taxpayers.

Something didn't add up. How could someone earning so little afford a painting for so much?

Preferring not to keep a low profile Mr King gave an interview to a magazine where he openly discussed the painting. No doubt most readers didn't give the article much thought. 

However, the piece caught the eye of one interested reader. Charles Chipps was a South African Service investigator, likened to Inspector Columbo, who'd just processed Mr King's tax return. Alarm bells started ringing.

Mr Chipps began looking into the businessman's finances and found a vineyard in Stellenbosch, a private jet, Ferrari sports cars and a pounds 1.2million mansion in the most exclusive part of Johannesburg, Sandhurst. 

Mr King had bought four homes, demolished them and built a walled mansion on the site. 

Digging deeper, Mr Chipps found a myriad of companies with Scottish names such as Ben Nevis and Glencoe all connected to Mr King.

It looked like Mr King was, rather than having an income of only £6,279, making millions in shares and not giving the taxman his due. 

The hunt was now well and truly on, all because of the doggedness of Charles 'Columbo' Chipps.

It soon became clear Mr King hadn't paid any income tax since 1990. 

Yet it was only this year (2013) that Mr King finally admitted any wrongdoing; hence his possible jail sentence and subsequent fine.

But, as mentioned earlier, to some this isn't enough evidence of Mr King's criminal past. Some claim he's not guilty of tax offences, even though he pleaded guilty to contraventions on the Income Tax Act. Some claim, incredibly, he's not a criminal because he was fined and not jailed. And in a remarkable display of what many in Scotland call succulent lamb journalism, his crimes, worthy of an eighty two year jail term, are being reported in some newspapers as minor offences. 

In a South African article from 2008 Alec Hogg talked about time spent with Mr King a few years previous. He likened Mr King's reluctance to admit his shortcomings and come clean to that of American criminal Two Gun Crowley, immortalised in Dale Carnegie's classic How To Win Friends And Influence People. 

While crouched behind an overstuffed chair, dodging bullets from the cops and occasionally responding to their fire, "Two Gun" wrote a letter for the one who might come upon his body. The key part read "Under my coat is a weary heart, but a kind one - one that would do nobody any harm."

Carnegie wrote that the claimed innocence of "Two Gun" is part of the human condition. No matter how heinous their crimes, perpetrators rationalise and justify to themselves how they are innocent of all accusations.

Al Capone also genuinely saw himself as a benefactor rather than parasite on society, protesting that "I have spent the best years of my life giving people the lighter pleasures, helping them have a good time, and all I get is abuse, the existence of a hunted man."

Alec Hogg continues: 

"We have many examples. Most recently lawnmower salesman turned robber of widows and orphans, Fidentia's J Arthur Brown told anyone prepared to listen that he was the one being victimised. That bungling by the authorities caused destitution among the thousands of widows and orphans whose bequests were tied up in Living Hands trust looted by Fidentia .

"While at large, Brown helped convinced himself as much as the rest of world that his cause was honourable, by acquiring as employees the best sporting personalities the stolen money could buy. Creating a veneer of respectability such miscreants seem to crave.

"So it was with King.

"His ill-gotten millions bought half of Gary Player's stud farm in the Karoo, partnership in Player's Blair Athol golf course development  - and the honour of caddying for the famous golfer at the world's most prestigious tournament, The Masters at Augusta.

"Those in the know realise once you cut through the technicalities, he is the original "pump and dump" king. His great fortune amassed in record time through offloading shares in his listed company called Specialised Outsourcing; a company conceived in dubious circumstances and destined, almost as quickly, for the knacker's yard.

"King's company became the first JSE-listed financial services operation to report quarterly results. Each one outdoing the next with glowing reviews and aggressive profit forecasts. Boosting the rapidly rising share price from the pre-listing 120c to more than 60 times that level.

"Protected by then lax rules on disclosure of share sales by directors, King banked around R1,2bn by transferring ownership of a massively overpriced and since defunct company to asset managers. The buyers - trusting institutional fund managers - were never told the shares King was "sourcing" for them came from his own pockets. Had they known this, the buying frenzy in Specialised Outsourcing stock would have fizzled out as quickly as King and his cronies had started it."

"King accused Sars of underhanded tactics; of bullying his sanctimonious butt; and warning the rest of us that where he goes we may also follow. Like we'd have expected from "Two Gun" Crowley, Al Capone or J Arthur Brown."

Like Eliot Ness, Charles 'Columbo' Chipps stuck to the task of following the money in order to find justice, though he never lived to see the case through to the end.

Mr King appears to have taken it all in his stride. 

This glib and shameless liar and mendacious witness who had no respect for the truth and won't hesitate to lie flew into Scotland last week. He claimed to have spoken to the relevant people who may have stood in his way in his quest to return to Rangers. 

Since then both the Scottish Football Association and AIM stock market have issued denials regarding any correspondence with Mr King.

It looks, on the face of it, like Mr King continues to be a glib and shameless liar who has no respect for the truth and won't hesitate to lie.

Hell mend anyone willing to point this out, though. For they will be slandered and ridiculed, like Mr English.

Let's finish with a return to the wise words of Dale Carnegie on How To Win Friends And Influence People.

He wrote, "Wouldn't you like to have a magic phrase that would stop argument, eliminate ill feeling, create good will, and make the other person listen attentively? Yes? All right. Here it is. Begin by saying: "I don't blame you one iota for feeling as you do. If I were you, I should undoubtedly feel just as you do."

It really is that simple. 

Displaying empathy and tolerance of other views is the starting point for any reasoned discussion. 

Closing your mind to the possibility that you might be wrong and others right is bordering on bigotry. 

Labelling those offering opposing views in a well-constructed and reasoned fashion as sick, obsessed, idiot, loony or troll leaves one in no doubt.

Sources:

http://www.moneyweb.co.za/moneyweb-special-investigations/king-brownsame-same

http://www.thefreelibrary.com/How+painting+sparked+tax+team+probe%3B+THE+PROBE.-a0210944043

 http://www.saflii.org/za/cases/ZAGPHC/2008/118.html

 http://www.dauten.com/win_friends.html

A Dangerous Addiction

Good evening everyone, I hope you’ve all had a great day and I don’t spoil it by boring you with my problems. I was told you were a friendly bunch who would fully understand where I am now, parts of how I got here, and maybe even help me help myself move on, if that’s at all possible. I’m guessing some of you have been in a similar position. Maybe that’s why you’re here now. Maybe I’m in the wrong place and beyond help. I suppose I’d better introduce myself before I go any further. My name is Pesky. I’m an addict.

My latest relapse started out as a bit of fun, something to pass the time during the long, lonely winter nights, a form of companionship where no-one could get hurt. No emotional attachment, just some harmless, casual enjoyment, nothing too heavy. I’d picked up the name and web address of the joint from a friend. Well, it was more a friend of friend to be honest. But you know what these online places are like. I’m sure you’ve all had similar relationships at one point, although if that’s a tad presumptuous I apologise. What do I know? 

I wandered along for a look, stayed in the background, minded my own business. No-one knew I was even there. Where’s the harm I thought? What’s the worst thing that can happen? It’s only words on a screen. 

After a few nights in the shadows a familiar urge started growing inside me. My palms became sweaty and adrenalin pumped with the weight of expectation associated with any addiction. I tossed and turned all night, thinking about people that, until only a few days before, I’d never even heard of. I started to get ideas.

My real reading list suffered. Cheever arrived by post and sat untouched at the foot of the front door. Hemingway looked up at me from the lounge coffee table as though I’d walked out on him without buying a round. In the bedroom Carver turned his back on me like an ex-wife because I'd jilted him. But time was scarce with no room for sentiment. All the signs were there but, as if to reassure myself like all relapsing addicts, I promised it would be different this time.

 

Within a week I applied for membership of the club. During those few days, waiting to find out if I’d been accepted, I attempted to keep myself busy by cutting the grass, painting the fence and getting out on my bike as often as possible. I tried thinking it was probably for the best if I didn’t get in, after what happened last time. However, I couldn’t stop checking emails every hour. The suspense was killing me. Cold sweat ran down my back, reminding me of previous battles with dependency, but also providing enough of a kick to keep me craving more.

Once accepted into the club I soon settled in, keeping my head low and opinions to myself. There didn’t appear to be any kind of dress code and the entertainment on offer covered a wide spectrum. To be on the safe side I stuck to what I knew at first. But the quality of product blew me away so much I experimented with different forms and found myself reading poetry into the early hours. At times I withdrew into my thoughts, fighting images of drowning children, or broken homes filled with spectres of the past, and wept a mixture of sadness and elation at how mankind can both revolt and redeem.

Eventually, I could hold off no longer and put a few sentences of my own together, but deleted them before anyone entered the room. I knew if my career-ladder wife saw them I’d be out on my ear. She’d warned me after the last time to grow up and get a real job. But I couldn’t sleep that night, so got out of bed around two-thirty in the morning, opened her laptop as quietly as possible and began typing. At first only adrenalin kept the words coming. I had no idea where I was going and when I stopped after ten minutes to read over what I’d written none of it made any sense. Two hours later I looked at the word count of two thousand four hundred and thirty three and wondered where on earth they all came from. 

I gave my piece a once-over, deleted the first half-a-dozen sentences, cut and pasted a few paragraphs, trimmed the abundance of adjectives and adverbs sticking out like weeds, and added a few killer details here and there. Over the next hour I re-read the piece, making many more cuts and re-writing better sentences where necessary. 

With the sun rising I knew I had to get rid of the evidence before my wife got up for work and needed her laptop. My plan was to save it onto a memory stick and delete it from the hard drive. That would allow me to take it to the library where I could continue to develop it at a more leisurely pace and without fear of being caught. But as I read through it one more time, making changes here and there, the living room door flew open and my wife barged in. I thought of telling her I’d been up all night looking at porn but knew she wouldn’t buy that. The look on her face told its own story. I packed my bags.

With a friend willing to put me up while I sorted myself out I’d found somewhere to hide away from reality. Before long I was writing non-stop. I started with short pieces that captured my feelings of the day, usually dark and miserable, but also occasionally dabbled in some humorous poems for a quick fix and vain effort to lighten the mood. Rhymes came easy but never fully satisfied my needs; like giving a heroin addict just a couple of Valiums to get through the day. I needed to be wrapped up in plot, character, point of view, worrying about the right mix of dialogue, narration and description, or wondering whether the theme was too ambiguous or too obvious. 

Of course, the inevitable happened. I began to get an urge to share my work. At first I tried showing a couple of what I considered close friends, but they didn’t want to know, saying it wasn’t really their scene. I started leaving pages lying around when visiting others, hoping someone would be tempted, but no-one took the bait. I couldn’t really blame them for not getting involved. They’d seen what had happened to me when I started to dabble in a bit of light reading and didn’t want to go down the same road. There was only one thing for it. I borrowed my friend’s laptop and headed back online.

Not wanting to put potential readers off, I chose a fairly short piece to begin with. I knew I was among fellow users but wasn’t sure of their level of addiction or what particular genres each preferred. My finger hovered over that Publish Work button for almost an hour. I kept changing a word here, adding a comma there, reading and re-reading the piece over and over. Beads of sweat dropped onto the keyboard as my pulse raced with that old familiar rush of expectation. I took a deep breath and pushed the button like a smack head spiking their vein. 

With the deed done I closed my friend’s laptop and made a cup of tea to calm myself down before heading to bed. The story was out of my hands now but that didn’t stop the worrying, it just took it to another level. What would people think of my work? Would they think I’m mad? Am I mad? Maybe my writing doesn’t make any sense whatsoever. Maybe I should remove it before anyone sees it. I tried going to sleep, watching TV, listening to Radio 4, playing video games and reading an old Roy of the Rovers Annual. Nothing helped. All I could think about was whether I’d managed to capture the right tone, and if the ending worked or not. 

Once my friend left for work in the morning I returned to the site to remove the piece for further editing. I logged in and headed straight for the relevant section. When I got there my heart stopped and I almost fell off my seat. Not only were there three positive reviews, but the piece had also been highlighted as a Recommended Read by the editors. I stared at the screen, sipping the praise from fellow authors like an 18 year old Glenfiddich. 

‘Yes, very funny,’ said one.

‘I was there,’ said another.

‘This is such a unique voice,’ added the third. 

Being recommended felt like winning The Booker, Pulitzer and Oscar all in one night. I had surely arrived. Fame and fortune beckoned. I started dreaming of my acceptance speech and what to wear at the award ceremony. Would jeans, trainers and a hoodie be suitable? I remembered Asda were doing suits for less than thirty quid.

I fell into my own little world reading those reviews over and over until my friend arrived home from a hard day’s physical work. On hearing my exciting news he just shrugged his shoulders and screwed his face up. After building a joint he said he didn’t want my type hanging around, trying to influence him with all this talk of words, stories and books. If that was the path I’d decided to choose then I would have to leave, preferably as soon as possible, and I wasn’t to touch his laptop again. I packed my bags.

And that is why I find myself here tonight at this Writers Anonymous meeting. I’ve been living rough now for two weeks, struggling to survive without fresh paper or internet access. I know I have to sort myself out before it’s too late, but I can’t do it, not now. I’ve some great ideas brewing. It sounds crazy, but like I said earlier, I hoped a few of you would understand and maybe even offer some advice, help or support. You see, even though I know it will probably kill me, I’ve started dreaming about working on a novel. 

Anyway, thank you for listening to my story. It may be too late for me. But if at least one life can be saved, by hearing about the dangers of dabbling in creative writing, then it will have been worth the pain of reliving past events tonight. Like many others I thought I could handle it, but like many others I was wrong. Once its claws have a hold there’s no escape. It takes over. I’ve lost family and friends, and for what, an occasional affair with the muse. Even now, as I spill my heart out to a bunch of strangers, I’ve been taking mental notes on how to best portray this meeting in a short story. If only I could get hold of some nice, clean, pristine paper, I know this next story will be the big one. I can feel it.

Rangers: Public Relations Disaster (the sequel)

Much has been written in the last year about the public relations disaster that is Rangers Football Club. To many fans this was somewhat of a shock to their system. They have grown-up expecting nothing less than positive stories in the press about how wonderful and glorious everything connected with Rangers is. Ex-chairman David Murray once had the press so deep in his pocket negative headlines were rarer than the need for a wallet-full of Euros by the current Rangers squad.

How times have changed.

Last summer Rangers' plodding from one public relations disaster to another could be understood as no one was actually steering the ship as it drifted onto the rocks. It was left to stalwarts Ally McCoist, Sandy Jardine and John Brown to speak on behalf of the club. 

To be fair, none of them are public relations professionals. 

Although speaking from the heart was music to the ears of thousands of fans desperate to know someone was putting the club's interests first, veiled threats and demands for answers they already knew proved something of an own goal in terms of public relations. Opinions hardened against their presence in Scotland's top league and they found themselves having to start again from the bottom. 

When Charles Green took over he had his own inimitable public relations style. When he spoke fans listened. In fact, when he spoke everyone listened, mostly in disbelief at his more ludicrous claims. 

But, as far as the majority of Rangers fans were concerned, here was a man who knew what he was talking about and the man to take Rangers forward. 

Here was a man who understood the importance of an organisation communicating with its publics.

But he turned out to be a public relations own goal, too.

Does anyone involved with Rangers fully understand the role of public relations in today's world?

In the nineties I was lucky enough to study the subject as part of a Marketing degree. But the growth of the internet and explosion of social media makes public relations such a constantly evolving subject I can't claim any great expertise in the field today.

So what do the experts see as public relations?

The Chartered Institute of Public Relations (CIPR) defines PR as - 

Public relations is about reputation - the result of what you do, what you say and what others say about you.

Public relations is the discipline which looks after reputation, with the aim of earning understanding and support and influencing opinion and behaviour. It is the planned and sustained effort to establish and maintain goodwill and mutual understanding between an organisation and its publics.

Two key words stand out. 

Publics - these include existing and potential customers, employees, management, investors, media, suppliers, opinion formers.

Understanding - is a two-way process. To be effective, an organisation needs to listen to the opinions of those with whom it deals and not solely provide information. Issuing a barrage of propaganda is not enough in today's open society.

The Public Relations Society of America (PRSA) offers a more succinct definition - 

Public Relations is a strategic communications process that builds mutually beneficial relationships between organisations and their publics.

But let's not stop there. 

Marketing expert Heidi Cohen asked professional public relations organisations to send her their definition. You can find her list of thirty one definitions here - 

http://heidicohen.com/public-relations-definition/

And let's not stop there either.

As far back as 1972 Rex F. Harlow examined 472 definitions of public relations to try to arrive at a definitive version.

So, as we can plainly see, getting anyone to agree on what exactly the role of public relations is can be a complicated business.

Bearing that in mind, who are we to criticise the public relations strategy of Rangers? 

After all, they have had two professional public relations firms on the pay roll in the last year:

Media House

Keith Bishop Associates

Not to mention one Director of Communications:

James Traynor

Maybe they each employ a different definition of public relations.

Whatever definition they use they have managed to alienate most, if not all, of their publics.

Let's remind ourselves on the last sentence in the CIPR definition - 

It is the planned and sustained effort to establish and maintain goodwill and mutual understanding between an organisation and its publics.

How does Rangers' performance measure against these goals?

Most customers, or fans as they are known in the industry, don't trust those running the club. 

Employees and management feel undermined by the board.

The media, once in the club's pocket, are now turning against the board and its manager.

Investors are...well, who knows? There is so much cloak and dagger stuff among different factions going on behind the scenes no one really knows. But a share price that has almost halved since the initial flotation tells its own story. 

Suppliers are rumoured to be nervous about an impending administration event.

Opinion formers, especially among the club's customers, are at odds with one another and factions within the club about who knows what's best.

Does the club listen to the opinions of its publics?

Well they had a meeting with selected fans and followed that through by ending the contract of consultant and ex-chief executive Charles Green.

A positive sign then that they do listen...sometimes.

Then a statement released last week by the club said this - 

If Rangers fans want the truth they will find it only on the Club's official platforms.

It concluded with - 

Finally, Jack Irvine of Media House does not speak for this club.

Yet this week, against the wishes of the majority of its customers, chief executive Craig Mather rehired Jack Irvine as public relations guru for the club.

One of the reasons given was - 

The board also felt that there are huge public misconceptions about the financial realities of the club and once again this was a failure of communication.

Wait a minute. 'Failure of communication'? Isn't that the fault of the club's Director of Comminications? If so, why hasn't James Traynor also gone the way of Charles Green?

So why has Mr Irvine really been invited back? What is his primary objective? 

His remit is to fight back against the investors trying to oust Mr Mather. In fact, a club insider said he is prepared to 'go to war' with certain investors.

Now I never read all the different definitions of public relations but I doubt I'll find one that includes going to war with investors.

But, who am I to doubt the years of experience Mr Irvine has accrued during his time at the coal face?

I'm sure he thinks he knows what he's doing, as this thinly-veiled threat shows - 

'I have known Jim, Frank and Paul for many, many years and have a huge respect for their abilities in their individual fields. Unfortunately I believe they have now stepped out of their comfort zones and are going to find that the everyday rules of business do not apply in the world of football and the media scrutiny they now face is like nothing they will ever have known in their professional lives.'

It looks like the gloves are off, and those pesky investors who had the temerity to question the running of the club will now feel the full force of the Rangers Football Club propaganda machine.

Or will they?

Director of Communications, James Traynor, was surprised when told of Mr Irvine's appointment and said:

'I have not spoken to Jack Irvine and I have not had any dealings with him. As far as I’m concerned that is the way it will stay.'

So, here we have the Director of Communications refusing to communicate with the club's hired public relations expert who was brought in to improve the club's communications.

It remains to be seen how long Mr Irvine will last in is current role. Fans are already calling for his head. And in a strange twist of fate they are using documents leaked by the anonymous Twitter account Charlotte Fakes to boost their cause.

Here's Mr Irvine's thoughts on the man voted by fans as the greatest ever Ranger - 

'Grieg is just thick and contributes nothing.'

You don't need to be an expert or trawl through hundreds of public relations definitions to know that's a red card offence. 

Is it any wonder Rangers Football Club continue to be a public relations disaster, regardless of what definition is used?

*link to original Rangers: Public Relations Disaster last year http://oldpesky.blogspot.co.uk/2012/07/tae-see-oursels-as-others-see-us.html?m=0 

The Rangers Cancer

There is no doubt we have all enjoyed the audio clips of various parties involved in the ongoing saga that masquerades as a football club in Govan. Listening to secretly recorded shady back room deals being conducted provided a satisfying level of voyeuristic titillation. It was easy to abdicate ourselves from any dissonance regarding the morality of being a fly-on-the-wall due to the general perception all the main protagonists were, how one might say, as bad as one another. There was a sense of just-desserts as bright lights were shone on the dark arts practised by Charles Green during his quest to grab control of the sick patient that was Rangers Football Club. There was also a good case for these revelations being in the public interest as they untangled, or attempted to untangle, the many twists and knots involved in the Rangers takeover. Rightly or wrongly I have no problem with this.

What I do have a problem with is the use of covert video and audio to assassinate a man by highlighting his health issues. This tactic is the lowest of the low and, if justice is to be done, should backfire dramatically on the perpetrators. What other illnesses do these people think are okay to ridicule in order to achieve goals? Imagine the outcry if others followed their lead. It is unimaginable Peter Lawwell releasing secretly recorded conversations with Neil Lennon discussing depression. I thought about listing a few other possible examples here to highlight the utterly despicable and sordid nature of this type of tactic but, to be quite frank, I didn't have the stomach for it.

Some, especially those in the press, may be surprised at how low these people will go to achieve their goals. Journalists like Tom English, Graham Spiers and Hugh Keevins, having led somewhat sheltered lives, are so far out of their depth they're in danger of drowning in the pit of excrement that, so far, they've been unwilling to dip anything other than the odd toe. 

And don't these people know it. It is too easy for them. They discovered Scotland is nothing more than a tiny backwater state being run from top to bottom by amateurs and they are running amok. 

Maybe one day they will all end up in court in some sort of Mexican Stand-Off. For now, though, the battle is being fought in the court of public opinion. A dirty war is being waged for the hearts and minds of Rangers fans. Due to more leaks than a dodgy drain prominent Rangers bloggers are being spoon fed information on a daily basis by opposing factions. A civil war is in the pipeline. How civil that war will be remains to be seen. But to those lending their weight behind individuals who are prepared to use someone's illness as a means of attack I say take a look at yourself in the mirror. Do you see the dignity of your forefathers staring back at you?

And to the many decent Rangers fans out there, (yes, there are many, including friends of mine) I urge you to reject those who plan to gain, or regain, control of your club using despicable tactics. Is this really the type of person you want steering the ship? These people have no values other than monetary. Sure, they have a win at all costs attitude, but do you subscribe to that strategy? Do you wish to support those who trample others and prey on illness? 

The club had a chance to start afresh last year, and many thought that was actually what happened. Everyone now knows, or suspects, that isn't the case. Considering the latest tactics of those seeking total control of Rangers there's a touch of irony in how ex-chairman Alastair Johnston describes those now inside the tent. 'There is a cancer spreading throughout the club.'

Having lost two family members to cancer in recent years I know only too well of its destructive nature. Luckily, though, for Rangers fans, the cancer spreading throughout their club can be cured. But it won't be easy.

Neither city investors or those who hijacked the club a year ago are going to volunteer to walk away without a hefty pay day. If you're one of the few Rangers fans who still believe lofty statements such as, 'I only want what's best for the club' you have my sympathy but also my disdain. There has been more than enough evidence in the public domain to drag you away from that Utopian view.

Ridding your club of the cancer that Alastair Johnston refers to is going to cost a lot of money. Do you have the money to buy out these investors? Do you know anyone who has both the money and the desire to get involved? More importantly, perhaps, do you know any Rangers men with both the money and desire to get involved?

Wealthy Rangers men had the opportunity to get the club on the cheap last year but none stepped forward with what now seems a paltry amount. It will cost a lot more for a lot less this year.

If the answer to any of the above is yes then there may well be a chance to rescue the situation before it gets any worse. But if the answer to all of the above is no then it's only going to get worse. 

Plenty of noise is made about whether or not Rangers is the same club that has existed for 140 years. I'm not going to run over old ground here today listing all the reasons for and against each theory. Those different reasons, as you all know, could fill a series of books. 

Let's just focus on one. The transfer of SFA licence. And to keep it even simpler let's not dwell on the secret contents of the mythical five way agreement. 

One of the basic arguments of the 'same club' camp is the transfer of the licence from Oldco to Newco. It's not an argument I subscribe to but let's run with it for now.

In theory, that licence can be transferred among various parties from here to eternity yet the club will remain the same

If it's that easy to keep 140 years of history then why not transfer that licence again?

That licence is, in effect, more important to Rangers Football Club and its continued unbroken existence than Ibrox Stadium, Murray Park, the players and management combined.

If Rangers fans are happy to have anyone in the boardroom so long as they put a winning team on the park then I'm sure they'll welcome those who think it okay to attack opponents in whatever manner the choose. 

If dignity and a certain level of class are considered key traits then fans must do whatever possible to cure the Ibrox boardroom of the cancer to which Alastair Johnston refers.

Time and time again residents of the Ibrox boardroom have brought the game into disrepute, and the impotence of the SFA has encouraged the culprits to become increasingly bolder.

The Scottish football authorities and the majority of Rangers fans have been taken for one massive ride by those who have sought to capitalise for their own benefit. They, like the old-boy network of Scottish journalists, were totally unprepared for the level of skulduggery  others are prepared to stoop in order to get what they want. 

How long can this go on before someone has the balls to say enough is enough and kicks the lot of them out of the game? 

Rangers fans and bloggers continue to sit back and complain about when is it all going to stop. What can we do is a question I hear them say often. It's out of our hands.

Well, they can get up off their backsides and lobby the SFA to revoke the club's licence for bringing the game into disrepute. 

They can ask for that membership licence to be transferred to them. That same licence that carries with it 140 years of history, allegedly. 

The cancer running through their club will be left holding a holding company, or several holding companies, such is the labyrinth of deceit.

If the stadium-less, fan-operated Rangers has to play at Fleshers Haugh to begin with then what a symbolic gesture that would be. A return to the roots of what the club is supposed to be all about. 

An opportunity to start afresh was missed last year in the rush to keep the club playing football at any cost. Charles Green then spent the next few months ingratiating himself to certain elements of the fan base. Most have now seen through his shallowness.

Last week new Chief Executive Craig Mather said he was attracted to Rangers because his parents were Church of England. Why on earth would he say that?

Is it just me who's feeling a sense of déjà vu?   

Another chance to start afresh is fast approaching. Have the Rangers fans the stomach to fight the cancer running through their club?

Celtic Anthology Project

In the greedy corporate world we now live it is sometimes easy to forget the reasons Celtic Football Club was formed.

Working-class Irish immigrants had come to Scotland to escape the horrors of the Irish Famine, find employment and build new lives. They ended up living in severely overcrowded poor quality housing, starving and unable to find work. Not only were they competing with ever increasing numbers of immigrants but also the indigenous Scottish population.

Into this background came the main player in the founding of the club; Brother Walfrid was a Marist priest and Headmaster of Sacred Heart School. A tireless community worker for the deprived Catholic residents of Glasgow's east end, Brother Walfrid saw the new football club purely as a fundraising enterprise. The name of the club, Celtic, was Walfrid's own suggestion and was intended to reflect both Celtic's Irish and Scottish roots.

No one back then could've known how this club from humble beginnings would become world famous.

And now, as Celtic celebrates its 125th birthday, the club has set the challenge for fans to each raise £125 for charity.

http://www.celticfc.net/1254125

Many have already completed a variety of challenges, such as cycling from Sligo to Celtic Park, and walking the West Highland Way.

Once aware of the challenge I thought about getting involved, which surprised me, as I'm not really one for getting involved in anything. However, being a bit of a lazy sod, the mere thought of climbing the steps at Celtic Park or climbing Ben Nevis was enough to tire me out, so I decided to go for a wee lie down instead.

Don't be too harsh on me. I do most of my best thinking while enjoying a wee lie down. Many of my stories, poems or blogs have been born while horizontal. Well, that's my excuse anyway.

During one particular lie down I drifted into a land of stories. Celtic stories.

Over the last few months I've stumbled across a number of pieces of writing that touched and inspired me.

I'm not talking about the number of great bloggers who write so well about Celtic-related issues. I was more interested in short stories and poems. Pieces that took readers on a journey and left them feeling proud to be part of the Celtic family.

Works such as Brogan Rogan Trevino and Hogan's story linking Johnny Madden to Lubo Moravcik, and Tirnaog's tale of spreading Paddy's Ashes after the recent Celtic v Barcelona game at Celtic Park are just two that stood out.

I felt them deserving of a larger audience.

An embryo of an idea was born.

I contacted a number of people whose work I'd admired and asked if they'd be interested in compiling an anthology of Celtic-related short stories and poems.

The only qualification being that each piece captures the spirit of following Celtic.

To everyone's credit not one person said no.

Such was their enthusiasm I began to suspect we were on to something special. I hope you agree.

The next step is to spread the word and find other writers, poets, fans who'd like to get involved.

With such a huge fan base around the world there must be many pieces of work written over the years.

There may be fans who have stories to tell but haven't got around to putting them on paper or computer.

Perhaps there are stories or poems lying around on computers that have never been shared.

Perhaps there are stories or poems lying around in drawers, boxes or cupboards that have never been shared.

Perhaps your dad or granddad or uncle are no longer with is but they used to write stories or poems and you have access to them.

Maybe you've read a great Celtic-related story on a Celtic website. If so, point me or Lorenzo Wordsmith or Brogan Rogan Trevino and Hogan in the right direction, or contact the author and ask them if they'd like to get involved.

Submissions can be sent direct to celticanthology@gmail.com

This is a fan-orientated project, and having more fans involved will undoubtedly enrich the outcome.

When there's enough stories and poems to fill a decent-sized book the plan is to get it published and donate all proceeds to the Celtic 1254125 Charity.

I hope you find this a worthwhile project and do what you can to support it.

If you can help in any way, either by submitting a piece of your own work, or pointing us in the direction of suitable work by others, or by sharing this message as widely as possible to create awareness, then please do so by contacting us at

celticanthology@gmail.com

Please share this message and email address as widely as possible.

Thank you for listening.

Oh Love Street In The Rain

I wake on an armchair, head banging like a Lambeg Drum and neck feeling like it's been gripped all night by Mick McManus. I'm in a council house not too far from home judging by the layout. But nothing is familiar other than the Westclox on the wall above the mantlepiece. It's the same as my mum's and it's telling me to forget any wet dreams of a hot shower. I've fifteen minutes to get my arse to work. I tiptoe into the kitchen, trying not to wake the two bodies on the couch and run the cold water tap over the plastic basin full of mugs, plates and scummy water. My mouth fits around the tap and I drink half my body weight in water, then splash the other half on my face. A quick spike of my hair and I slip out the back door as if I'd stole the last bog roll.


The Carman Hills on the horizon confirm I'm somewhere up Bonhill. If I jog at a steady pace I'll make it to work in ten minutes and straighten myself up a bit in the process.
 Nothing clears my head like an early morning run. Doesn't matter how heavy the night before -- blood gets pumping, adrenalin takes over and the competitive edge kicks in, even when I'm just racing myself.


No sooner have I upped the pace and one of my slip-on sannies flies off my foot and on to the road, reminding my why they only cost £2. Picking the shoe up I have a flashback to arguing with my girlfriend last night. No doubt I've said something I shouldn't, like always. Probably something to do with the football, or her mates, like always. Fuck it, no doubt she'll be up to nip my nut tonight about it, like always
.

I curl my toes to try and keep my feet in my sannies as I pound the pavement to the same beat as the thumping in my head. Then it hits me. Jesus Christ! Never mind last night. Doesn't matter what happened last night, or the night before that. Personal crises have no bearing on today.


Today's the day Celtic win the league...hopefully. I slow down at the bottom of Bank Street, partly to think about the potential gravity of the day and partly because I'm fucked. My legs are willing, but my heart's giving larger palpitations than usual, whether that's from running or the thought of the game I'm not quite sure.


Hearts are still overwhelming favourites, though, and might have something to say about us winning league. If it was a three-legged race they've already got two feet standing on the finishing line. All they have to do is stumble over it, which, going by the unbeaten run they're on, doesn't look likely. But I'm a bit daft that way. I've got the Celtic faith. Hearts luck can't last forever. They're not even the third best team in the country. Aberdeen and Dundee United are better. Dundee can beat them today. In fact, Dundee can pump them today. Mind you, Dundee are shite. I might have faith, but I'm not that kind of daft. 


I start walking up the hill towards the shopping centre, sweat running down my face as if I've played the full ninety minutes. I've got things to think about. Davie Hay's got things to think about, too. We need to do our bit at Love Street. It won't be easy but, if we play like we know we can, winning four goals to nothing is possible. It's more than possible. It's probable. What am I talking to myself about? Why the fuck am I going to this stupid job? There'll be other jobs, but only today can Celtic win the league. I should be heading to Love Street. The jingle of loose coins in my pocket gives me an idea and I head to the phone box the top of Mitchell Way. Thing better be working.


I've got my ten pence ready, waiting until I hear the pips. 'Alright, big man. What you up to? Want to go to the game? Aye, I'm on my way to work now, but don't worry, I'll think of something. Brilliant. See you soon, Bobby.'


I have two options. Three if I consider doing nothing. But doing nothing isn't a practical option today. I can wait until after tea break, stick fingers down my throat to encourage the re-emergence of my rolls and square sausage, then dutifully inform the manageress I'm too ill for work and have to go home. 


Or I can be honest and tell her I need to meet my Da at Love Street today, hoping she understands the importance of the situation to my general health and mental well-being.

'Sorry about the mess, Gordon.' My colleague fills the mop bucket while I'm putting my jacket on. 


I hobble downstairs to the shop floor as if I'd just came second best in a fifty-fifty with Roy 'Feed The Bear' Aitken.


'Thanks for letting me go home, Christine.' She's too busy ushering customers around the pile of sick at the checkout to pay much attention to my pantomime performance. 'It must've been something I ate. I'm sure I'll be okay for Monday.'


Once out of sight of the shop my resurrection is almost complete. I head into Ahmed's for a packet of Rizla and a few cans of Tennents for the train. 


I’ve only been to Love Street once before. 11th October 1980. An unremarkable game probably not remembered by many. Celtic won 2-0 on their way to winning the title that season.

That game stands out for me as it's the last one I attended with my Da. At the time I was thirteen and usually made my own way to games with my mates. I only got to Love Street that day because my five year old brother, who my Da took to the games after I became too big for a lift over the turnstile, was ill.



Sitting with a can in my hand I keep a low profile on the train to Paisley. I do a bit of foot tapping as I look out the window but I'm not yet ready to go Roamin' in the Gloamin' or March with O'Neill. Bobby is belting out tunes with a donkey-hoarse voice. He gives me a wink with the 'Oh it's good to be a Roman Catholic' line, even though he's a Protestant. Industrial wastelands whiz past quicker than Jimmy Johnstone on the wing and I wonder if my Da will be at the game today. Of course, he'll be there. He couldn't miss a day like today. He's a man of faith. I wonder if he can pull a few harp strings with the big fella to swing it in our favour. 

The train slides into the station and I wonder where we can build a couple of joints and buy another few cans and half bottle of Eldorado. It's at least a fifteen minute walk from Gilmour Street to Love Street so we don't want to get caught short.


We reach the ground half an hour later with drunken memories of a hangover and take our place level with the eighteen yard box opposite the Main Stand. It might not be Celtic Park but today it feels like home. It feels like The Jungle. I have a quick look around but there's no sign of my Da.

My heart sinks a bit when the team take the field wearing the green away strip instead of the famous hoops but I don't say anything. I gee myself up. 


'Come on the Celtic!' I shout. My high-pitched teenage voice is drowned out by the roar of hope and expectation from the ever-growing Celtic support cramming in to the away end, the middle end and the home end.


We need a miracle of five loaves and two fishes proportion and an early goal would be a start.

Six minutes gone. Brian McClair rises above everybody in the box to meet an Owen Archdeacon corner. One down. Three to go. I can see a few punters with trannies to their ears. I don't want to know what's happening at Dens Park yet. Let's get our job done first.


'Come on the Celtic! Get into this fuckin' mob!'


Thirty minutes gone. Still one nil. We're playing alright, but we need goals more than we need silky fitba. Still no news from Dens.


Paul McStay finds Maurice Johnston in acres of space.

'Come on, wee man!'


Two down. Two to go. I don't want to think about it too much, but can't help it. We might just do this.


Danny McGrain's in our box facing Paddy Bonner with two St Mirren players closing him down. Somehow he hits the ball over his shoulder straight to Murdo McLeod on the edge of the box. Murdo lays off a first-time ball to Danny who’s turned, always on the move forward. 'Go on Danny! I shout. He’s still one of the world’s most attack-minded full-backs. Danny plays a first-time pass to Paul McStay who's popping-up everywhere wanting the ball. Paul cuts inside and looks up for options. Danny's still overlapping down the right. Roy Aitken gathers the ball from Paul and passes to Danny who’s now in the St Mirren half. Another first-time pass from Danny down the line finds Brian McClair. With a gallus flick he nutmegs the incoming St Mirren defender and lays an inch-perfect pass to Johnston in the box. Mo finishes with his first touch. Sublime.


I'm pushed forwards, sideways and settle on a safety barrier several steps down, there's a roar in my ear and I'm hoarse from shouting too. I'm jumping about hugging people I don't know. I look for Bobby to tell him that's the best team goal I’ve seen Celtic score, and one of the best goals ever.

Another part of me begins to believe. We're the Pope's eleven. We can do this.


Great run by Archdeacon. Paul McStay skelps it into the top corner with the outside of his boot. That's the all-important fourth goal, and it's not even half-time. 


Celtic have done what they had to do, and done it in a style worthy of champions. I grab Bobby and shout at him above the bedlam: 'Fuck sake. If we played like this every week the league would've fuckin' been won last month.'


At half time we go for a pee and finish the wine, and reality sets in. Dundee aren't doing the business for us at Dens, it's still nothing each with Hearts over there. 


I'm feeling sick with nerves. Not knowing is worse than knowing. As the second half begins the players on the park seem to have eased up but it doesn't stop us adding another.


'Yes!' I jump up, but it's a bit half-hearted now. 'Well done Brian McClair.' I talk to the old guy next to me and nobody in particular. 'That fifth gives us a bit of a cushion, just in case St Mirren sneak a flukey one.'

Torrential rain starts. It's an omen of sorts. It must be. I wouldn't want to be behind the goals today, or in the enclosure under the Main Stand where I stood with my Da on our last game together. That's probably where he'll be.


Our Father, who art in Heaven

Hallowed be thy name...


Right, fuck that. It's too early for the prayers. I look about in front of me for inspiration, a sign even. A small group of older men have burst into a wee chorus of my Da's favourite song.



Oh Hampden in the sun,

Celtic seven Rangers one. 

All my days I will sing in praise 

of the Celtic team that played the day.


I join in the singing as if I'm joining my Da, my memory travelling backwards-- him telling me how on his way back from the League Cup Final in 1957 an eager Rangers fan, on seeing my Da's scarf, confidently approached him and asked about the score. This was during a period when Celtic were not at their best, so there was more than a hint of confidence about the request.
 With a straight face my Da informed him Willie Fernie had scored for Celtic with a last minute penalty. 


‘Jammy bastards,’ the man said. 


‘Aye, jammy bastards alright, that only made it seven. It should’ve been more,’ came the punch line. 


The song dies out and my attention is drawn back to the park. The rain is running off the terracing roof above us but we're snug enough were we stand. Nothing much is happening on the pitch. The only thing moving is the clock and the drink filling my bladder. There might as well be a wee guy walking around the track wearing a 'The End Is Nigh' sandwich board.

I can hear someone behind going on about how we lost the league at the Aberdeen game or the Rangers game. I turn around and tell him to shut up, the league's not lost yet.

'Come on Dundee!' an old guy next to me shouts.

He's steamin' right enough. But I'm not far behind him in that field of expertise so I join him in shouting. 'Do something for fuck sake!'

The St Mirren fans know it's hopeless. They've been well gubbed, but for the first time today they start singing – The Sash. Normally, we'd accept the challenge right away, but today it's like fog in the brain, a half-hearted chant is flung in their direction, before grumbling away to dirty bastardin' silence. Even the police patrolling the ground are smiling. 


I wish to God I had a radio. I can't even see those I seen with one earlier.


Something's happening. Pockets of fans around the ground are erupting. It must mean...it can only mean...surely to God.


I'm jumping, I'm up in the air scrambling forwards, somebody has their arm round my neck, somebody is kissing me on the forehead but I still don't know why. My mind's telling me something I can't allow myself to believe. Not without proof. Like a doubting Thomas I need to see or hear it for myself.


The whole place is jumping.


Bobby appears from nowhere and grabs and hugs me. 'Dundee have scored! They've fuckin' well scored!'


The tears come, but I don't mind. And neither does anyone else. All around me grown men are bubbling like weans. It's a sight to behold.


We jump among the thronging, jubilant crowd; upstairs, downstairs, tears streaming down faces of men and boy alike, feeling part of something, something special. 


Even the idiot who was moaning about where we lost it has become a wise man. He's greeting, too. 


Fuck sake. I hope that's not pish I'm standing on. I've lost a bastardin' shoe.


Everybody's got an eye on each other, waiting, making sure that it's not a dream, getting ready for the final whistle. I'm hopping about trying to find a shoe worth a pound.


There it is, about five steps away. I crouch down, keeping my eyes on the prize.


The place erupts again.


Instinct kicks in. I jump up and join the celebrations. I haven't a clue what we're celebrating but I'm certain it's not a Hearts goal. I'm hearing mixed reports. It's either full-time at Dens or Dundee have scored again. Don't care either way.

By the time the jumping stops I'm about ten yards away from my starting position, and fifteen away from my shoe.


'Come on, Ref. Blow your fuckin' whistle.'


Thousands of Celtic fans are flooding onto the park and the players are running for the tunnel. 

Bobby finds me and makes a grab for me and tries to drag me towards the park. I hold up my shoeless foot. He laughs like fuck and pulls a nip of a joint from his pocket. A few puffs later the terracing's empty enough to reveal my shoe.


We scramble to join the Celtic fans singing in the rain around the tunnel, but by the time we get there the call has already gone out to clear the park so the team can come back out and do a lap of honour. 


I scan the enclosure under the Main Stand for a sighting of my Da. I don't see him, but I feel him. I know he's here. He's here with his Da, and his Da's Da, and his Da's Da's Da. They all love Celtic. I love Celtic. If I'm lucky enough to have a son he'll love Celtic, too. It's in the blood and, on days like this, the blood sings.

Soaked we traipse back off the park to where we started. But nothing can dampen our spirits. Not even this Chernobyl rain dripping off my nose.


The team lopes back on to the park. They can't believe it either. The fans remind them.


'Walk on...Walk on...With hope in your heart..’


There's not a better sight or sound in football than Celtic fans doing You'll Never Walk Alone, but I can't join in, not yet. I've a smile as big as the great escape we've just pulled and cant get this other wee tune out my head:


Oh Love Street in the rain,

The Celts have won the league again...


God bless you, Da. You'll never walk alone.

Time To Bring Back The Jungle

On Saturday 6th April I attended a Celtic game with my son, almost forty years to the day since my dad took me to the Celtic v Dundee Scottish Cup Semi-Final. He took me to many games before that one but that's the first I can definitely place a time and date. I was six years old.

It's thirty years this month since my dad passed away suddenly. He was a typical working class man from the West of Scotland. Worked in a whisky bond during the week and watched Celtic at the weekends. Back then it didn't cost him anything extra to take me to the games; a lift over the gates ensured that, meaning I got to experience watching a Celtic team that was one of the best in Europe at a time when televised games were rare.

It's twenty one years since my own son was born. For many different reasons I've never attended a game with him. Money, or lack of it, being the most prevalent reason. I'm sure that's a similar tale for many.

Two friends attended the game with us on Saturday. Both were season ticket holders until recently and attended games home and away. None of them can afford that level of expenditure now and don't attend any games.

Over the last few weeks I've conducted a somewhat unscientific bit of empirical research. It won't be published in any respected scientific journal but it may or may not ring a few bells.

If I'm not working I watch most televised Celtic games either in my house or a friend's around the corner. There's usually about ten of us, ages ranging from twenty to forty six.

The youngest sometimes go to a few games but it's never planned and not regular.

The late twenties to early forties have all been season ticket holders in the past. None of them attend any games now.

I've never been a season ticket holder and rarely go to games these days. My time was the seventies and eighties, then I got married, a mortgage and a management job working weekends.

The reasons given for not attending games now were mainly cost, working weekends and watching weans.

I contacted a few old mates who stood in The Jungle back in the day. None of them go to the games now. They gave the same reasons as above.

All but one of those in this small sample has a job. The one that doesn't have a job lost his sight after being attacked.

Some of the jobs are security guard, plumber, social worker, waiter, labourer, factory worker.

More than half of them rent their home from a housing association of local authority.

They are working class.

They are working class Celtic supporters.

They are working class Celtic supporters who would love to be able to take their kids to games at Celtic Park.

They would love to not only see their team playing attacking football and winning matches, but also get their kids into the habit of going to games, like their dads did with them, and their dads before that.

The working class have been the core of the Celtic support since its humble beginnings.

It is this group who kept faith with the club during the lean years on the park between and after the wars.

That's because our fathers, and their fathers, and their fathers' fathers believed Celtic represented them and their beliefs.

Not only was the club proud of its Irish roots but it also stood up for the poor in Glasgow's East End.

How many of today's poor in the East End of Glasgow can afford to watch Celtic at Celtic Park?

There's been a lot in the press recently, as well as a petition, about whether Conservative MP Ian Duncan Smith could survive on £53 a week.

More to the point, as far as this piece is concerned, is whether a father could take one of his kids to Celtic Park with the same £53.

Buying the cheapest seats for an adult and under 16 juvenile for the Celtic v Hibs game last week cost £40. This got you both seats with restricted views.

Adding travel and food costs soon took you over the £53 target, unless you lived within walking distance and are on a diet.

This level of pricing is a substantial barrier to many in Glasgow who class themselves as Celtic supporters but can't afford to physically support the team they love.

It is not their fault Glasgow is an economic black spot.

http://www.glasgoweconomicfacts.com/GetFile.aspx?itemid=22

The vast majority of the fan base are unseen for one reason or another. Many are below the poverty line and socially excluded.

These are the people the club was founded to help.

Does being skint make anyone less of a supporter than those able to afford going to games?

Does being able to afford Season Tickets, away games, European trips elevate individuals to preferred supporter status?

Is love of the club measured by an individual's economic status?

Season ticket sales boomed when the old ground was knocked down and replaced by the shiny new stadium.

I remember it fairly well for many reasons.

Here's one that stood out.

A number of my friends, most of whom I'd never attended a Celtic game with, all bought season tickets, because they could afford one.

This same group also took great pride in boasting about how many shares they'd bought.

The lads who'd travelled the country watching Celtic with me during the eighties stopped going to the games because they couldn't afford a season ticket.

Neither did any of them buy shares.

Looking back, it's fair to say there was a feeling of disenfranchisement among those of us in the lower socioeconomic grouping.

A split in our support had occurred.

However, the club could afford to ignore this split as the ground was full every week. In the eyes of Celtic everything was rosy.

The pounds were rolling in.

Quality players from around the world lined up to pull on the famous hoops.

The club was on the road to success off and on the park.

Yet, even with sixty thousand fans packed into the ground, the atmosphere during most games was sorely lacking.

There was a better atmosphere during the games I attended in the seventies and eighties even though the average crowds were much lower.

Surprise yourself by clicking the following link and finding out what size of crowds followed Celtic throughout their history.

http://www.fitbastats.com/celtic/club_records_league_attendance.php

The large average crowds of the last sixteen years have been something of an anomaly.

I believe, that like the UK's economy, the Celtic attendance bubble is about to burst.

What will the atmosphere be like when average crowds fall back to the levels they've been for the majority of the club's existence?

If sixty thousand fans couldn't create a decent atmosphere week-in week-out what chance for twenty-thirty thousand spread out in a sixty thousand all-sweater stadium?

This is one of many dilemmas facing Celtic.

Section 111 was given to a group of Celtic supporters to help create a better atmosphere at games.

Unfortunately, for Celtic's Chief Executive Peter Lawwell, this boisterous group of fans don't appear to subscribe to his vision of what Celtic represent.

This is not a criticism of Peter Lawwell's stewardship. He and the board have steered the ship well during the good times as the club rode the crest of a wave in terms of full houses at Celtic Park. But the times are indeed changing and the board must act accordingly.

The fans who packed into the old Jungle for decades were the beating heart of the atmosphere at Celtic Park.

The fans in Section 111 are now the beating heart of the atmosphere at Celtic Park.

Both beating hearts like to make a lot of noise and celebrate Irish history as well as Celtic's.

Celebrating Irish history entails remembering how a disenfranchised nation threw off the shackles of British Imperialism and oppression.

Celebrating Irish history entails recognising that the struggle for a united Ireland is ongoing and didn't end with the partition of Ireland.

Celebrating Irish history entails singing about individuals who gave their lives for their beliefs.

What today's group of fans don't sing about is Protestants.

Neither do they sing about any other religion.

Neither do they think it's alright to call anyone Pakis.

If there's one thing that needs repeating it's songs about Ireland are not in any way sectarian, no matter what some biased observers may claim.

Only recently Rangers blogger John Gow tried to pigeon-hole this type of singing as political sectarianism.

This is the sign of a desperate man who wants the Celtic support tarred with the same sectarian brush as the Rangers fans reported to the police by a television company.

Not even the Scottish government tried to attach the political sectarianism label to the signing of Irish songs.

They claim songs about the IRA are offensive, but they know the songs can't be classed as sectarian, because Flower of Scotland would have to be labelled likewise.

The dilemma facing Dermot Desmond and Peter Lawwell is this.

He could easily disband Section 111 by not renewing season tickets for that area for those situated there at present.

But doing so could prove disastrous. Season ticket sales will fall next season and without a dedicated singing section the old graveyard would have a better atmosphere than Celtic Park on match days.

There is, however, one way I'd give full support to Peter Lawwell if he decided to disband Section 111.

Follow the model implemented by the German teams in recent years. Remove all seating from the Lower North Stand. Reincarnate The Jungle.

Embrace the club's roots and make this area affordable to the poorer sections of Celtic supporters.

The place would be full and the noise incredible.

Alas, I am a dreamer.

For this group of supporters have more in common with those in Section 111 than those in the Celtic boardroom.

They won't go to watch Celtic. They'll go to support Celtic through colour and noise.

Some of that colour and noise might not be Peter Lawwell's cup of tea, but we must all remember, it's not his or Dermot Desmond's club.

The club belongs to the fans, and not just the fans who can afford Season Tickets, but also those fans who can't afford to actually go watch the team play. The poorer people in the East End of Glasgow and beyond. The reason the club was formed in the first place.

The business model that's served the club well over the last twenty years is a busted flush in terms of filling the ground.

The country is in a deeper recession than Thatcher's eighties.

Cameron and Osborne's austerity measures are attacking those in low-paid jobs and the unemployed.

The inhabitants of Scotland, and Glasgow's East End in particular, will suffer more than most.

It is time for the Celtic board to return the club to its roots, and one way of doing so is to introduce affordable pay at the gate safe standing areas to Celtic Park.

It is time to bring back The Jungle.

You Dare To Call Me A Terrorist?

Well, what a week. I'm sure if you're reading this you'll know exactly what I'm talking about so I won't spend time regurgitating a blow by blow account. However, I hope you'll forgive me for attempting to take a slightly irreverent look at recent events. The reason I ask preemptive forgiveness is due to the sky-high levels of anger, resentment, mistrust and desire for a fight among individuals and factions all claiming a stake-holding in this story.

Even the high and mighty (tongue firmly in cheek) and obsessed (tongue not in cheek) Chris Graham of The Rangers Standard thought the story too good to pass without a lengthy blog.

Let me make my position clear at the onset. I am part of no faction, cabal, clique, forum, website, knitting group or provisional army. I'm a humble independent. A bit like the anti-sleaze MP Martin Bell, but without the white suit. I'm also an advocate of free speech who finds it difficult to be offended by anything anyone says...or sings. Maybe I'm just not a reasonable enough person.

A small, but vocal, group of fans are at the vanguard (Can I use that word when discussing anything related to Celtic, or has it been hijacked by the uber-Protestant tub-thumpers who have a penchant for threatening anyone, including some of their own, that don't fully subscribe to their La-la land vision of planet earth?) of all that is dominating, not only every waking hour of Celtic fans obsessed with all things Celtic, but also the consciences of leading politicians, QC's and, of course, obsessed Rangers bloggers.

Love them, loathe them or don't really care about them, you have to admit that, like Celtic in Europe this season, this small group are able to punch above their weight regarding being heard.

Disclaimer: just because I use the the phrase 'punch above their weight' doesn't mean I'm trying to attach any subliminal messages of violence to the group. Nor am I insinuating they're all wee men in need of a good feed. Just like race, religion, political beliefs or class I don't discriminate against fat, thin, tall, small or medium people, or those who prefer Coronation Street to Eastenders.

Such is the heightened anxiety among some, and the feverish appetite for digging dirt among others, it seems every word must be carefully chosen and triple checked for fear of it being used against you in evidence, whether in a court of law or the court of public opinion on social media.

And lo and behold anyone stupid enough to want to sing songs that any reasonable person may find offensive.

There's that 'reasonable person' again.

Okay, let's get it out there.

Anyone who gets offended by someone singing about their history or traditions, and wants them jailed for doing so, cannot possibly be as reasonable a person as they would have us believe. In fact, if they are intolerant of those who wish to sing such songs then it is these so-called reasonable persons who are the bigots.

Singing songs is how some people celebrate their culture. Would all the politically correct middle classes be so quick to condemn if one of the teams had an African connection and sung about slavery?

I think not.

I'm not saying all the songs are wonderful little melodies with enlightening lyrics. But it is part of the culture of a larger section of society than just those who frequent social media with their 'I'm offended at everything' philosophy.

But it's against the law I hear the panty-wetters also cry from the safe distance of their conservatories.

Do they believe revolutionaries who decide to make a stand against the state will be treated in an appropriate manner whereby the full force of the law will hit them so hard they'll be shot through the earth and reemerge in Australia?

No, wait, an enlightened nation wouldn't send criminals to the other side of the world for what is, in effect, victimless crimes. Well, not now anyway.

But still, these dastardly criminals, especially the ones who dare sing songs about terrorists fighting the evil empire, should be locked up, according to Darth Salmond and his FoCus stormtroopers.

Perhaps he has a valid point. What reasonable person wants to live in a society where sections of the community rejoice in the actions of alleged terrorists?

Some readers might be shocked at the use of the alleged in that last statement. In fact, many will be downright outraged at this humble writer taking such a liberty. Everyone knows the British government labelled the Irish Republican Army as terrorists.

But, as I'm sure many of you will say, it's not as simple as that.

Here's a link to a lengthy article about the problems of defining Terrorism.

http://www.ict.org.il/ResearchPublications/tabid/64/Articlsid/432/Default.aspx

And here's a link to an article about atrocities carried out by the British Army.

http://www.britisharmykillings.org.uk/page/113/The-Issuess

How does the song go again?

You dare to call me a terrorist while you look down your gun.

But we must follow the laws of the land in which we live is still the call from those with their eyes closed.

If everyone thought like them Britain would still own America.

Thankfully, American rebels, brave enough to stand up for what they believed, took on the might of the British Empire and won their freedom.

What's the difference between those gallant American patriots and the Irish Republican movement?

Imagine if Britain had said to America, 'Okay, you can have your independence, but we're keeping six states.'

How long would that have lasted before an American Republican Army attempted to right that wrong?

But let's not get too bogged down in history. We're here for a quick laugh at the ludicrousness of Alex 'The Fuhrer' Salmond's flagship Bill.

I can't help think it's just as well this new Offensive Behaviour Bill isn't retrospective. If it was then The Special A.K.A. could be facing life sentences for their blatantly outrageous propaganda campaign that culminated in them releasing a song calling for the immediate release of a terrorist convicted of plotting to overthrow the regime.

Warning: clicking this link will not only lead to a song about releasing a terrorist from captivity, it will also linger in your head longer than necessary and may pop out at an inopportune moment thus causing personal distress and embarrassment.

http://youtu.be/fm7p-RLFg2I

It is worth repeating that not only did this song directly challenge the British government's stance on Mr Mandela, it was also one of those tunes that, once in your head, would stay there all day and drive you nuts.

This was an example of politically motivated subliminal subversion, or words to that effect. Radio stations promoted the evil campaign by constantly playing the song.

Once-innocent, law-abiding citizens found themselves absently singing aloud whilst performing menial chores or watching landscapes drift by sitting in trains, buses and cars.

'Freeeeeeee-eeee Nelson Mandela.'

Friends and family would give these lost souls a little nudge to awaken and disturb them from their renditions, only to start doing likewise a short time later.

'Freeeeeeee-eeee Nelson Mandela.'

It finally got to the stage where millions of people around the world where being driven nuts by the horribly catchy tune loitering in their heads for days and weeks on end.

There was only one thing to do in order to save the world.

Nelson Mandela the terrorist was freed, and instantly became Nelson Mandela everyone's favourite uncle.

The world rejoiced at the sight of Nelson Mandela strolling to freedom, and breathed a sigh of relief as the song about freeing him was finally and definitively confined to the archives.

But, lest we forget, if this Offensive Behaviour Bill had been operational and global at the time, the song might never have been heard publicly, and poor Nelson Mandela would still be locked-up to this day.

In fact, if the British government of the day had their way Mr Mandela would still be locked up.

Here's a few quotes:

'This hero worship is very much misplaced'- John Carlisle MP, on the BBC screening of the Free Nelson Mandela concert in 1990

'The ANC is a typical terrorist organisation ... Anyone who thinks it is going to run the government in South Africa is living in cloud-cuckoo land' - Margaret Thatcher, 1987

'How much longer will the Prime Minister allow herself to be kicked in the face by this black terrorist?' - Terry Dicks MP, mid-1980s

'Nelson Mandela should be shot' - Teddy Taylor MP, mid-1980s

http://www.independent.co.uk/news/world/from-terrorist-to-tea-with-the-queen-1327902.html

Yesterday's terrorists could be today's political and moral leaders. Because for everyone who claims so and so is a terrorist there are others who claim so and so is nothing more than a freedom fighter fighting oppression.

http://antiwar.com/pat/?articleid=2141

So, as you can see, tarring anyone with the terrorist brush is not as clear cut as some would like to believe.

If only Jerry Dammer's (founder and song writer for The Specials) muse had grabbed him earlier and taken him in a different direction then Scotland and Britain, if not the world, might be different place.

He wrote Free Nelson Mandela in 1984 after attending an anti-apartheid concert. Imagine he'd written a catchy wee number and called it Free Bobby Sands instead.