Putting them in their place

 

 

Putting them in their place

Celtic and their huge support had endured a torrid time in the 1990s with their main rivals across the city sweeping all before them. There were mitigating circumstances to Celtic’s serial failure in that era, such as the need to rebuild the stadium in the light of the Taylor Report. The disasters at Hillsborough, Heysel and Bradford meant that the days of the big open terraces of British football stadiums were numbered. Rangers, having rebuilt Ibrox in the years after the disaster there in 1971, could concentrate their considerable financial muscle on building a team. Celtic, on the other hand, faced huge financial challenges to rebuild their stadium whilst simultaneously trying to put a team on the park which could compete with free spending Rangers. 

That being said, the club didn’t always spend what money they had wisely. In late 1999 Celtic paid £4.8m for Brazilian defender Rafael Scheidt. He was a complete mystery to the fans and in truth his purchase seemed to have been based on a highlights video put together by his agent and his rather murky record of Brazilian caps. He won three caps for Brazil, amid rumours that clubs paid for players to be capped in friendly matches so that they could sell them to European clubs at inflated prices. The unfortunately named player lived up to his name and barely played for the club. One teammate of the era said caustically of him, ‘the guy couldn't trap a bag of cement.’  

The promise of the Barnes-Dalglish era faded quickly after an encouraging start. As the cold January of 2000 started, Celtic were already slipping behind Rangers in the league. After the winter break, the team drew with Kilmarnock, lost to Hearts after being 2-0 up and then faced up to Inverness Caledonian Thistle in a Scottish cup tie at Celtic Park. For Celtic fans in the 34,000 crowd, it was obvious that the team was lacking in intensity as the game unfolded. The lower league side played well, sensing that their opponents were not at their best, and led 2-1 at half time. What occurred in the Celtic dressing room though sealed the fate of John Barnes as Manager. It has emerged since that Mark Viduka took exception to being criticised for his lacklustre performance in the first half by assistant manager Eric Black and had to be physically restrained from attacking him. Ian Wright, a sub that night, said... 

‘Mark Viduka refused to play in the second half. It’s a nightmare that one and one I’m not comfortable with. I remember at half time; everybody was getting a lot of stick. He came in at half time, took his boots off and said, ‘fuck this,’ and threw them down. We couldn’t believe it. He refused to play. It was the first time I’d ever seen that and I thought it was a disgrace.’ 

The game ended in a deserved win for the lower league side and John Barnes was subsequently fired. In more recent times, Barnes has raised the issue of race in his sacking; arguing that black managers are given less time. In truth, he had lost control of some of his players and the disharmony in the group was hampering the team. He was a very inexperienced manager for whom the Celtic job was perhaps too much, too soon. Players like Viduka needed to have a long hard look at their attitude too, but in football, the manager carries the can. 

Kenny Dalglish took over as interim manager and guided the side for the remainder of the season. In March of 2000 he led the side to a league cup final win over Aberdeen, but a 4-0 trouncing at Ibrox the following week reminded the fans of the gulf between Glasgow’s big two. Celtic would finish 21 points behind Rangers in the league and after the failure of the Barnes-Dalglish ‘dream team,’ the fans and the club knew that the next managerial appointment had to be right. There could be no rookie appointment. Celtic needed an experienced manager who knew the pressure and demands of a club like Celtic. Such managers were rare and often costly to hire. Whoever was to take over would inherit a club considerable turmoil. Mark Viduka was angling for a move and other players were restless. The return of Henrik Larsson from a long-term injury during the last game of the season was one ray of light, but the squad lacked real depth and quality. It was clear that a major rebuild was required if season 2000-2001 was to be any better. 

Celtic fans watched with interest as coaches like Gus Hiddink were linked with the job. In the end it was a phone call from former Rangers’ striker and then Manchester United manager, Alex Ferguson, which helped Celtic secure the manager who would lead the club into the new century. Ferguson, a friend of Celtic’s biggest shareholder, Dermot Desmond had been consulted by the Irish businessman about his recommendations for the vacant manager’s job at Celtic. Ferguson said, ‘listen, would you have any interest in managing Celtic? Would you take a call from Dermot Desmond in half an hour?’ For Martin O’Neill there could only be one answer.  

 Those of you familiar with the north of Ireland will perhaps know the village of Kilrea. It sits close to the River Bann which marks the boundary between Counties Derry and Antrim and is a fairly quiet home to around 1700 people. It was not untouched by the troubles but the local population is robust, friendly and for the most part get along well. It can boast a few notable inhabitants such as Hannah Shields who was only the second Irish woman to scale Mount Everest. The local Gaelic athletic club, the ‘Padraig Pearse’s GAC’ have had mixed fortunes over the years. Their under 16 team won the inaugural Championship in 1966 and the team contained a skinny lad who was to be a major figure in modern Celtic history. Coming from a family of nine was perhaps the initial grounding in teamwork which taught him that the whole is often more than the sum of its parts. Having four brothers and four sisters might also have taught him the skills required to get on with a group of diverse people. I speak of course of Martin Hugh Michael O’Neil. 

As Martin O’Neill stood on the steps of Celtic Park in the bright June sunshine in the year 2000, the watching throng of Celtic fans could have been forgiven for thinking that the troubles of the 1990s might at last be receding into the past. Here was a manager at the peak of his powers and who had brought success to unfashionable Leicester City.  The fans were euphoric but O’Neill would have known even on that first day that the weight of expectation had crushed the previous incumbent. He said to the watching supporters... 

“It's an absolute honour for me to be the manager here, an absolute honour,” Martin O’Neill said. “I will do everything I possibly can to bring some success to this club.” 

As the cheers echoed around him, O’Neill would have realised the scale of Celtic football club and the scale of the task required to turn the club around and give the fans the success they craved. He spoke some years later of that first day and said rather poignantly... 

‘I’ll never forget that evening when everything had all died down and the crowd had dispersed. I walked to the top of the Jock Stein stand just have a look at the empty stadium and thought wow, this is something really special. Obviously, the stadium had changed greatly since Jock Stein’s days and I remember the old truck coming in when they won the European cup. The stadium at Celtic Park is pretty special.’ 

O’Neill’s first task was to assemble a squad which could compete for the title again. The Rangers squad in 2000-01 contained players who brought experience, skill and considerable physicality onto the field. They had players such as Frank De Boer, Barry Ferguson, Michael Mols, Lorenzo Amoruso, Jorge Albertz and Andre Kanchelskis. To this they added the likes of Peter Lovenkrands, Ronald De Boer, Fernando Ricksen and Tore Andre Flo. O’Neill joked years later that had he known the quality in the Rangers squad, he might not have taken the Celtic job. 

As the summer of 2000 unfolded, he began the reconstruction of the Celtic squad which was sorely needed. Viduka was sold to Leeds United, Vidar Riseth, Regi Blinker and Rafael Scheidt were also moved on. The unfortunate Marc Rieper was forced to retire due to a toe injury. Chris Sutton was signed from Chelsea with the funds raised by selling Viduka. Soon to join him were Joos Valgaeren, Alan Thompson, Didier Agathe and Rab Douglas. As the season progressed, Neill Lennon and Ramon Vega also arrived at Celtic Park. Celtic’s squad now looked more robust and the dressing room contained the sort of strong characters who would not shirk a fight on or off the field. The Celtic board had backed the manager and O’Neill was now tasked with blending these undoubtedly talented players into a winning team. 

Competitive football began for Martin O’Neill’s Celtic at Tannadice stadium in Dundee on a sunny July day. Dundee United, remembering their roots by wearing a green shirt in their centenary year, gave Celtic a stern test, but goals from Sutton and Larsson saw Celtic emerge with the points. There was a determination about the side and none of the mental sluggishness which marked the closing months of the previous season. Motherwell, Kilmarnock and Hearts were swept aside as Celtic approached what many considered to be the acid test; the first derby of the season with Rangers.  

Some games live long in the memory, be it because of a wonderful goal, a fine team performance of the atmosphere it engendered. The Celtic v Rangers game played at Celtic Park on the 27th August 2000 had all of that but in retrospect it marked a turning point in Scottish football. Rangers had won 11 of the previous 12 titles and had defeated Celtic 4-0 in the previous fixture just three months before. They rolled up to Celtic Park on the back of four straight league wins and fully expected to dampen the enthusiasm felt by Celtic supporters and their emerging team. For Celtic, Chris Sutton summed it up by suggesting that if Celtic wanted to be successful, they had to ‘put Rangers in their place.’ That game lives in Celtic folklore as Celtic smashed Advocaat’s expensive side by 6 goals to 2. Celtic announced that they were back and that the new century would see a new Celtic.

For many, the next few years convinced them that Martin O’Neill’s Celtic were indeed the most effective side the club has fielded since the Lisbon Lions era. There have been Celtic sides since which played prettier football or won more honours; but O’Neill’s side faced a peak Rangers, spending tens of millions on players, and put them in their place. They restored Celtic’s reputation in Europe and built their success on sound financial planning. Rangers would respond by buying players they couldn’t afford and luring them to Scotland by promising them tax free remuneration. The EBT scheme was designed to make payments to players, managers, and directors in a way that avoided paying income tax and national insurance contributions. HMRC challenged this arrangement, arguing that the payments were disguised remuneration and should be taxable. The Supreme Court ultimately sided with HMRC, ruling that the payments made under the EBTs were indeed taxable earnings. This episode eventually brought the whole house of cards tumbling down at Ibrox.

Celtic’s success in the 20 years since the O’Neill era has seen them become the most successful Scottish club of all time. Fans today recognise the debt owed to O’Neill’s side in re-establishing Celtic as Scotland’s premier club. They set out to put their great rivals in their place and by God they did just that.

 

The Best

 

                                                                 The Best

Glasgow 1998

Peter Kaveney looked carefully at the season tickets in his hand before slipping them in his pocket. ‘Is the wee guy ready, Suzie? The bus won’t wait for us.’ His wife stood and tossed her paper onto the couch, ‘he’s been ready for two hours. I’ll go get him.’ She returned a moment later with an excited nine-year-old, already in his Larsson t-shirt, a Celtic scarf around his neck. ‘Have ye got the tickets, da?’ he said, smiling at his old man. Peter nodded, ‘right here in ma sky rocket, wee man. Who’s winning today?’ Young Patrick grinned, ‘Celtic of course!’  Peter nodded, ‘and if they do, it’ll be your first title. Sorry it took them so long. I saw plenty by your age.’ Patrick shrugged, ‘they won’t keep us waiting so long for the next one.’ Peter smiled at his son, ‘That’s the spirit. right let’s go. We’ve got a league to win.’

They sat on the supporters’ bus as it rattled along the motorway towards Celtic Park. Peter enjoyed these chances to talk to his boy about his own experiences of growing up a Celtic fan. ‘My dad, yer granda Jim- he was Celtic mad. Saw the 7-1 game, went tae Lisbon. He took me to see my first match in 1968. Celtic beat Hamilton 10-0!’ ‘Ten-nil!’ Patrick exclaimed, ‘how did ye remember all the goal scorers?’ Peter smiled, ‘oh, that was easy; Lennox 5, Chalmers 5.’ Young Peter was full of questions about his father and grandfather’s time supporting Celtic. ‘So, when did you first see Celtic win the league?’ Peter cast his mind back thirty years, ‘it was at Kilmarnock, we needed a point to clinch it. They were a tough side then. We were 2-0 down at half-time. Hit them with everything in that second half. Forced an own goal, but it looked like we were going to lose. Then in the very last minute, Tommy Gemmell hit an absolute rocket low intae the net. The place went crazy.’ 

Patrick was still curious and asked, ‘When did granda Jim see them winning it? Did he have to wait till he was nine, like me?’’  Peter thought for a moment, ‘my old man told me he saw Celtic with the league at Love Street in 1938. They won the Empire Exhibition trophy that spring tae. They were building a great team, but the war came and broke the side up.’ Patrick, in that childlike way of his, then asked, ‘so, who took grandad Jim tae the match.’ Peter smiled, that was my grandad, Paddy. He was an Irishman. He passed away before I was born so I’ve only seen photos of him. You’re named after him.’ The bus parked in its usual spot at Society Street, just off the Gallowgate. Peter looked at his son, sensing that he was just as excited about Celtic’s chances of sealing the title as he was. ’Right wee guy, let’s get you in here and see the Celts do the business!’

The huge crowd filling three sides of the rebuilt Celtic Park was in a raucous mood. Peter smiled at Patrick as the game started to a tremendous roar. It took Henrik Larsson just three minutes to weave along the edge of the St Johnstone box and curl an unstoppable shot past goalkeeper, Alain Maine. Peter swept a startled Patrick up in his arms and danced a jig of delight. ‘Yaaasssss! Here we go! Come on Celtic!’ The next seventy minutes of the game was a nervous, tense wait for the clinching goal which some thought might not come. Peter Kaveney breathed deeply the minutes ticked past. Like everyone else in the stadium, he knew Rangers were winning at Tannadice and a St Johnstone goal would torpedo Celtic’s title hopes. As if sensing his father’s nervousness, Patrick touched his arm, ‘it’s alright, da, we’ll score again.’ Peter nodded at him and smiled before refocussing on the game.

Less than a minute later, Tom Boyd swept the ball up the right wing towards Jackie McNamara. The young full back raced onto it and saw Harald Brattbakk racing into the penalty box. McNamara sent an inviting cross sweeping across the penalty area. Peter Kaveney and his son Patrick watched open mouthed, as the mercurial Norwegian striker met the ball perfectly and smashed a low shot into the net. It was 2-0. There was no way back for St Johnstone now. Celtic were the Champions. How the crowd sang and roared as their beloved team made it across the line to claim their first title in ten long years. As the trophy was held aloft by Tom Boyd, Peter Kaveney looked at his son and saw that he was crying. ‘Hey, what’s wrong, wee man? We won, we’re champions.’ Patrick sniffed, ‘I cannae help it, da. It’s just so…’ he sobbed again, ‘it’s just so…great.’ Peter hugged him, ‘it is son. It bloody is and I know you’ll see many more days like this.’ They held each other close for a long moment before turning and watching their heroes on the pitch.

 

Glasgow May 2025

Pat Kaveney could feel the heat of the early summer sun on his face as he sat in the great north stand at Celtic Park. Trophy days were always special to him and as he looked around him at the packed stadium, he cast his mind back twenty-seven years to that glorious day when, for the first time in his life, he had seen Celtic win the title. He smiled to think he had now seen them win it twenty times. His old man had ignited his love for Celtic and it hurt him to think that he was no longer around to join him on days like this. They had shared so many magical moments together watching their team; from the 6-2 game to Seville, from a second nine-in-a-row and a quadruple treble. Sometimes he would turn to his left and expect to see his old man there, but saw instead the face of his own son, Aidan. It was as if things had come full circle.

The game saw St Mirren snatch the lead and then hang on for dear life as Celtic besieged their goal. Pat Kaveney looked at his son, ‘I don’t care if the league is already won. I don’t like losing.’ Aiden looked at him, ’we’ll score da, don’t worry.’ As the game went deep into injury time, Alasdair Johnston feigned to shoot and drew St Mirren defenders towards him. As they raced to shut him down, Johnston slipped the ball right to the unmarked James Forrest. The veteran winger who had scored in every season since his debut in 2010 smashed a low shot towards goal. As Pat and Aidan watched, the ball, a blur in the bright sunshine, flashed past the despairing goalkeeper’s reach and nestled in the net.

Celtic Park erupted. The roar was as loud as any Pat had heard in all his time watching Celtic. Yes, they roared that they’d saved the game, that they’d not be defeated on this special day. They also roared for James Forrest, the remarkable one club player who had now scored in every season since his debut 15 years earlier. They roared too that this remarkable football club had refused to give in to defeat and fought right to the end. Pat Hugged his son. ‘I wish your grandad was here to see this. He’d love it.’ It struck him in that moment that that he and his father, and indeed his grandfather, had led very different lives, but the one constant in it all was their love of Celtic. His son was now the fifth generation of his family to follow Celtic. It wasn’t like they were passing on the baton to the next generation; it was more like they were gifting them a community, a history, a place in the world. Celtic was a part of their lives. Celtic was in their DNA.

Pat Kaveney and his son Aidan watched as Callum McGregor raised the league trophy above his head and into a storm of fireworks and green ticker tape. As a huge roar echoed around the great bowl of Celtic Park, Pat looked at the clear, blue sky and smiled. ‘I hope somehow, somewhere you can see this dad. We didn’t wait another ten years, eh? We’re ruling the roost now.’ His son looked at him and asked, ‘who are you talking to, da?’ Pat looked at him, ‘just saying a wee prayer that we can share more of these days together.’ Aidan nodded, ‘we will da, we will. We’re the best.’ Pat Kaveney smiled. ‘Aye son, we bloody are. Long may it continue.’

Remember us

 

Remember us

The old fellow in the cap sucked on his pipe and waved briefly at the two men in the car, who had kindly pulled onto the grass verge to let him, and his sixty odd sheep, squeeze past them. The single-track road was rutted and narrow and the incessant drizzle had also made it pretty muddy. ‘We should have come in the summer; this weather is worse than back home.’  Paddy said, glancing at the mud splattered sheep. Tam Curran watched as the last of the sheep brushed past the car, ushered on their way by a bright looking sheep dog. ‘We should have parked up on the road and walked the last mile,’ he said to his brother, Paddy, who sat in the passenger seat gazing at his phone. ‘No shit, Sherlock. Easy to be wise after the event.’ Tam sighed and eased the car further down the track until it was blocked by a rusty looking iron gate. He looked at Paddy. ‘End of the road, bawjaws, looks like we’ll need to do the last bit on foot.’ Paddy put his phone in his pocket, ‘Nae signal, but at least we can take pictures to show folk we actually made it.’

The two brothers had travelled to county Sligo on the west coast of Ireland on a mission to visit the birth place of the founder of their favourite football club. Their battered old Fiesta had stuttered out of Glasgow and headed for the Ferry at Cairnryan in south-west Scotland. They had then shared the driving on the 160-mile journey from Larne to Ballymote and had arrived just as the sun was dipping below the horizon.  Once they settled into their digs, they had sipped a few pints of Guinness in Doddy’s Bar and agreed to set off on their quest in the morning. A combination of tiredness from the journey and alcohol kept them in their beds much longer than they expected. It was well after lunchtime when they set out on the final leg of their journey.

There was a feeling of quiet excitement as Tam opened the boot of the car and took a heavy looking backpack out, before swinging it onto his shoulder. ‘Right, let’s do this, I’ve got the map, big Davie drew when he was here last year.’ Paddy nodded, ‘I cannae believe we’re actually here.’ Tam grinned, ‘I know. The place should have a museum with a decent road but maybe that would spoil it.’ They opened the gate and, after closing it behind them, set off to find the ruined cottage that was once the home of Andrew Kerins. They walked along the side of a field for a few hundred yards until they reached a clump of trees. Tam looked at the rough map drawn by their uncle who had made the trip the previous summer. ‘He looked up and scanned the area carefully. ‘Over this way.’ They walked into the trees and instantly saw the tumbled down little cottage they were looking for.

‘Jeez, it’s tiny, Tam. Our livin’ room is bigger than the whole place.’ Tam opened his backpack and took out the two items he intended leaving in the roofless little cottage. One was a brass crucifix he had bought from a stall in the Barras market in Glasgow. It stood about a foot tall and had a square base that meant he could stand it in a suitable place in the cottage. The other was his grandfather’s Celtic scarf. The old fella insisted they take it along even though it had been all over Europe, as the old fella followed Celtic to Lisbon and beyond. Tam stepped over a pile of stones from the cottage which lay scattered on the muddy ground and into the remains of the cottage itself.

The two brothers stood looking around the space trying to imagine what life would have been like for a family living here in the 1840s when Andrew Kerins was a child. Tam placed the Celtic scarf on a pile of stones, before setting the crucifix in a sheltered corner of the room. ‘There ye go, brother. Without you there’d be no Celtic and we’d all be a lot poorer for it.’   His brother touched his elbow, ‘look.’ Tam turned to see a light mist drifting over the fields towards the cottage. ‘Looks like the haar, ye get on the east coast of Scotland.’ His brother looked at him, ‘what’s the haar?’ Paddy watched the rolling mist move closer, ‘it’s like a sea fog. It rolls in and usually disappears just as quickly.’  The mist reached them and seemed to thicken. After a few moments, visibility was completely obscured. Paddy looked at his older brother, ‘this is a bit creepy, eh?’ Tam shrugged, ‘we’d be busy finding the car in this, best tae sit tight till it passes.’

Tam glanced around him and decided to sit in one corner of the small roofless cottage. As he sat gazing at the fog which had closed in completely, he opened his rucksack and took out some sandwiches he had bought at a garage in Sligo. ‘Here,’ he said to his brother, ‘cheese and pickle.’ Paddy needed no second invitation. As Paddy enjoyed his food, Tam thought of young Andrew Kerins playing in and around this cottage as a child. Times must have been hard if he was driven to journey to Glasgow as a teenage boy. He closed his eyes and imagined family life in the cottage. His mother, Mary, cooking for them, his father John working the land around the cottage.

When he opened his eyes, it was gloomier, the fog seemed thicker and Paddy was nowhere to be seen. ‘Paddy, where the hell are ye?’ he called. ‘Don’t wander off in this fog.’ There was no reply. He stood up and gazed out into the smoky, white fog. ‘Paddy! Quit yer fannying aboot. It’s not funny.’ He saw the vague outline of a figure in the mist twenty yards away. ‘Over here, ya big daftie. Did ye get lost?’ The figure didn’t respond, it just stood still. Tam was unable to make out if it was a man or woman, such was the thickness of the fog. To his surprise he then saw another indistinct figure, this time smaller, perhaps a child. ‘Are you lost?’ he called out but neither of the wraith like figures in the fog responded. As he looked around him, he saw other figures standing behind the cottage too. Their ghostly outlines seeming to drift in and out of the fog. Then he heard a low voice speaking in what he thought must be Irish, ‘cuimhnigh orainn.’ From behind him another voice, more feminine this time repeated the phrase, ‘cuimhnigh orainn.’ Tam could feel the hair on the back of his neck stand up. ‘Paddy, where the hell are you?’ he said, feeling what could have been mild panic rising in his chest. Other voices were speaking now, ‘cuimhnigh orainn... cuimhnigh orainn…’ A hand touched his shoulder and he spun around, his mouth open in fear.

His brother’s smiling face was looking at him. ‘Tam, ye nodded off. Ye were shouting me in yer sleep. Must have been some dream.’ Tam realised he was still sitting in the corner of the cottage. He stood, his heart still pounding, and peered out into the fog, seeing that it was thinning as it moved across the fields. Paddy regarded him with an amused look, ‘nightmare?’ Tam exhaled, ‘you could say that.’ He glanced around him, ‘where’s grandad’s Celtic scarf?’ Paddy looked too, ‘no idea, I thought you had it.’ After a fruitless search, they decided to forget it and take some photos before heading back to the car. By the time they set off, the fog had all but lifted and the drive back to Ballymote was uneventful.

The brothers had one more stop to make before the long drive north towards the ferry and home. The famine graveyard at St John’s hospital in Sligo was said to contain over 2000 souls lost in the great hunger.  Tam and Paddy gazed at the metal sculpture of a lone bush. A plaque beside it read…

‘Reilig an Ghorta Mhóir. You are entering a long abandoned Famine Graveyard. Here ends 'Casan na Marbh', Pathway of Death, so named because unnumbered thousands perished following its grim passage from rotted fields to odious workhouse to ignominious burial.

May they feel the warmth of a tear!
May they hear the piper's lament,
May they know we, the survivors, keep vigil.’

Paddy and Tam stood silently for a long moment, feeling the enormity of the tragedy that had occurred here. After a few moments contemplation, they walked around the graveyard for a while longer. A man stood gazing at large circle of stones set into the ground. In the centre of the circle, a large Celtic cross had also been embedded into the earth. The two brothers stood beside him. ‘Is this someone’s grave too?’ Tam asked the elderly man. He nodded, and replied in a soft Irish accent, ‘this is the children’s grave. Hundreds of the poor little angels are resting here.’ Tam shook his head, ‘Jesus, how does a country recover from that?’ The man nodded, ‘we still haven’t.’ They stood in silence for a moment before Tam asked the grey-haired old fella, ‘do you speak Irish, by any chance?’ The man looked at him with kind blue eyes, ‘I do indeed.’ Tam replied, ‘can you tell me what, ‘cuimhnigh orainn,’ means. The man smiled a poignant little smile, perhaps at Tam's poor pronunciation of Irish, and answered, ‘it means, ‘remember us.’ A fitting phrase for such a place.’

As the brothers walked towards the gate of the graveyard, Tam was quiet. His brother looked at him, ‘you ok, mate?’ He nodded, the dream I had in the cottage. The figures in the fog kept saying, ‘cuimhnigh orainn.’ Do you not think that’s odd?’ Paddy shrugged, ‘Dreams are usually odd. I think losing grandad’s Celtic scarf is more odd.’ As they neared the exit, Paddy glanced at a tall Celtic cross and stopped in his tracks. ‘Would you look at that now!’ Tam followed his brothers gaze and saw his grandfather’s Celtic scarf draped over the monument. ‘Now that is strange,’ said Paddy. ‘Just leave it there,’ Tam replied. 

As they walked from the graveyard to the car, Tam glanced back. ‘We’ll remember you. Every time we pass Walfrid’s statue. We’ll remember.’ He sat in the car and started the engine. They had a long drive home.

 

 

The right thing to do

 

The right thing to do

Celtic’s decision to pay compensation to more than twenty victims of historic child sexual abuse at the former Celtic Boys Club has been generally greeted with approval though some wondered why it took so long. These despicable crimes happened at an institution with close ties to Celtic FC and the club, whilst maintaining the two organisations were separate entities, rightly recognised that it can’t morally wash its hands of the victims. Celtic said in an official statement…

‘Celtic Football Club can confirm that a number of legal claims in the group proceedings against the Club have been resolved. We are hopeful that settlement can be reached with the remaining group members shortly. For some time, we have sought to work with the group members’ lawyers to reach a resolution. The Club acknowledges the strength of the survivors of abuse who have come forward, and hope that this resolution may help to bring them some closure. Celtic Football Club is appalled by any form of historic abuse and has great sympathy for those who suffered abuse and for their families. The Club is very sorry that these events took place at Celtic Boys’ Club.  The Club takes this abuse extremely seriously because of the historic contacts between the two organisations.  The abuse of young people is an abhorrent crime which has unfortunately affected many areas of society. The Club continues to work with Scottish football to make it a safe place for all young people.’

The carefully worded statement is clearly maintaining the ‘separate entity’ stance, but does express genuine remorse at what went on in those years. This is not the place to argue how closely connected the Boys club was to the football club, but I am glad Celtic accepted moral responsibility even if they do still deny legal liability. The old board who ran Celtic in the pre-Fergus McCann days were clearly negligent and have questions to answer. When you give permission for a boys’ club to be named in honour of Celtic and to wear the club colours, there is surely an obligation to carry out due diligence and have some oversight of who was running the club and how it was being managed.

The period in question here, 1966-1994, saw Celtic happy to take the best youngsters from the Celtic Boys Club and simultaneously ignore the rumours which swirled around it. Celtic have at long last lived up to their moral responsibility. Of course, child protection procedures in the 1960s and 70s were nowhere near as stringent as they are today. Abuse occurred in many organisations where an imbalance of power was present. These predators wormed their way into many sectors of society where the vulnerable might be preyed upon. What happened at Celtic Boys club was far from unique. Manchester City have paid out huge amounts of money to more than 40 victims of Barry Bennell, one of the UK’s most prolific paedophiles. City’s statement at the time was similar to Celtic’s and it read in part…

"The club reiterates, however, its heartfelt sympathy to all victims for the unimaginably traumatic experiences that they endured. All victims were entitled to expect full protection from the kind of harm they suffered as a result of their sexual abuse as children."

The SFA’s report into child sexual abuse in Scottish football is a painful read but one I recommend folk who love our national sport undertake. They not only take us through the difficult events in the period concerned, using witness statements, they also take us through their own journey in the battle to safeguard children involved in football. The report says at one point…

‘Although we are clear that the direct responsibility for the alleged abuse of these young people and the consequent harm lies with the men who perpetrated or are said to have perpetrated these acts, we are also very aware of the accountability which lies with clubs and organisations in football since these shared a duty of care to the young people in their charge. Apology should be made not just because the Review recommends it but more importantly because it is the right thing to do.’

Everyone in football has a ‘shared duty of care’ towards our young folk. That is now enshrined in law, in protocols at football clubs and in clubs where youngsters play the game. The mistakes of the past were painful and must never be repeated. Historically, many football clubs in the UK were infiltrated by the abusers and we’d all like to think that’d be impossible now. The need for diligence still demands that we are vigilant, listen to young people and act on what they tell us.

In the stands of Scottish football and in the poorly regulated ‘wild west’ of social media, there are still people who seek to weaponize child sexual abuse in order to denigrate their sporting opponents. It can be nauseating to see grown men trading insults when it is patently obvious that they don’t give a damn about the victims. We have even heard thousands of people chanting about it in certain fixtures and that is beyond despicable. The NSPCC states that 1 child in 20 will experience sexual abuse. The chances are that those misguided fools who chant about child sexual abuse are no more than a few metres from someone who actually suffered from it. Enough already. It’s demeaning, it’s inexcusable and it’s just plain wrong.

Celtic have done the right thing this week by compensating the victims of abuse at the boys’ club. It may have occurred long before anyone at the club today was even involved in football, but it marks an acceptance of moral responsibility. Acknowledging this can only help the victims heal and perhaps bring some closure to a hugely painful episode.

Our thoughts go out to those who were the victims of this despicable crime. They’re the ones who really matter.

 

 

 

 

Finding the dig

 

 

Finding the dig

 Watching Celtic struggle against Rangers in the latest derby match reminded me of the old adage that ‘hard work beats talent when talent doesn’t work hard.’ Celtic were undoubtedly the architects of their own downfall with some defending reminiscent of the 1990s, when fans referred to the Hoops back line as the ‘sieve.’ Of course, good defence in the modern game begins with the front line and, press as they did, Celtic found that Rangers often achieved more with one ball over the top than the Hoops did with a dozen passes.

Last week’s narrow loss was down to more than poor defending though. Celtic looked soft in the middle of the field and their opponents thought nothing of leaving the foot in. Indeed, some of the tackling on Yang and Maeda was a throwback to less civilised days in the beautiful game when players set out to slow down the danger men in the opponent’s team by kicking them. Scottish football seems to tolerate a degree of physicality that other leagues wouldn’t. Igamane’s tackle on Yang late in the game was a borderline red card but in the SPFL it wasn’t even deemed a booking.

 Jan Bartram, a Danish international player said of his time playing for Rangers in the late 1980’s…

 "My team-mates laughed about my clash with Souness because they knew the truth of what I said. I was shocked by my boss's early tackle in a Euro tie with Steaua Bucharest. He should have been sent off. I would not follow his orders and deliberately kick people."

We used to say in those days that we’d rather sign a John Collins or a Joe Miller than a John Brown or Terry Hurlock, but there is a balance to be struck between skill and finesse and that physical dig required in the Scottish League. At times Celtic allowed themselves to be bullied last week and that can’t continue. In 2008, injuries and circumstances saw Celtic purchase Barry Robson from Dundee United on the last day of the January transfer window. With Robson and Hartley blending well in midfield, Celtic clawed back a big deficit in the title race to be crowned champions on an emotional night at Tannadice. Barry Robson added steel and experience to the midfield. He was a decent footballer but he could get stuck in too when circumstances demanded it. His clattering of Christian Daly in the opening minutes of a vital derby match set the tone for the game. Celtic were there to play football, but if the opposition wanted a battle, then they would get one. More recently, Scott Brown added that dimension to Celtic’s play when necessary. Today we have some good footballers in midfield but is there anyone ready to boss things and, when required, fight fire with fire?

 We know what Rangers’ tactics will be in the derby games and we need to adapt to it better. The last 5 matches against them have seen Celtic ship 12 goals (3-3, 3-0, 3-3, 0-3, 2-3) and that is a worrying stat. Rodgers win ratio in the fixture is the best there has ever been but this season’s title race has been more comfortable for Celtic than it could have been. Rangers won’t be liberally spilling points to lesser sides forever so it’s important Celtic re-establish dominance in the fixture. I still believe Celtic has the better squad and on the whole better players but the intensity and desire needs to match theirs for the entire game. We saw in that second half of last week’s match that when Celtic step it up and play as they can, they are the better side. Over the course of the game, they created enough chances to win, yet, they were undone in the end by little more than a long punt up the park.  

 All successful teams reach a point where the cycle of success is challenged. How they react to it is the deciding factor in whether they will continue to dominate. Next season will be an interesting one as Celtic will face perhaps a sterner test in the league than they have this year. The summer will, I’m sure, see some comings and goings at Celtic Park and the club needs to get the right men in to meet the challenges ahead. That being said, there is much to play for this season with a league to be settled and the Scottish cup to be fought for. The good work of 2024-25 season has the club in a strong position and we shouldn’t lose sight of that after a disappointing loss. The championship is decided over the course of ten long months of football in all kinds of conditions and Celtic are rightly in pole position. Last week’s loss is a reminder of what can happen if you don’t maintain the high standards you set. Football can be an unpredictable game at times and we may look back when this season is over and have much to celebrate.  

It is possible to lose the odd battle and still win the war.

 

 

Smells like team spirit

 

Smells like Team Spirit 

‘This is gonnae be another long season, Paddy,’ Scott said as he filed out of Celtic Park on a cold, dark St Andrew’s day in 1991. ‘Yon Marshall couldnae catch flu in an epidemic and that Cascarino couldnae score in the proverbial barrel, I’d play Gerry Creaney every time.’ Paddy nodded, ‘Aye, mate. Tommy Coyne saved the bacon there, but fuck me, we really struggled tae beat Dunfermline at home. That says it all.’ As they reached the end of Janefield Street, the two friends stopped for a final word before parting company. Scott looked at his friend, ‘mind we’re heading up the west end tae see this band tonight. Jacqueline bought the tickets and she’ll not be pleased if we hit the Don Revie and miss it.’ Paddy grinned, ‘aye, we need cheering up after that game. I hope they’re no shite. I’ll get ye at Buchanan Steet underground at 7 and we’ll jump the subway.’ The two friends headed off into the gathering darkness of a Scottish winter’s night.

Scott McArdle looked at himself in the mirror, making sure he hadn’t missed any part of his chin when shaving. ‘Where are you aff tae the night?’ his old man enquired as he passed the bathroom. ‘Up the west-end da, seeing a band in wan of they student joints.’ His old man, the pink sports Times in his hand, his black glasses with one leg taped on with white tape grinned, ‘did I tell ye I saw the Beatles in the Odeon in 1963? They were back up band tae tae yon Yank with the dark specs.’ Scott looked at his father, ‘you saw the Beatles?’ ‘Aye, no bad at aw. That Lennon was a gallus guy.’ As Scott watched, his old man bizarrely started to shuffle about in his slippers and sing, ‘shake it on baby noo, twist and shout.’ Scott laughed out loud as did his father. ‘Anyhow, ye can use my Old Spice, it’s in the bathroom cabinet,’ his old man said as he shuffled off towards the kitchen. Scott shook his head, ‘yer aw right, da. I’ve got some of my ain stuff here.’ He heard his old man mutter, ‘aye, fuckin Linx Africa. Cat’s pish if ye ask me.’

Scott met Paddy by Buchanan Street underground as planned and they jumped the train to Byres Road. The train was quiet and they sat in quiet conversation. ‘Has this place got a bar or should we smuggle in a hauf bottle?’ Paddy enquired. ‘Student unions have always got a bar and they’re usually cheap. Jacqueline and her pal, Clare are meeting us and we’ll head up for a pint before the band comes oan.’ Paddy looked at him, ‘this Clare a student like yer burd?’ Scott nodded, ‘aye, another daftie that wants tae teach bammy weans.’ Paddy nodded, thinking the night might have some unforeseen opportunities.

They met the two young women outside the subway station and headed through the back lanes towards Queen Margaret’s Union. Paddy gawped at an odd shaped sculpture they passed on the way. ‘What’s that meant to be?’ Clare, a short, blonde girl with a keen mind replied, ‘it’s part of the geology display the university have dotted about the place. The stone is a grey granodiorite from Ballachulish and contains xenoliths of dark Ballachulish Slate. It used to be part of a culvert on the railway.’ Paddy looked at her blankly before replying, ‘granodiorite? I think I drank a bottle of that in Benidorm.’ Clare had the grace to smile. As they continued on in the darkness, Paddy muttered to Scott, ‘looks mer like a stone vag, tae me, mate.’ Scott laughed. ‘Never change, Paddy.’

 

They passed a couple of skinny looking students who were manning the door and headed into the Union. The girls excused themselves and headed off to the toilets as Scott and Paddy headed for the bar. The main band won’t be on for an hour, I say we listen tae the first lot fae here & have a few drinks?’ Paddy ventured. Scott nodded and joined him in the queue at the bar. Paddy looked at the guy in front of him, who stood at least 6 feet 6. ‘Fuckin hell, wit dae they feed these students oan?’ The tall man took his drinks and sat with his two friends nearby. Scott bought drinks for himself and his company and turned to see an empty table by the big guy. ‘Anybody sitting here, big man?’ he enquired. ‘No, help yourself the tall man said in an American drawl.’ They sat and sipped their pints. ‘This band better be good. I’m knackered after that fitbaw the day,’ he said to the American who looked at him as if he was talking Chinese. ‘I’m sorry, your accent is a little heavy.’ Paddy cut in, like a half cut UN interpreter, ‘he’s just saying we were watching Celtic today and his daft burd suggested we come watch some band she’s intae.’ ‘Oh, right, I got you now,’ the big American said. ‘So, you were watching, like a sports team today?’ Paddy nodded, ‘aye, Celtic. They’re a bit Lillian Gish these days but we live in hope they’ll get better.’ The tall man laughed, gesturing for Paddy to translate. ‘Lillian Gish?’ Paddy obliged, ‘aye, pish, rubbish, ye know?’ The blond man on the big guy’s right, wearing dark sunglasses, cut in, laughing, ‘sounds like the Seattle Sounders.’ The big guy nodded, ‘I gotcha now.’

Before the conversation could continue the girls returned from the toilet. Jacqueline’s eyes widened, ‘Krist! Oh, my God. Why did I not bring a camera!’ She glanced at the other two Americans, her face reddening. Scott looked at her, ‘is this the band?’ She nodded, ‘aye it bloody is!’ Paddy looked on none the wiser, ‘I thought it wiz just mer students- no bad c*nts by the way.’ A voice called, ‘sound check guys,’ and the three Americans drained their glasses and stood. Krist Novoselic towered over Jacqueline and smiled, ‘gotta go. Enjoy the show.’ When they had left, Jacqueline and Clare looked at the two confused young men sitting drinking their beer. ‘You were talking to them? I want to know every single word they said!’

An hour and a few drinks later they were in the midst of a heaving mass of sweaty bodies as the American band filled the hall with their raging guitar sound. Paddy and Scott bounced around like everyone else, fuelled by drink and the exuberance of youth. As the band finished ‘Floyd the barber,’ to a huge cheer, the lead singer, whom Clare had informed Scott and Paddy, was called Kurt, said with the hint of a smile, ‘this one’s for all of you whose sports team is Lillian Gish.’ Paddy grinned as the guitars and drums filled the air again. The singer began to sing above the clashing instruments as the room danced as one…

‘Load up on guns, bring your friends
It's fun to lose and to pretend
She's over-bored and self-assured
Oh no, I know a dirty word

Hello, hello, hello, how low
Hello, hello, hello, how low
Hello, hello, hello, how low
Hello, hello, hello

With the lights out, it's less dangerous
Here we are now, entertain us
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now, entertain us
A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido
Yeah, hey, yay…’

The following morning, Scott awoke, his head still pounding like the big American’s drums. ‘Aw man, I need tae chuck the drink.’ He walked to the bathroom in the pale, Sunday morning light, trying to remember the night before. The band were great. He recalled Paddy and Clare snogging like a pair of hungry bulldogs eating their dinners. He looked in the mirror and a pair of bloodshot eyes looked back. ‘Did that band mention the Celts being Lillian Gish?’  He splashed cold water on his face. ‘Back tae bed, it’ll come back tae ye later.’ He stumbled into the bedroom and folded like a deckchair onto the bed. ‘No a bad band, that lot. No bad at aw. No a patch on Celtic though.’ No matter how bad your team got- they were always your team. Sleep overtook him as he heard strains of ‘teen spirit’ echoing in his head.

Remembering Nirvana at Queen Margaret's Union. St Andrew's day 1991.

 

 

The Bet

 

 

The Bet

 The Celtic fans crammed into the Beach end of Aberdeen’s Pittodrie Stadium roared as Celtic cranked up the pressure on the Aberdeen defence. It had been a tight game, full of snarling challenges and no quarter given by either side. The first half had ended goalless and the Celtic fans tuned into their radios knew Hearts were ahead at Tannadice. Given they already had a five-point lead on Celtic, it was vital that the men in green claimed the points at fortress Pittodrie. A place where they had stumbled a few times in recent seasons.

'Need a goal here, George,’ Tony said to his long-time friend, ‘if we go any further behind the league will be over.’ George Toner nodded, ‘aye, Hearts don’t look like losing these days but we just need tae keep winning and make them work for it.’ As they refocused on the game, Owen Archdeacon took a quick throw to Mo Johnston who swivelled away from his marker. As another Aberdeen defender rushed to close him down, the quick-thinking striker unleashed a hard, low shot which flew past the goalkeeper and into the net. The Beach end exploded with joy! Celtic had their break through and they weren’t going to let it slip now.

 The coach pulled into Stonehaven, where it seemed every bar was filled with Celtic fans. The police moved them out of Aberdeen as soon as the game was over and many supporters’ clubs had pre-arranged to stop in the small fishing town just off the A92 for a few beers. In truth, most stayed till closing time and trundled into Glasgow at 2am.  Local pub owners were glad of a full house and the as their supporters’ bus drew up outside the Ship Inn, bus convenor, Charlie Devine stood up and addressed the fans in his own inimitable style. ‘Right, listen up. We aw remember the trouble we had in this toon last year when some daft basturt robbed the condom machine in the bog. I want yer best behaviour in here! Nae taking the pish oot their accents or any other fuckwittery. Be warned! Baws will be kicked!’ There was a loud cheer as the door of the coach opened and they piled into the bar. The few locals already there smiled when the sixty thirsty Celtic fans besieged the bar.

 Once George had bought a couple of pints he sat with Tony in the corner, watching the banter and laughter unfolding in the bar. ‘A good win that today. Huns lost at Clydebank but Hearts won at Tannadice so still five points behind.’ Tony sighed, ‘do ye think we can still win this league?’ George shook his head, ‘four games left. Ye have tae say it’s Hearts league to lose now.’ As Tony took a long drink of his beer his friend looked at him. ‘Are you serious aboot that bet ye put oan wi that walloper, Dixon?’ Tony nodded, ‘cannae get oot of it noo. After the 4-4 game at Ibrox, he said Celtic had no chance of winning the league. I told him we still would and he said, ‘if Celtic win this league, I’ll run through the streets naked.’ George grinned, ‘and if we don’t, you’ll dae it?’ Tony exhaled, ‘No way tae avoid it.’

 George laughed, ‘so let me get this straight; you bet that big currant bun that if Celtic win the league, he has tae run through the scheme bollock naked? If they don’t, then you have tae dae the streak?’ Tony nodded, ‘aye, that’s aboot the size of it.’ George laughed even louder, ‘the whole fuckin scheme will be seeing the size of it if Celtic don’t pull aff a miracle.’ Tony laughed with him, seeing the funny side of things. George sipped his beer, ‘I hope tae fuck Celtic spare your blushes. They’ll be lining the streets tae see wan of you two dafties streaking.’ Tony sipped his beer hoping it wouldn’t be him.

 A week later, Celtic, inspired by Roy Aitken beat Hibs 2-0 at Celtic Park. Hearts, looking nervous, drew 1-1 with Aberdeen. The gap was four points with Celtic having played a game less. Dundee was then defeated 2-0 at Celtic Park, before Celtic played their game in hand away to Motherwell. They laid siege to the Motherwell goal for much of the game before again winning 2-0. It had all come down to the last game of the season. Celtic were away to St Mirren and Hearts travelled to Dens Park. The mathematics were simple; Celtic had to defeat St Mirren by at least 3 goals and hope that Hearts lost at Dundee. It was a long shot but as long as there was hope, the team would keep fighting.

 George Toner sat beside Tony on the coach as it climbed up onto the M8 for the trip to Paisley. ‘This is it,’ he smiled at Tony, ‘we’re playing well and I think we’ll win. It’s all aboot wit Dundee dae against Hearts. They were hopeless at Celtic Park last week but they’re chasing Europe so they’ll be up for it.’ Tony gazed out the bus window, ‘a draw does Hearts though. It’s gonnae be a long afternoon.’ As the coach queued in traffic in Paisley, George pointed to a restaurant. ‘See that place there? I see it’s called ‘Pierre’s brasserie.’ Tony looked at him, a tad confused, ‘and?’ George met his gaze, ‘if Celtic don’t win this league, you’ll be opening one called ‘Tony’s Bare-arsery.’ He guffawed with laughter at his own joke as Tony shook his head. ‘Sometimes you’re a total fud, Georgie boy!’

 There are certain moments when football becomes an art form and transcends its masculine, combative nature and becomes something beautiful. As George and Tony watched, mesmerised, such a moment arrived in the unlikely setting of St Mirren’s love Street stadium on a damp May Saturday in 1986. Veteran defender, Danny McGrain, facing his own goal, played the ball delicately over his own head to Murdo MacLeod. The stocky midfielder played it back to McGrain, who instantly fed Paul McStay. The Maestro turned his marker beautifully and slipped the ball to Roy Atken, without a pause, Aitken fed the overlapping McGrain who in turn slipped the ball forward to Brian McClair. McClair nutmegged the centre half before racing towards the box and firing in a low cross to the onrushing Johnston, who gleefully smashed the ball into the net. In took Celtic just seven passes and 16 seconds to sweep the ball from one end of the field to the other and score a goal of breathtaking beauty. They now led 3-0. It was up to Dundee to make or break Celtic’s day…

 A few days after Celtic’s astonishing league win at Love Street, George and Tony saw the imposing figure of big Ian Dixon walking towards them in the street. ‘When are you getting the kit aff, Fannybaws? A bet’s a bet,’ Tony smiled. The large, bearded man, grimaced and fished a photograph out of his inside pocket before handing it to Tony. ‘Already done it. Jammy fuckin’ tarriers.’ Tony and George stared at the polaroid instamatic image and laughed out loud. It showed a fairly distant shot of a bulky, naked man running up a deserted Sauchiehall Street, his white buttocks shining in the street lights. ‘Looks like a full moon that night eh,’ smiled George. The bigger man was not amused and walked past them muttering, ‘Albert fuckin Kid.’

 

 

 

 

 

 

A shot at glory

 

A shot at glory

Celtic’s performances in the Champions League this season, Dortmund apart, have been commendably consistent. To play in the toughest club competition on the planet and finish with a record which reads P8 W3 D3 L2 is a big improvement on what we have watched in recent years. We gave a very good Aston Villa side a run for their money this week considering the first three names on the team sheet for many this season- Carter-Vickers, Maeda and Kyogo- were missing. It was not to be on the night though, but the job was already done in terms of qualifying for the play-offs.

The ties with Bayern will make Celtic even more money. A home tie in the UCL now is worth £3m+ in ticket sales alone to Celtic. This season has been a very good one financially for the club and with the SPFL Champions facing play off ties to reach the Champions League next season, the club needs to get the squad stronger in order to have the best chance of reaping the rewards the Champions League brings. As a club, Celtic has a history of not building on a position of strength and that needs to change.

Events off the field in Birmingham seemed to gain as much publicity as events on it. The use of pyro and smoke bombs have long been a cause of debate among Celtic fans. Whether you like them or not, UEFA have set the rules and they are banned. Celtic can expect yet another fine and the very real possibility of fans being banned from the away leg of the tie with Bayern. That would be a real tragedy for the supporters who love these away trips in Europe. Reaction to this possibility led to some castigating those who bring pyro to matches as ‘selfish wee neds’ who are spoiling it for others. Some, of course, turned their fire on UEFA for banning pyro it in the first place, but there are serious safety concerns around its use. A one-match suspended ban on issuing away tickets for Champions League games as well as an immediate €20,000 fine was implemented by UEFA after Celtic supporters lit pyrotechnics during the game at Borussia Dortmund earlier in the campaign. The rules are there and they are known. The club has a history of these events at its matches so it seems likely that consequences will follow

The more right-wing media outlets were getting into a lather about the anti-royalist songs sung by some Celtic fans in Birmingham. They used words like ‘outrage’ and ‘shameful’ at what was little more than uncouth banter. I seriously doubt that anyone was outraged as it was as predictable as the Scottish rain. Perhaps they should save words like ‘outrage’ and ‘shameful’ for occasions when Palestinian children are being incinerated but I guess that doesn’t suit their agenda.

Those who hanker after Scotland’s two biggest clubs one day joining the English game were given a reminder of the sort of issues that could occur should that extremely unlikely scenario ever arise; Celtic is a club with a very distinct identity and the ‘F*ck the Pope and the IRA’ banner hung over a motorway bridge was a reminder of the sort of welcome fans would receive in some English cities. I doubt the English police would want Glasgow’s big two visiting regularly and the moronic hooligan fringe which lingers in the English game would doubtless be on the prowl.

So, we will barely have time to catch our breath before Bayern Munich come calling in ten days or so. The team sit top of the Bundesliga with just one loss in 19 matches and will be formidable opponents. With players like Neuer, Kane, Kimmich, Sane and Thomas Muller, we know Celtic will have a mountain to climb. The Germans will be delighted to have drawn Celtic as the alternative was Manchester City. The first match at Celtic Park will be interesting though as Celtic are rediscovering the sort of home form in Europe that made Celtic Park a fortress in the O’Neill era. The fans will bring the thunder and the team will know they have a shot at glory. It's going to be quite a night.

Time will tell whether the team is capable of giving a side like Bayern a real test but we are at the top table of European football so let’s enjoy the ride and remind folk that there is life outside the rich leagues and we still have our dreams and songs to sing.