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.
Glencoe
Honestly, the sun always shines on the Glencoe Car Park Run.
Thursday, 25 April 2013
Thursday, 18 April 2013
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.
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.
Thursday, 11 April 2013
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.
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.
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