Jigsaw

 

Jigsaw

Jazzer watched the muscular Moussa Dembele pirouette like a ballet dancer and flip the ball over his own head with deft precision. The startled Manchester City goalkeeper was totally caught out and as 60,000 fans held their breath, the ball, a white blur under the lights, flashed past him and into the net.  James ‘Jazzer’ McDonald felt a familiar surge of energy rip through him as he leapt from his seat in the packed Jock Stein stand. His brother, Tam, was already shrieking in his face and embracing him as Celtic Park erupted. A tsunami of noise and joy spilled from the stands and onto the field as this incredible football match totally entranced those watching. When the seething mass of humanity behind the Manchester City goal calmed a little, Tam pointed to Jazzer’s phone lying on the concrete step at his feet. ‘Best not lose that tonight, bro,’ he said, his grin as wide as the Clyde. As the songs boomed around the stadium, Jazzer picked up his phone and glanced at the screen. There were thankfully no cracks but his faced changed when he saw the notifications saying he had 8 missed calls and 7 unread messages.

 As play raged from one end of the field to the other, he quickly scanned his messages before saying to his brother, ‘Clare’s in labour. I need to go.’ Tam shook his head, ’och, talk aboot bad timing.’ He handed his brother the keys of his car. ‘I’ll let you know the final score. Off ye go and good luck.’ The walkway under the stand was almost deserted and a group of yellow coated stewards stood under a TV watching the game. ‘I hate tae bother you guys,’ Jazzer said, ‘but need tae get oot; family emergency.’ One of the stewards tutted and exhaled in an exasperated manner. ‘Right, follow me.’ He unbolted the big metal exit door and Jazzer slipped out of the noisy stadium and walked quickly along a deserted Janefield Street. He turned onto Holywell Street and headed towards the Forge retail park, where his brother’s car was parked. The streets were eerily quiet, although the low rumbling from the stadium drifted into the dark sky like distant artillery fire. Most folk were likely watching the football on tv, he thought to himself. He located the car quickly and was soon driving towards the Royal Infirmary, the radio blaring out commentary from Celtic Park.

Paul Magnus McDonald took his first breath at 11.03 pm on the 28^th day of September 2016. Jazzer had made it to the delivery room on time and only realised he still had his Celtic scarf on when the midwife handed him his son. He and his wife Clare had just stared at their son for the longest time as if they couldn’t believe that they had brought this little miracle into being. His phone was buzzing with people asking about the baby or talking about the match with Manchester City, but he ignored it. His universe had shrunk to the small room occupied by him, Clare and their beautiful boy.

 Wee Paul was a joy to his parents in that first year. While Clare liked nothing better than to dress him up and take him out in his pram, Jazzer was already thinking long term and placed his son’s name on the Celtic season ticket waiting list. It was around Paul’s first birthday that they both noticed some odd behaviours. He stopped making eye contact with them and didn’t respond to his name. He never smiled and was unresponsive to the games they tried to play with him. They would sing to him, tickle him and wave soft toys in front of him, but his responses were minimal. Clare had looked at Jazzer one day and said, ‘I think we should take him to the doctor. Maybe his eyes need checked?’

 ‘Autism?’ said Jazzer. ‘What the hell is autism?’ The doctor smiled, ‘Mr McDonald. You have a beautiful, healthy boy but he is not what we call neuro-typical. He’ll see the world differently from others but he’ll still need your love and support.’ Jazzer looked at his wife. ‘No fears there, doc. We both love the bones of that wee guy. Can you tell us what tae expect in the years ahead and what we can do tae help him.’ The doctor nodded, ‘the first thing you can do is to be prepared for the ignorance of others. Your son is different; not worse, not better than other children, but different. Some people with no experience of autism will assume any unusual behaviour they see is down to poor parenting or lack of discipline. You’ll need to develop a thick skin as you guide your son through the years ahead. Time will tell how profound or not his autism is, but you will face a lot of challenges.’ The doctor spoke to them for twenty minutes on what was likely to happen as Paul developed. They listened avidly, determined to learn and determined do their very best for their son.

 Over the next few years, Jazzer read books, articles and even took part in workshops on autism as he and Clare learned how best to understand their son and to help him deal with an unpredictable world. He met other parents with children on the spectrum and soon learned that despite their similarities in some ways, every child was a unique individual. Paul’s sensitivity to noise meant that there was no chance he could join his father at the football. Jazzer would watch him line up his toy cars every day as if he was trying to bring order to the chaos of the world. Repetitive play was one feature of autism Jazzer had learned to accept. He soon learned that James would also flap his hands when he was becoming stressed and Jazzer took this as his cue to find the cause and remedy the situation. There were occasional meltdowns in shops and the odd broken nights’ sleep, but there were also times when Paul was gentle and loving. He’d sit on his dad’s lap while Jazzer read stories to him or played with his sensory toys.

Jazzer could see the occasional accusatory looks from people when Paul was overstimulated in a public place and expressed his stress by acting out. He’d hear the occasions mutters from those with no idea why Paul was upset. Once, when Paul was having something of a meltdown in a big shopping centre, he saw a man wearing a small coloured badge in the shape of a jigsaw on his lapel, approach. He smiled and said quietly, ‘it could be the lights here but more likely the noise. You can get good ear defenders in the tool store. They’ll help.’ Jazzer didn’t catch his name but it was good to meet someone who understood. He also took his advice. Paul wore his ear defenders any time they headed out and it helped him cope in noisy environments.

 In was in the spring of 2023 that Paul first showed any awareness of football. He had seen his dad head out to the match most weekends for just about all of his life but seldom took any notice. Jazzer and his brother sat on the couch watching the cup final between Celtic and Inverness Caledonian Thistle. Paul had been out in the garden enjoying the bright sunshine with his mum, but came wandering in to see what the noise was after Kyogo Furuhashi put Celtic ahead. He gazed at his father and uncle who looked very happy, and much to Jazzer’s surprise squeezed onto the couch beside him and gazed at the tv. Jazzer turned the volume down slightly but his son seemed happy enough just to watch the movement on the screen. When Leil Abada scored to make it 2-0 for Celtic, Jazzer’s celebration was more subdued as he didn’t want to startle Paul. He sat quite happily until the game finished and Celtic had won 3-1. As the cup was being hoisted into the air, Paul looked at his father and said simply, ‘outside.’ He got up and wandered back into the garden, leaving his father and uncle to enjoy the celebrations.

It was at the start of the following season when Jazzer was in the pub with Tam discussing their team’s prospects for the year ahead, when a chance remark got Jazzer thinking. One of their friends, a bearded plumber by the name of Eddie, was taking his daughter to her first ever game. He had chosen the upcoming testimonial match for James Forrest as tickets were freely available. ‘Should be a good match for the wee yin tae start her Celtic watching career,’ he said, sipping his beer. ‘You ever think of taking Paul tae the game?’ Jazzer shook his head. ’He has a sensitivity tae noise, even with his ear protectors on, he might not handle it.’  Eddie looked at him, ‘Jazzer,’ he said, ‘have ye not heard Celtic have a soundproof sensory room now for kids on the spectrum tae watch the matches? My cousin takes her wee one, she tells me it’s great.’ Jazzer shook his head, ‘I had no idea mate. You think I could take Paul?’ His friend nodded, ‘haud oan, I’ll phone my cousin and get the details.’ Jazzer looked at his brother Tam, who smiled encouragingly. Tam knew how much it would mean to his big brother to take his son to Celtic Park. He hoped it could be made to happen.

Tuesday, August 1^st 2023 was the day that Athletic Club from Spain came calling to play in James Forrest’s testimonial. When Jazzer got home from his work, he saw that Paul was already wearing his Celtic shirt. Clare looked at him, ‘if he not managing, bring him home. OK?’ Jazzer nodded, ‘but it’s a proper sensory room like the one at school. The only difference is it’s in a football stadium. He’ll be fine.’ They set of early with Paul strapped into his booster seat in the car and headed to Celtic Park. The streets were still quiet around the stadium, though the flag and scarf sellers were in position as Jazzer and Paul made their way to the Lisbon Lions stand.

As he stood gazing up at the huge stand, Jazzer felt a little emotional. His great grandfather, a navvy from Donegal, had watched McGrory and John Thompson here. His grandad had seen Tully, Evans and Stein play the game. His father had grown up watching the Lisbon Lions sweep all before them. Jazzer had enjoyed watching Larsson, Sutton and Lubo strut their stuff. Now, Paul, would be the fifth generation of his family to enter Celtic Park. Whether he watched any of the football remained to be seen, but that might come in time.

The sensory room was called the Lions’ View and was tastefully decorated in green and white stripes. There were sensory toys, lights and bean bags strategically placed and the whole room gave the impression of being very well thought out. A row of soft chairs sat by the double-glazed window and Jazzer lifted Paul up to get his first glimpse of the stadium. ‘Look, Paul,’ he smiled, adjusting his son’s ear protectors, ‘Celtic Park.’ Paul seemed more interested in the autumn leaves being projected onto the floor and squirmed free of his father. He lay on the floor with several other children, entranced by the lights and the feel of the screen, Jazzer let him be. It was his first time here and he was entitled to just getting to know the place.

Jazzer strategically placed himself by the side of the window as the muffled sounds of the crowd told him the game was underway. Despite keeping a close eye on his son, he did see Reo Hatate score for Celtic in an exciting first half which ended with Athletic club 2-1 ahead. The second half saw Celtic pile on the pressure and Bernabei equalised. The roar from David Turnbull’s winning goal was just about audible through the glass. To Jazzer’s surprise, Paul climbed into one of the high, soft chairs and gazed out at the celebrating Celtic players. He pointed out towards the pitch and said in a low voice, ‘Celtic.’ It was only one word, but Jazzer felt a wave of emotion sweep though him. ‘Aye, son, it bloody is,’ he said. He knew then that Paul would not be a stranger to Celtic Park. A watching mother slipped him a handkerchief. ‘You too?’ she smiled. Jazzer nodded, ‘what are we like, eh?’

Driving with the brakes on

 

Driving with the brakes on

Watching Celtic deservedly defeat Rangers at Hampden Park in the league cup semi-final at the weekend was as exciting as it was refreshing. The first half saw Celtic move the ball forward faster and the Hoops players were unafraid to turn the Rangers defence with long balls behind their back line. It wasn’t perfect and the team conceded a few chances but it was a refreshing change from Brendan Rodgers’ preferred tactic of keeping the ball away from the opposition. Celtic managed 21 attempts on the Rangers goal with their more direct, aggressive approach and really should have been out of sight in that first 45 minutes. Their energy and aggression forced errors from a Rangers defence that were glad to reach half time just one goal behind.

Brendan Rodgers was a terrific manager for Celtic as his trophy haul testifies, but since the turn of the year, Celtic have been difficult to watch. The recycling of the ball from left to right and back again in some games saw the Celtic centre backs with more touches of the ball than any other players on the field. This reached its nadir in the Scottish cup final with Aberdeen, when Celtic had 82% possession and fashioned just one clear cut chance in 95 minutes of football. O’Neill proved against Rangers that if you are aggressive and risk losing the ball by playing the odd 50-50 pass, then you create more chances and give the fans a much better spectacle to watch.

Watching Celtic this past six months or so reminded me of that classic 1980s Del Amitri song which contains the lyric; ‘When you're driving with the brakes on, when you're swimming with your boots on…’ Celtic under O’Neill looked liberated from that philosophy and played with the sort of freedom and speed the team has been lacking in recent months. The coaching philosophy seems to have changed and the team look the better for it. They weren’t perfect by any means, they gave the opposition the ball more than I would have liked but they were hungry again, eager to get at the Rangers defence. It was much more encouraging than that tepid display at Tynecastle.

One has to wonder at Rodgers team selection for the match at Tynecastle when he played inexperienced, young players in the toughest away venue in the league at the moment. You need experience and dig in those matches and much as I’m all for youngsters getting their chance, it seemed as if the manager was making a point about the threadbare nature of the squad. He had a £6m centre back in the form of Austin Trusty on the bench as well as the seasoned Anthony Ralston, a player who has seldom, if ever, let the team down.

Martin O’Neill is an old fox who knows the game inside out. He spotted immediately Celtic’s lack of physicality and drafted Trusty, Ralston, Kenny and Osmond into the squad. He also let the likes of Reo Hatate know that he’d need to earn his place in midfield with more consistent performances. We all know Celtic’s lack of options in attack have been a source of frustration lately, but the enthusiasm, energy and movement provided by Kenny and Osmond augur well for the future. The two young forwards found the net and could well have scored more. Celtic looked a more aggressive, direct, strong running side and Martin O’Neill’s fingerprints were all over that approach.

Encouraging as the past two matches have been, Celtic now face a very difficult trip to Denmark to face FC Midtjylland. The Danes are currently top of the Europa League having won all three games played so far, including a victory away to Nottingham Forrest. They are no mugs, as those results suggest, and Celtic will need to be on their game to stand any chance of returning home with a decent result. Those European matches will provide an excellent testing ground for the progress Celtic are making and allow the squad to be utilised more fully.

I suspect though, Europe is something of a distraction at the moment as Celtic set their sights on running down Hearts in the SPFL. We are approaching the end of the first quarter of the league season and Derek McInnes will know that the SPFL is a marathon and not a sprint. Celtic will doubtless look to chip away at their lead until they come calling at Celtic Park in December. That game will be a real test of Hearts’ mettle and it remains to be seen if Celtic are still under the guidance of Martin O’Neill or if a new manager is in place. Either way the next couple of months will go a long way to deciding what sort of season Celtic has. The fixtures will come thick and fast and it is noticeable that Celtic will be playing Roma just three days before the League Cup Final with St Mirren. That’s the price of success and we just need to deal with it.

As for Rangers, I think they have a good, young coach who will make them better. It’s up to Celtic to invest wisely, appoint the right coach and stay ahead of them. The lingering hubris of their supporters who yearn for the days when they ruled the roost in Scotland continues to fade as the harsh reality of living within your means hits home. Their predicament reminds me of the phrase "when you're accustomed to privilege, equality feels like oppression." Celtic have the resources to keep ahead of them but need to use them well and not repeat the sort of transfer window we saw in the summer. We should emerge stronger from each window, not weaker.

I enjoyed the league cup semi-final with Rangers. It reminded me of times past when such games were exciting, end to end dramas with goals, incidents and talking points. It was good to see Celtic set free to really go after their opponents. O’Neill has taken the hand brake off and the weeks ahead should be quite a ride.

 

The Ego has landed

 

The Ego has landed

Celtic don’t do crisis mode that often these days, but the current shambles at the club certainly meets the criteria. Not since the shabby treatment of Jock Stein by the old board in 1978 have we seen such a poorly handled exit. Brendan Rodgers’ decision to resign took many of us by surprise, though his increasingly barbed comments at press conferences would have signalled that not all was well behind the scenes. It comes at a time when sections of the support are at war with the board, and the team is stuttering like a second-hand Honda. Key players are injured or struggling for form and the club is in need of renewal from top to bottom. The biggest shareholder, Dermot Desmond, released a statement that was as scathing as it was ill judged. In it he accused Rodgers, among other things, of contributing to a toxic atmosphere around the club…

‘Regrettably, his words and actions since then have been divisive, misleading, and self-serving. They have contributed to a toxic atmosphere around the club and fuelled hostility towards members of the executive team and the Board. Some of the abuse directed at them, and at their families, has been entirely unwarranted and unacceptable. Every member of the Board and executive team is deeply passionate about Celtic and acts at all times with professionalism, integrity, and a shared desire for success. What has failed recently was not due to our structure or model, but to one individual’s desire for self-preservation at the expense of others.’

I’m sure Brendan Rodgers has been unwise in some of his utterances over the past few weeks, but to pin recent failings on ‘one individual’s desire for self-preservation’ is to tell half the story. We mere mortals who buy our season tickets and stump up for merchandise will never be privy to the goings on behind the scenes at Celtic Park, but it is clear to us that there needs to be a collective responsibility for the club’s poor start to the season. It’s only 8 months since we watched Celtic draw away to Bayern Munich in the Champions league after a 94^th minute equaliser from the Germans. At that point we were hoping to build on a position of strength for the 2025-26 campaign, but Celtic being Celtic, we failed to capitalise on an excellent season. Kuhn, Idah and Taylor moved on. Kyogo was allowed to go earlier without adequate replacement. The club failed to bring in the quality that was required despite sitting on a pile money and the team has regressed. This situation has been compounded by serious injuries to key players as the current campaign began and Celtic now find themselves 8 points behind in the league.

The personal and fairly vindictive tone of Dermot Desmond’s statement on the departure of Brendan Rodgers is unbecoming a senior figure at a club like Celtic. It may be that he was keen to get his version of events out there, but it was worded in an unnecessarily harsh manner and implied that Rodgers was both dishonest and selfish. There has obviously been a major falling out between two big egos, but whatever the truth behind the departure of Brendan Rodgers, a little dignity and reflection should be in order from all at the club. We win together, we lose together and we shouldn’t wash our dirty linen in public.

A million words will now be written about Rodgers’ departure, endless hours of chatting on podcasts, radio phone-in shows and social media will try to decipher what the hell went on. The bottom line though, is that Celtic now need to appoint a manager to salvage a season that is damaged, though not yet beyond repair. He needs to be a manager the fans will respect, who has a proven track record and he needs to be given adequate funds to reinvigorate a squad that many feel, has reached the end of its cycle.

Football supporters need to have confidence that those running the club are pulling in the same direction as they are. We thank Brendan Rodgers for his undoubted contribution to the club, but football waits for no one. To stand still is to go backwards. We all want the best for Celtic, so come on Celtic, spare us any more of this tabloid, soap-opera nonsense and move on. Bring in a manager who will excite us and once more give us dreams and songs to sing.

The King is gone. Long live the King.

Never Better

 

Never Better

Glasgow 2016

Tommy Anderson felt every one of his 90 years as he pushed himself up in his hospital bed to welcome his visitors. Getting old was no fun, even his bones seemed to ache. His grandson, Aiden, had brought his 8-year-old son up to cheer Tommy up and it had the desired effect. ‘Alright, granda?’ Aiden smiled, ‘guess where Junior and I are off to the morra?’ Old Tommy shrugged, ‘no idea, son.’ As Junior picked at Tommy’s grapes, Aiden grinned, ‘he’s coming wi me tae his first derby match.’ Old Tommy smiled, ‘that’s great, but just make sure you look after him. That lot can take defeat badly. Brendan’s got the team playing well, so hopefully the wee guy sees a good result.’ Aiden nodded, ‘aye, we’ll be oan the supporters’ bus so it’ll be cool.’

A nurse appeared at this point and checked the chart on a clipboard at the end of his bed. ‘Morning, Mr Anderson. How are we today?’ Tommy smiled, ‘aye, no bad, hen. Might need tae give the marathon a miss this year though.’ She smiled at his joke, ‘and who is this young man?’ Tommy looked at Junior, ‘that’s my great-grandson. He’s off to the big game with his da tomorrow.’  ‘Good,’ she smiled. ‘I hope he enjoys it.’ Her time in casualty had taught her that these particular games were not events that the staff there enjoyed as their caseload more than doubled.

After she left, Tommy and his grandson chatted quietly about life, football and his illness. ‘What was the doc saying?’ Aiden asked, his face a little more serious. Tommy Anderson looked at his great grandson before replying to Aiden, ‘let’s just say I’m in injury time and leave it at that, son.’ Aiden nodded, appreciating his grandfather hadn’t spoken too bluntly in front of Junior. He remembered when Tommy was a younger man and they’d attend games together. He loved Celtic and had passed that love on to his son and grandson. ‘What was your first Rangers game?’ Junior suddenly asked. Tommy smiled at the fresh-faced youngster. ‘It was a long time ago, son. 1938 if I recall. Celtic beat Rangers 6-2.’ The boy’s eyes widened, ‘six two! That must have been brilliant.’ Old Tommy smiled, ‘oh it was, Malky McDonald and Johnny Crum ripped them apart. What a forward line we had then; Delaney, McDonald, Crum, Divers, Murphy.’

Tommy sipped at his water and his great-grandson asked another question. ‘What was my grandad’s first Rangers game?’ Old Tommy settled back onto his pillow, his face wearing a faraway look. ‘Ah, Junior, that was a day I’ll never forget. His mind drifted back almost 60 years…

 

Glasgow, October 1957

‘Whit?’ Davie said, a look of incredulity on his face. ‘It’s a cup final man, ye have tae come!’ Tommy Anderson shrugged, ‘I want tae go Davie, but she’s goin’ tae see her maw in Ayr. I need tae watch the wee guy.’ ‘Noo haud oan a minute,’ Davie said glancing at Thomas Junior, sitting happily playing with his toy car, ‘if my Carol started that pish, she’d be o’er my knee and her arse well skelped. Can ye no get somebody tae watch the wean?’  Tommy shrugged, ‘naw, I’ve asked around. Everybody is busy or has this flu that’s doing the rounds. Besides, I promised her I’d watch him.’ Davie exhaled loudly, ‘I’d ask Carol but she’s still in Blackpool wi her sisters.’ There was a moment’s silence as the two friends thought about their predicament. ‘How old is wee Thomas noo?’ Davie asked. ‘He’s two and hauf.’ Tommy looked at him sensing where this was going. ‘He’s too wee, Davie. We cannae take him tae a Celtic Rangers game at that age.’ Davie looked at him, ‘aye we can. I can swap tickets wi Paddy oan the bus. He always goes tae the wee enclosure in front of the stand. It’ll be ok in there.’ Tommy Anderson mulled the idea over in his mind for a moment before looking at Davie. ‘Ye really think he’ll be ok?’ Davie smiled, ‘is the Pope a Catholic?’

Tommy wrapped his young son up well despite the fact that the sun was slanting in the window. He stuffed some food and a bottle of Irn Bru into a duffle bag and set off. The supporters’ bus was rocking as the fans sang all the way to Hampden. Tommy held his son close and kept an eye out for any opposition fans as stoning buses was a regular occurrence in Glasgow. Young Thomas snuggled against his chest seemingly unfazed by the racket going on around him. Most of the men on board were swigging from beer bottles and clapping along as they sang…

‘Hail, glorious St. Patrick, dear Saint of our Isle, on us thy poor children bestow a sweet smile; and now thou art high in thy mansions above, on Erin’s green valleys look down in thy love. On Erin’s green valleys, on Erin’s green valleys…’

They reached Hampden Park which was already buzzing with anticipation. Cup finals were always exciting; Celtic v Rangers cup finals were even more so. Davie had arranged the ticket swap and they headed for the enclosure in front of the main stand. A burly policeman looked at 2-year-old Thomas being carried in by his father. ‘He not a bit young for all of this?’ Tommy smiled, ‘you want tae babysit him? I can pick him up after the game.’ The cop smiled, ‘naw, I’ll be watching the big weans today. I’m sure I’ll be babysitting a few of them later at the station.’ Tommy clicked through the turnstile and found a spot right at the front wall close to the Celtic end. Hampden was filling up and the noise increasing as the kick off approached. Tommy Anderson swung his son’s small legs over the wall and stood behind him, one arm looped around his waist. The day was set fair for the wee guy’s first look at the boys in the hooped shirts.

On that sunny day in October 1957, Celtic didn’t just defeat Rangers; they tore them to shreds. With the Celtic midfield in total control, it was the wingers Fernie and Tully who terrorised the Rangers full backs, while McPhail and Mochan dominated the Rangers centre backs. Tommy Anderson watched in disbelief as Celtic scored goal after goal against the much vaunted ‘Iron curtain’ defence of Rangers. In the dying moments of the game, with the score at 6-1, Willie Fernie placed the ball on the penalty spot. Tommy placed his son on the cinder track momentarily as Fernie began his run up. As the ball flashed into the net to make the final score 7-1, he roared in delight before looking at his son and shouting, ‘ye see that, wee man? That’s just magic!’ It had been some day and some first game for wee Thomas.

 

Glasgow 2016

Old Tommy Anderson slipped in his ear plugs and tuned his small radio into Radio Scotland in time for kick off in the match with Rangers. He smiled at the thought that wee Junior would be at his first derby. His own was in 1938, his son Thomas had little memory of the 7-1 game but that was his. His grandson Aiden had gone to his in 1998 when Paul Lambert had almost burst the net. It seemed as if the Anderson family had a habit of seeing Celtic victories on those days. He settled back on the hospital pillows as the game began. How many of these matches had he seen in his 80 years of life? A hundred? Two hundred? More? He always knew which one was the most important- the next one.

After a half hour of football in which Celtic totally dominated, the score was still 0-0. The BBC commentator was sounding quite optimistic about Rangers chances if they could reach half time without conceding a goal. As Tommy listened, the commentator’s nasal tones said, ‘a corner to Celtic on the left, in front of their ultras section. Sinclair to take it. He fires it in to the back post area and Dembeleeeeee heads it home! Goalllll! Celtic have the lead!’ A few miles from Celtic Park, an old Celt was smiling. ‘Go on bhoys!’ A passing nurse looked quizzically at old Tommy, ‘You alright, Mr Anderson?’ He smiled at her and nodded, ‘never better, hen. Never better.’

 

 

Back the team

 

Back the team

Like most of you reading this, I’ve invested a lot of time, money and emotion into supporting Celtic over the years. I’ve seen some great days and I’ve seen days when success seemed far off. In the early 1990s Celtic had in place a board which lacked the financial acumen and clout to drag Celtic into the modern era. In those times, fans’ discontent was discussed in fanzines which developed in response the rather insipid club newspaper which tended to not publish letters critical of the board. The Celtic View came to be sarcastically nicknamed ‘Pravda,’ the Russian word for ‘truth.’ It was most famously known as the name of the official newspaper of the Communist Party of the old USSR. It acted as the government's mouthpiece for decades and even the Russian people knew it was full of propaganda.  

Debate and protest in those pre-social media days had to be done in a more up close and personal way. Fans debated on the buses to games, they talked on the terraces and if they wanted to organise, then leaflets were handed out around the ground and articles sent to the fanzines. In such ways, public meetings could be set up and this was a particularly effective weapon in the Celts for Change days of the early 90s. The context of a failing team, a stadium in dire need of rebuilding and a board who were almost bankrupt of both money and ideas, lent the protests of those days a real sense of urgency. The club we loved was failing and in very real danger of administration with all the problems and humiliations that would come with that. The ordinary Celtic fan, for so long thought of as useful idiots by the old board organised in a remarkable way to save the soul of their football club.

If we fast forward thirty years, we see a club which has built tremendous domestic success on the platform those supporters of thirty years ago provided. Tens of thousands of fans bought shares in Celtic and rebuilt the stadium and the team. Each year tens of thousands of them buy season tickets and merchandise which helps make a club, almost bankrupt in 1994, the wealthiest in the land by some distance. But Celtic is more than a business, more than a way of making wealthy shareholders a tidy dividend. It is, as Bob Kelly once said, for many people a way of life. All of us fans want the very best for our club. Yes, we’ve racked up 42 domestic trophies in the 21^st century and that is all well and good. But we look with frustration at clubs of similar size to Celtic and a good few smaller than us who achieve more in Europe than we do.

Last season we made a real go of it in the toughest club competition in the world. We took Bayern Munich, a club whose turnover was over a billion Euros last year, to within 60 seconds of extra time in the Champions League. We really thought we were a couple of good signings away from making the club we love a force in Europe again. That old Celtic habit of not building on a position of strength reared its head again and we allowed some of the key components of the side to leave without adequately replacing them. The appalling handling of the summer transfer window, coupled with the team losing to Kairat Almaty in the Champions League play-off round saw the hopes we had after last season turn to ashes in our hands. The majority of fans were rightly angry at the board for mishandling things so badly and allowing the team to regress. It’s important the club is well run and financially sound, but for the fans, all of that is designed to give the manager the players he needs to move the club forward. It seemed to betray a real lack of ambition and vision on behalf of those running the club. To sit on £70m of cash reserves and watch as the team went backwards was in the eyes of many ordinary fans inexplicable and unforgivable.

Modern social media has made organising protests far easier for today’s supporters than it was for their fathers 30 years ago. Facebook and X can reach thousands of supporters easily and various podcasts and blogs are accessible to all. You can even order 1000 personalised posters on Amazon for under £100. It is also easier for fans to disagree with each other as was proven again today following the announcement of a proposed ‘3 match package of silences’ organised by a group calling itself ‘Celtic Fans Collective.’ Most see nothing wrong in their objective of making the Celtic board communicate better with the fans but I honestly struggled to find a comment which supported the idea of sitting in silence for parts of the 3 games mentioned.

Much as we are fairly united on the need for transparent, open and communicative running of our club, most fans are not in agreement with doing anything which might hinder the team. We go to the match to back our side, to cheer, to moan, to kick every ball with them. That’s part of being a Celtic fan. Trying to get at the board by sitting in silence is like trying to stop the sun rising by closing your eyes. It’ll achieve nothing and may be counter-productive to the team on the pitch. That is something, I for one would not countenance. We see how an increasingly toxic atmosphere at Ibrox is affecting that particular team and do not want to start down that road. Celtic Park is famous for its atmosphere on European nights. The idea of us sitting in silence for half an hour in the match with Braga next week is simply ridiculous. The dispute is with the board and those with a point to make should adopt tactics which make them sit up and take notice, not offer a helping hand to opponents by turning the stadium into a library.

A better man than me once said, ‘Football without the fans is nothing.’ I hope our board realise that and work to give the Celtic fans the best possible team they can and communicate with fans in a less patronising manner. Former Dundee United boss, Jim McLean said many years ago, ‘with supporters like these, how can you fail to become champions? They are just incredible. I give Celtic credit for playing really well and beating us but these fans look as though they are part of the team.’ When Celtic and their fans are united like that, they are a potent force indeed.

I respect the right of any fan to express their displeasure at the board. We care so much about our club and want it to be all it can be, but I suspect that the majority at Celtic Park for the visit of Hibs will be making plenty of noise. This isn’t the 1990s. We aren’t backing a failing team and a clueless board. Domestically we are in the midst of one of the most successful periods in Celtic’s long and unbroken history. Yes, the board made a complete hash of the summer transfer window and fans have every right to be angry about that but that shouldn’t stop them backing the team with all the fervour they’re famous for.

The cry in the 90s may have been, ‘sack the board,’ but it was also ‘back the team.’ I suspect the majority at Celtic’s next few games will be doing just that.

 

Children of the future age

 

Children of the future age

John Paul could feel the water seeping into his busted old trainers as he headed for the main entrance of the Forge shopping centre. The chilly December wind cut through his thin track suit and the lazy Glasgow drizzle seemed to seep into every pore of his body. In all his 13 years he hadn’t felt so cold. He scanned the foyer of the centre hoping the security man locals called ‘Robocop’ wasn’t around. He was a mean-spirited bastard who loved nothing better than blocking those he considered ‘scum’ from the centre. John Paul entered with a crowd of women shoppers hoping to blend in. He wasn’t here to spend, rather just to heat his shivering body. He had got as far as the indoor Market when Robocop appeared, ‘Right wee man, turn around, out you go!’ A woman looked at John Paul, ‘Whit’s the lad done? Why are you throwing him oot?’ Robocop looked at her disdainfully, ‘These people aren’t here to spend, they’ve no money. They steal and hang around driving decent customers away.’ The woman looked sympathetically at John Paul, ‘But he’s just a wee lad, he’s shivering.’ Robocop was having none of it and ushered John Paul out the doors and into cold, damp Duke Street, ‘and don’t come back ya fuckin wee tramp’ He muttered under his breath once he was sure no other customers could hear him. John Paul looked blankly at him bemused at his mean attitude. What was wrong with some people?

 

John Paul, wet hair plastered to his head, headed up past Parkhead Cross and then turned right along the Gallowgate as the relentless Glasgow rain became heavier. Going home wasn’t an option as his Step-Da was drunk again and seemed to pick on him incessantly when the alcohol fuelled rage was on him. He had become more violent in recent years and John Paul’s body bore the bruises from his father’s last episode. What angered him more was though his inability to defend his mother. He had lain awake one night listening to him ranting at her, calling her foul names and then the violence and crying had started. John Paul had covered his ears and begged God to make it all stop. Later, when all was quiet apart from the gentle sobbing of his mother he slipped out of bed and headed for the living room. His step-Da was asleep on the couch as John Paul approached his mother and simply hugged her, saying nothing. In his mind he promised himself that when he grew to manhood that bastard would pay for it all.

He crossed the road rather aimlessly and looked through the large gateway into Janefield Street cemetery. Despite being a Parkhead boy all his life, it occurred to him that he had never been in the old cemetery before. He wandered among the forgotten graves of people from a bye-gone age. A huge stone Celtic cross loomed over him, a curious black crow perched on top, watching him. He reached the cemetery wall and clambered up onto the top of it and sat down, his legs dangling above Janefield Street. Below him he could see hard hatted workmen were busy tearing down the last of the old Celtic Park enclosure known as the Jungle. The last of the steelwork was gone and they were using jack-hammers to break up the concrete terraces. The old stadium looked like a war zone. Rubble was strewn everywhere and the noise of power tools and cement trucks filled the air. John Paul had gone to many games at the old stadium, initially to escape his home but he had come to love the rough comradeship of the terraces. It was his escape, his sanctuary, the place where he dreamed of better things.  He seldom paid in as he was still small enough to get a lift or agile enough to scale the walls on occasion. On one occasion he had cut his hand badly as the club, clearly annoyed at lost gate receipts, embedded broken glass on top of the outer walls in cement. That annoyed him, the club founded for the poor was keeping the poor out with broken glass.

John Paul watched as the noise of demolition abated and the workmen downed tools and headed for the porta-cabins which served as their bothies. At least they could eat their lunch out of the rain.  He dropped down from the cemetery wall and crossed Janefield Street. Glancing through the temporary metal mesh fence which stood, slotted into black rubber feet, he looked at the remains of Celtic Park. He could see the old main stand, alone and forlorn in the rain looking out of place on its own. It was hard to believe that the pile of twisted metal and broken concrete before him was all that remained of the Jungle. He prised two sections of the fencing apart and squeezed through into the building site that was one day to be the new Celtic Park.

The place was quiet and the only workmen around were far away eating their sandwiches. He wandered over the twisted rubble of the old Jungle thinking of the times he had stood there cheering on his heroes. He had been shoe horned in here when Celtic won the title in their Centenary year. What a crowd there was that day. Now, all that was left was rubble and the ghosts of the past to lament the destruction of the old stadium. As John Paul picked his way over the broken concrete a small section of it gave way and he fell forward. His leg had slipped into a hole beneath the rubble and he only just managed to stop himself having a heavy fall. Something jagged and scratched his shin and he let out a small cry. As he extricated his leg carefully from the hole, he was disappointed to see his track suit bottoms torn and dirty but worse than that his trainer was no longer on his foot. He looked for a moment at his damp, dirty sock through which poked his big toe. He then glanced into the void where his leg had slipped and saw his trainer about 3 feet down the hole. He lay on the uneven concrete and reached into the hole, his cold fingers feeling for his trainer. The tips of his fingers touched something metallic and he withdrew his hand worrying it was a gas pipe or something electrical. He rolled onto his side and peered into the hole. His trainer was jammed between damp clay and what appeared to be a rectangular metal box. John Paul looked around him and saw what he required; a piece of metal reinforcing rod from the concrete lay on the damp ground. He poked it into the hole and dislodged his trainer. Straining, he reached into the hole and retrieved it and pulled it onto his foot. He then turned his attention to the metal box. He forced the rod down the side of it and levered it left and right until it was loose. He reached into the hole with both hands and prised the box free from the cloying mud. He placed the box in front of him and regarded it. It was about the size of a shoe box and beneath the clay and rust, he could make out rusty hinges. What was this doing buried under the old Jungle at Celtic Park? He glanced around him, a little startled, as two workmen laughed at across at the main stand. John Paul lifted the box and slipped quietly out of the Stadium. He made his way along Janefield Street, scanning the ground until he found a plastic carrier bag blowing along the damp, deserted street. He placed the metal box into the bag and headed for home.

The house was quiet when he arrived home. His step-da had probably gone to the bookies or pub and his mother was working as a cleaner in the nearby Templeton centre. He had the house to himself and after locking the front door, he headed for his bedroom. He placed some old newspapers on his bed and then removed the box from the carrier bag and placed it on them. He used a scrubbing brush to clean most of the clay from the box, his mind racing at the thought of what it might contain. He then tried the lid which didn’t seem to be held closed by a padlock or other such mechanism but it was closed fast and wouldn’t budge. John Paul fetched his Step-Da’s hammer and a sturdy cold chisel from under the kitchen sink. He placed the point of the chisel at the spot he thought was the edge of the lid. He tapped gently at first but soon lost patience and hit the chisel hard. The lid loosened a little and he squeezed the edge of the chisel into the thin gap and levered the lid until finally it gave and he was able to open the box fully. He looked inside, eyes wide in expectation.

Inside the box, John Paul found a sort of parcel wrapped in what he thought was linen and tied with brown, aged string.  He snapped the string and carefully unfolded the water-stained linen. In it he found two envelopes, browned with age and water marked. There was also a faded photograph of a Celtic team dressed in a strip of vertical stripes. There was also a set of what appeared to be dusty old rosary beads. He glanced in the box to make sure it was empty and found several old coins, each showing Queen Victoria’s distinctive head. He laid the items carefully on the bed and looked at them. He carefully opened each of the two envelopes and separated the sheets of paper. The first one he attempted to read seemed to be a poem and with some difficulty he eventually deciphered the hand writing and read…

 

Children of the future age

Reading this indignant page

Know that once there was a time

When being poor was thought a crime

But seeing no help close at hand

We turn to God in a heartless land

Beseech his manna from the skies

To still our hungry children’s cries

 And in that year of eighty-seven

When so many young took leave for heaven

We took our faith and fate in hand

And formed our bold and gallant band

 Celtic was the name we chose

The shamrock mighty as thistle or rose

From far and wide they came to see

The men who stilled the hungry plea

                                                                J Glass Esq. May 1892

 

John Paul placed the letter on the bed and ran to fetch his history of Celtic book. It didn’t take him long to find out that ‘J Glass’ was in fact John Glass and said to be Brother Walfrid’s right-hand man, and one of the chief motivating forces in Celtic’s foundation. 1892 was the date the club moved from the original Celtic Park to the current site. John Paul looked at the photograph of the bearded man staring out of the page at him, speaking to him from a century or more ago. Was the box some sort of time capsule placed under the old terracing as the stadium was being laid out? He took out the second letter and read the short paragraph it contained. The writing was neat and rather dated but he read it with widening eyes as he realised who had written it…

‘May the Lord bless this ground we consecrated this day and may he always watch over the Celtic football club and all who are involved with this fine venture. For as long these relics lie in this hallowed soil the Celtic will prosper. May the Lord smile on you and bless you all this day.’

Brother Walfrid…FMS

John Paul’s head was spinning. He held in his hand a letter, a blessing written by Brother Walfrid himself!  What would this be worth to a collector? He looked at the two letters and then at the dusty rosary beads. He could sure use some money and so could his family but something was troubling him. ‘As long as these relics remain in this hallowed soil the Celtic would prosper.’ That’s what the letter said and he had removed them.

That evening John Paul headed for his friend Paddy’s house and explained all that had occurred that day. Paddy, of course thought it was a wind up until John Paul showed him the proof. ‘Jesus, these will be worth plenty JP, you selling them?’ John Paul was undecided, ‘I’m not sure mate, something is telling me it’s no right?’ Paddy looked at him, ‘Mate, Celtic wiz set up tae help the poor, you’ll get a wad for these tae help you and trust me, you’re poor JP!’ John Paul returned home later that evening and spent a restless night in his bed. When the first pale fingers of light were creeping in his window, he knew what he had to do.

For three months John Paul visited Janefield Street, gazing in at the building work going on in the Stadium area. It was a bright March day when his moment arrived.  A huge concrete mixing truck arrived to pour more concrete onto the foundations of the new North stand. As the driver reversed the truck towards the spot the pour was to take place John Paul slipped quietly into the building site. From his jacket he produced the metal box. Everything was back inside as it was before he had found it. He clambered over pieces of steel stacked neatly on the ground and threw the box quickly into the great hole in the ground the concrete was to be poured into. A voice called to him, ‘Here you, wee man- get yersel tae fuck, it’s deadly playing in building sites!’ John Paul raised a conciliatory hand to him and squeezed back through the fence back into Janefield Street. He smiled as the trough on the concrete truck was guided over the hole and tons of wet concrete splashed over the box, sealing it into the very fabric of Celtic Park forever. ‘There ye go Walfrid,’ he smiled, ‘back where it should be.’ 

He headed for home satisfied that he’d done the right thing.

 

Punching the Monkey

 

Punching the Monkey

Glasgow 1988

A lazy drizzle fell from the leaden Glasgow sky as Malky Quinn made his way along the Gallowgate. Even four hours before the match, he could see Celtic fans dotted here and here on street corners waiting for the pubs to open. He turned onto Sword Street and headed up the stairs of the first close he came too. The top floor flat was the home of Joe McGee and they had been friends since their school days at St Mary’s. Malky thought about the old school with its boys’ playground three floors up on the roof. Their rowdy games of football up there usually ended when someone sliced the ball over the railing and down into the girls’ playground below.

Malky could hear music as he stopped at the McGee family’s door. He listened for a moment before knocking and heard a familiar refrain… ‘Farewell to Tipperary said the Galtee mountain boy.’  The door was opened he was greeted by the surprising sight of Joe’s father, in his vest, face covered in shaving foam. ‘Alright son, Joe’s in his room. Tell him tae turn that fuckin’ music doon while yer in there.’ Malky nodded and opened the room door and saw Joe was already drinking a can of beer. The walls of the room were festooned with Celtic pennants and posters. A team group picture from Shoot magazine showed the fresh-faced squad of 1987-88 season smiling hopefully.

 ‘Alright, Malky boy?’ Joe grinned, ‘we all set tae do these bastards today?’ Malky sat on the bed as Joe tied his shoe laces. ‘Yer old man said turn the Rebs doon.’ Joe smiled, ‘He can get lost, he was half cut singing Danny boy when he rolled in last night.’ Joe slipped his wallet into the front pocket of his jeans and looked at Malky, ‘noo, where do ye want tae go for a pint?’ Malky shrugged, ‘the Wee Man’s is usually packed. I’d say Baird’s or the Four Ways?’ Joe nodded, ‘aye, failing that we can head tae Norma Jean’s.’ With that, Joe grabbed his Celtic scarf and headed for the room door.’ Malky looked at the record player with the Wolfe Tones LP still spinning and pumping out the music. ‘Whit aboot this?’ Joe smiled, ‘Oh, aye, forgot about that.’ He walked past Malky and instead of turning it off, turned the volume up. As they walked to the front door, Malky head Joe’s da shout from the bathroom, ‘get that doon or I’ll put my foot up your arse!’ Joe smiled and winked at Malky before stepping out and closing the front door.

As they walked along the Gallowgate towards the many Celtic bars which dotted the east end, Malky looked at Joe. There was a certain wildness about him which had been there since childhood. At school, he was belted on an almost daily basis but took pride in the fact he never cried. As they grew into their teens his temper got him into a few scrapes and he was no stranger to the desk sergeant at Tobago Steet Police station. They had both briefly been drawn into the east end gang scene as teenagers but in truth they preferred playing football to throwing bricks at other working-class lads from Barrowfield or Bridgeton. Joe was always fearless in these scraps though, and was usually found in the front of the action. It was on a bright summer evening when a stray stone had struck an old woman that decided they’d had enough of that particular pastime. Malky often wondered if losing his mother so young had affected Joe. Either way, his wildness didn’t stop him being a good and loyal friend who stood by Malky when it mattered.

As they neared the Barras Market, Joe nodded ahead at a man dressed in a full gorilla suit walking towards them. ‘Whit the actual fuck is he doing’?’ Malky shrugged, ‘You see some odd sights, eh?’  They crossed the street and headed towards Baird’s bar where the shutters were just being pulled up. Scores of Celtic fans poured into the popular pub and the two friends joined them. For two hours, the beer and songs flowed freely before most of the patrons left the smoky, malodorous bar and headed out into a gloomy, January day. The green clad river of humanity flowed towards Celtic Park, their songs lingering the damp, winter air. As they neared the stadium, the songs got louder and the mass of people more tightly packed. Joe and Malky lined up at the turnstile at the Celtic end, anticipation building in them for what was always the biggest game of the season.

As they waited, Joe nodded towards the back court of the shoddy houses that backed up near the stadium wall. Some local lads had placed a scaffold plank against the wall and were running up it and grabbing at the top of the wall as they sought to gain entry to the stadium. On top of the wall, what looked like a grubby, folded, painter’s dust sheet had been placed to stop them cutting their hands on the glass which had been cemented at the top of the wall. ‘Imagine the club built tae feed the poor putting fuckin’ glass on the wall tae stop folk climbing in?’ Malky agreed and watched as a few of the kids scaling the wall reached the summit and dropped from view into the stadium below. As they neared the turnstile, a stout man in front of them was ordered by a policeman to drop what appeared to be a bottle of sherry into a metal dustbin. Before doing so, the man opened the sherry and glugged most of it down his throat in two or three long gulps.

For Malky, that moment of topping the stairs at the Celtic end and seeing the emerald rectangle of the field, surrounded by the baying, swaying crowd always thrilled him. On derby days, when the noise was deafening and the buzz of real excitement was in the air, he would grin like a kid on his birthday. They made their way to their usual spot near the front of the Celtic end just in time to see the teams come out. There was a deafening roar from the 60,000 fans. From the Jungle to Malky’s left came the defiant growl of a familiar song; ‘and if ye know the history, it’s enough to make yer heart go oh, oh, oh, oh…’ The massed ranks of the Celtic end joined in and a thunderous chorus echoed around the stadium; ‘We don’t care what the animals say, what the hell do we care? For we only know that there’s going to be a how and the Glasgow Celtic will be there!’ The stage was set and Malky just hoped that on this year, of all years, Celtic could beat their ancient rivals and mark their centenary in style. As play got underway, they became completely engrossed in the drama being played out before them. This was it; this was what they’d waited for.

Amid the thunderous tackles and snarling aggression on the field, Celtic were having by the best of it. Paul McStay stood head and shoulders above the other 21 players on the field. He probed, pulled the strings, twisted away from challenges and was dictating the play. Rangers were hanging on as Celtic bossed the game and created the better chances. Midway through the first half, Rangers new signing, Mark Walters, lined up a corner in front of the Jungle. The usual boos and cat calls were interspersed with something else though; Joe looked at Malky as some Celtic fans made unmistakable monkey noises. ‘Whit the actual fuck…’ Joe said. Malky shook his head, ‘arseholes,’ was all he said. There was laughter behind them and Joe turned to see the man they’d spotted on the Gallowgate standing a few yards behind them in his full gorilla suit. He was moving his right hand vertically and horizontally as if blessing the Rangers winger. Joe’s face was contorted in anger and he roared, ‘here you, ya fuckin’ prick! Get yeself tae fuck.’ Malky had to restrain Joe from pushing through the crowd to get at the fool. ‘Leave it, mate. You’ll only get yerself jailed.’ A good few other fans agreed with Joe, though. One old timer shook his head, ‘well said, son. If I was younger, I’d lamp that prick myself.’

They refocussed on the game where Celtic continued to dominate. Just before half time, McStay pirouetted like a ballet dancer in midfield and slide a perfect pass up the right wing to the overlapping full back, Chris Morris. The English full back met the ball perfectly and fired it across the penalty box where the onrushing Frank McAvennie gleefully smashed the ball home. It was a breath-taking goal a goal of grace and beauty to brighten a dank Scottish day. The stadium erupted and Joe hugged Malky in utter joy. Celtic were on their way and they both knew that nothing would stop them now. McAvennie would add another late in the second half to seal the deal but Rangers had gone long before that. Sometime you know it just isn’t your day.

The bars of the east-end were rocking after the game and Malky and Joe found themselves in the Four Ways, singing and laughing with an ecstatic crowd who were still buzzing from the game. As the evening wore on, the doors opened and a group of Celtic fans entered. The last of them was the guy they had seen at the game. He was still in his gorilla suit. Malky heard Joe’s snort in anger and mumbled, ‘let if go, Joe. The guy’s an arsehole.’  Joe drank his pint and seemed to calm as the victory songs filled the bar. A few pints later Joe excused himself and headed for the toilet. Malky, now feeling the effects of the pints, watched him go. Inside the cramped toilet, Joe looked at the only other person standing at the urinal. ‘Alright, monkey man?’ he said to him. The gorilla suited man looked at him, ‘aye, no bad. Ye enjoy that today?’ Joe, his face blank, replied, ‘aye, but it was spoiled with racist arseholes like you.’ Before the man could respond, Joe sent a whipping right hand crashing into the side of his head. They man slumped against the wall. Joe muttered, ‘prick,’ and left the toilet. As he did so another man was coming in. Joe smiled, ‘mind yer step. I think the gorilla has had wan too many.’

Joe walked up to Malky, ‘let’s go, mate. I’ve got a few cans in the hoose and I’ll get the Wolfe Tones oan tae annoy my da.’ Malky looked at him sensing something had happened in the toilet. He finished his beer and said, ‘right ye are, Joe. Hopefully yer old man has taped Sportscene.’ They headed out into the gloomy night. In the distance they could hear someone singing; ‘we’re Celtic supporters, faithful through and through. Over and over, we will follow you.’  Malky looked at Joe, ‘you alright, mate?’ Joe smiled, ‘never been better, buddy, never been better.’