Where there’s a will

 

Where there’s a will

Glasgow 1972

‘Face it, John,’ his younger brother said in a frustrated voice, ‘we’ve nae chance of getting a ticket for this match. We should have lined up with everybody else when they were on sale.’ The taller of the two straightened his tie in the mirror and replied, ‘Frankie boy, ye give up too easily. Where there’s a will there’s a way.’ He turned to face his brother, ‘I’ve got a plan but first we get tae Fife and see the Celts wrap up this title.’ Frankie shrugged, ‘aye,  at least we can see that cos I doubt we’ll be getting intae the Inter game.’ John Sweeney smiled at his brother, ‘oh ye of little faith,’ and headed for the door.

His long-suffering wife Bernadette, known to all as Bernie, watched him getting ready to leave and said, ‘mind it’s the wean’s birthday the morra. Don’t come in here drunk tonight and start wi that Kevin Barry stuff!’ John smiled at her and grabbed her around the waist. ‘Nothing wrang wi the auld songs, Bernie doll.’ He waltzed her around the living room until she managed to escape his grasp. ‘The drink has softened your brain ya big walloper,’ she said, half smiling as he headed towards the front door. ‘Don’t kid on ye don’t still fancy me Bernie, if Celtic win this title, it could be your lucky night.’ She shook her head, ‘aye, it’ll only be lucky if you’re spending it in a cell at Orkney Street.’

John skipped down the stairs of the close and out into a cloudy, Scottish spring day. ‘What time’s the bus leaving? He asked his younger brother. ‘Another hour, fancy a pint before we head?’ John Sweeney needed no second invitation when it came to beer. He pushed open the door of the Fairfield and looked around the crowded bar. A cloud of blue, grey smoke seemed to hang in the air above heads of the noisy patrons. He pushed through the crowd besieging the bar, guiding Frankie with one hand, ‘mon boys, oot the road. Got a special needs boy here.’ As the men at the bar made way, Frankie shook his head, ‘whit?’ Within a moment two pints of heavy had been procured and the brothers looked around for familiar faces.

The brothers managed four pints in an hour before those travelling to Methil in Fife for the league deciding match started heading for the door. John looked at his brother, ‘get oot there an haud that bus. I’m nipping in for a quick Lillian Gish.’  With that he drained his pint and walked to the toilet. Frankie Sweeney headed out to the rapidly filling supporters’ bus and looked at the austere looking convenor who always sat at the front. ‘John is in the toilet, says he’ll be oot in a minute.’  He sat down as the bus engine revved, getting set for the journey across Scotland to Methil. John took longer than expected and when he finally climbed the stair onto the bus, there was a loud cheer. A voice from the back shouted, ‘whit kept ye Sweeney? Tadger caught in yer zip?’ There was some laughter as John responded with a grin, ‘only wan tadger aboot here, Reilly and that’s you.’ Before his verbal sparring partner could respond, the songs started and the bus pulled out onto the Govan Road…

‘We don’t need your Colin Stein, Eusebio or Alan Gilzean,

We’ve got someone twice as good! We’ve got Harry Hood!

Oh Harry, Harry, Lou Macari, Harry, Harry, Harry Hood!’

As they climbed onto the motorway and headed east, someone passed around a huge flagon of cider, which John Sweeney took a long drink from. Frankie would never cease to be amazed at his brother’s capacity for drinking. Any drink at all would do, he’d never refuse it and could find alcohol in the most outlandish places. He remembered the bus stopping by the roadside on the way back from Aberdeen. As twenty or so fans stood in the darkness, relieving themselves into a ditch, John had wandered off to a farmer’s house and returned with a bottle of whisky. Frankie had carried him home that night.

As they crossed the Forth Bridge into Fife, John had stood up and called for quiet on the coach. ‘Right lads, a bit of order. I was doon at the doctor’s this week and he told me I’m no a well man. I asked him how long and he said, ‘Put it this way, I widnae be buying any long books.’ Anyhow, my wan wish before I pop ma clogs is tae see Celtic play Inter Milan next week. So, if ye see any tickets floating aboot, get wan for yer auld mucker, Sweeney.’ Frankie had to admire the brazenness of his lies but of course their friends on the bus knew him well.’ One replied, ‘never mind the fitbaw, we’ll start a fund and send ye tae Lourdes, John. Might cure yer never-ending stream of lies.’  There was laughter as a rolled-up ball of paper bounced off John’s head, ‘sit oan yer arse, ya Bengal Lancer!’  Frankie laughed, recognising the Glasgow rhyming slang. His older brother was indeed a total chancer. John sat with a grin, ‘they’re no bad lads, they’ll keep their eyes peeled for us.’

East Fife’s cramped little Bayview stadium had managed to shoehorn 12,000 supporters inside, about 10,000 of them backing Celtic. The arithmetic was simple; a Celtic win secured their seventh successive league title. John and Frankie Sweeney stood behind the goal, totally engrossed in the action unfolding in this little theatre of football. It wasn’t the Bernabeu or the San Siro, but for those backing Celtic, it was the centre of the football universe. The Glasgow club dominated the play although it took till 5 minutes before half time before the breakthrough came. Dixie Deans smashed home the first goal and a few minutes later, Harry Hood all but ended the match as a contest by guiding in the second. There would be another goal from Hood before the end but the celebrating fans around three sides of the little stadium were already in seventh heaven.

By the time the bus returned to the Fairfield Bar, most of those on board were already eight sheets to the wind. They entered the bar to the cheers of those who hadn’t managed to go to the game and punched the air as if they had played. A band were already into their set and it all looked set fair for a grand night. John grinned at his brother, ‘hauf n’ hauf pint, wee man, don’t staun there like a guy wi short arms and deep pockets.’

John Sweeney drank as if it was going out of fashion that night, and had no real memory of how he got home. Celtic had won the league and he was never happier when that happened. He awoke on the Sunday morning with a banging headache and mouth as dry as the Gobi-desert. He wandered into the living room and saw him brother crumpled on the couch, an overcoat covering him. ‘Some night last night, eh?’ he mumbled to Frankie, before drinking from a bottle of Irn Bru which sat on the coffee table. Frankie mumbled, ‘oh, my mouth feels like the bottom of a bird’s cage.’ John grinned, ‘I’m no surprised, it had a cockatoo in it last night.’ As he laughed at his own joke, Frankie threw a shoe at him, ‘beat it ya bampot.’

Later that afternoon, his house was full of children enjoying his son John Junior’s birthday party. Bernie had warned him, ‘leave the grub for the weans, nae fitbaw songs and nae bad language.’ John had shrugged as she continued, ‘I’ll be watching you. Don’t you embarrass me in front of the neighbours!’ John kept a low profile as the noisy children played and danced in the living room. As Bernie placed a big bowl of ice cream onto a table in the corner, it was too much for the still dehydrated John to resist. He waited till she had left the room and headed over to the bowl. His eight-year-old son was watching him as he picked up a spoon and tasted it. It was sweet and cool and slid down his throat like nectar. He glanced at a bowl of peanuts beside the ice-cream and on a whim dipped a peanut into the ice cream and popped it into his mouth.

His son had seen enough, he raced into the kitchen and shouted, ‘ma, my da is dipping his peanuts intae the ice cream!’ Bernadette Sweeney, got the wrong end of the stick and roared, ‘he’s what?’ She rolled up a newspaper and raced into the living room to see her husband bending over the ice cream bowl. ‘Ya clatty bastard!’ she shouted whacking the back of his head with the rolled-up Sunday Post! John dropped his spoon in shock, ‘wit the fu…’ Once the altercation had ceased and Bernie saw that she had misinterpreted what the birthday boy had said, she laughed so much that tears fell from her eyes. John looked at his wife, then at his son, who shrugged as if to say, ‘no idea.’ John shook his head, ‘yer ma’s aff her heed, son.’

The following Wednesday, John and Frankie lined up at the turnstiles with tens of thousands of others for the European Cup semi-final between Celtic and Inter Milan. The boys on the bus had come through with the tickets and they joined a seething mass of humanity in the Celtic end. As the teams came out to a tremendous roar, John smiled at his brother, ‘I fancy Dixie to dae the damage tonight.’ Frankie smiled, ‘I hope so, John. I hope so.’

 

They’re not all like that

 

They’re not all like that

Paul sat on the couch as his brother turned up the volume on the radio. The Sunday night chart show was a tradition in the Doherty household and both he and his older brother had listened to it for as long as they could remember. As the dulcet tones of Simple Minds sang ‘don’t you forget about me,’ Paul looked at his brother, ‘ye gonnae ask her the night?’ Tony Doherty, three years older than fourteen-year-old Paul, looked at him, ‘aye, but don’t build yer hopes up. You know what she’s like when Celtic play Rangers.’ Paul smiled, ‘aye, but you can persuade her, eh?’ Tony shrugged, ‘I can try wee man but I doubt she’ll let ye go.’

Tony Doherty chose his moment carefully. After volunteering to do the dishes and making his mother, Anne Marie, a cup of tea, he sat beside her. ‘That song ‘nineteen’ is number wan. Lot of Lillian Gish if ye ask me.’ His mother looked at him. She knew her oldest son well and said, ‘if it’s money yer after, I’ve nothing till I cash my Monday book.’  He grinned, ‘naw, ma. I’m good for money. I wanted tae ask ye if I could take Tony tae the match next week? I know it’s a school night but he’ll be back for ten.’ She looked at him suspiciously, ‘who’s playing?’ He saw no point in lying, ‘we play Rangers but it’ll be a quiet game as Aberdeen have already sewn up the league. He’s 14 ma, he has tae go tae one of these games eventually.’ She looked at him doubtfully, ‘you know these games bring out the worst in some folk.’ Tony looked at her imploringly, ‘I’ll look after him, ma. Besides, I’ll be with a few of the lads fae work.’ Much to his surprise, she gazed at him and said, ‘OK, but you get him right back here and nae drinking!’

When Tony had left the living room to tell his brother, Anne Marie lit up a cigarette and exhaled a long stream of smoke into the air. ‘Why do they have to grow up? It’s much easier when they’re weans.’ From the bedroom she could hear Paul whooping with delight. ‘Yassss! Ya dancer!’ She took another draw on her cigarette, ‘he’ll be ok, Tony’s a sensible boy, he’ll look after him.’ She gazed at the school photo of her two sons in their primary uniforms, which stood on the sideboard and sighed, ‘he’s gotta grow up sometime. I suppose.’

The first day of May 1985 dragged past for Paul Doherty. As he walked home from school, he talked excitedly about going to his first Celtic-Rangers game. ‘Ah cannae wait, man. It’s going tae be great,’ he smiled at his pals. ‘My da won’t let me near that game,’ his friend Joe Carville said. ‘Says if I sneak out and go tae it he’ll kick my RS McCall’s.’ Paul laughed, ‘Tony is taking me wi a couple of pals fae his work, so it’ll be fine.’ Joe shrugged, ‘I live on Shettleston Road, ye know. I see it every game wi that mob. It’s chaos, mate. You be careful.’ Tony reached his close and said his farewell to his friends. ‘Tell yeez aw aboot it the morra!’

Later that night, Shettleston Road wore an altogether different face. As Tony and Paul stepped out of their close and headed down towards the main road, they could already hear the noise. As they joined the flow of people heading towards Parkhead Cross, the younger of the two looked around him, a mixture of excitement and trepidation written on his face. On their side of the road marched a green clad army of Celtic fans, chanting as they headed towards the stadium. On the opposite side of the street, an equally large and raucous crowd decked out in blue shouted their songs into the spring sky. ‘ A thin line of police officers walked between them to ensure there was no trouble. The songs from both sides of the street blended together in the evening sky as Paul listened, spellbound, ‘hullo, hullo…hail hail… the Celts are here… ye’ll know us by our noise… and if ye know the history…’

Paul looked at his brother as they reached Parkhead Cross and the noise intensified, ‘this is gonnae be brilliant, Tony.’ The older brother smiled at Paul, his eyes continually scanning the street for any sign of trouble. ‘Just you stick beside me and if we get separated you wait where ye are and I’ll find ye.’ Paul nodded as they headed along the Gallowgate, the streets now filled with just Celtic fans. They turned into Holywell Street, Paul taking in every sight and sound. The closer they got to the stadium, the more tightly packed the street became. The queues at the turnstiles swayed and sang as excitement and anticipation rose. Paul Doherty grinned at his brother. This was it; he was finally going to see the derby match.

From his vantage point near the front of the Celtic end, Paul watched as a match of brutal competitiveness unfolded. His senses were assaulted by the noise and vitriol in which this great working-class theatre was played out. There was no holding back from supporters; they were 100% committed to the cause. Voices around him roared and seethed. ‘Deck that bastard!’ ‘Foul, ya fucking rat!’ ‘Intae them Celtic!’  

Celtic dominated the first half and passed up a number of chances. Chief among them an early penalty which Roy Aitken scored but the referee ordered to be retaken. The second attempt by the curly headed midfielder hit the keeper on the legs and was scrambled clear.  It was 15 minutes into the second half before they bundled in the first goal and the home supporters exploded with joy. Paul was embraced by a short man of about thirty who smelled of sweat and beer in equal measure. ‘Yaaasssss, wee man, Fuckin’ yassss!!’ he roared in Paul’s ear.

As the game ebbed and flowed, Paul watched in horror as Rangers were awarded a penalty. He closed his eyes as McCoist struck it but the roar from the away end told him all he needed to know. An ill-tempered, fairly brutal game of football saw three players sent off before the referee called a halt with a shrill blast of his whistle. It was over, honours would be even on this occasion. The age-old grudge would have to wait for the next instalment.

Tony Doherty kept his young brother close to him as they joined the throng exiting the stadium and pouring into Janefield Street. ‘That was something else,’ said Paul, ‘my ears are ringing!’ Tony smiled, ‘should have beat them. Big Roy messed up with that penalty.’ Paul glanced at the verandas of the houses on his left as he walked down Janefield Street. On one, an elderly woman held a large image of the Pope. On another, an Irish flag was draped over the railings. He was about to speak to his brother when he heard a woman screaming, this was followed by angry roars from people behind them. ‘Fucks sake!’ said Tony grabbing his brother by the arm and dragging him towards the metal railings at the side of the road. The crush was enormous as people parted like waves before the bow of a ship. Paul looked on in terror as four or five huge police horses rode through the packed ranks of people.

As more people pushed towards him to escape the horses, he heard a metallic sound as the railings along the whole side of the street collapsed. People screamed and fell onto the twisted pile of metal and bricks. Paul felt something graze his back and cried out in pain. Tony was on top of him, shielding him from the piles of people knocked over by the charging horses. ‘Your all right, Paul. I’m here!’ As they staggered to their feet, they looked along the street, they saw people and rubble scattered on the roadway, like some scene from a war movie.

Shock quickly turned to anger as the horses reached the Holywell Street and turned to begin another charge up the street towards the stadium. Around the two brothers, young men picked up bricks from the collapsed wall and prepared to defend themselves. There was a chant of ‘SS-RUC, SS-RUC!’ As the horses drew nearer, bricks and bottles flew towards them, hitting riders and animals alike. ‘Let’s go!’ Tony shouted at his brother, half dragging him towards the corner at Holywell Street. The sounds of screams, anger, breaking glass and police sirens, filled the air as the police and Celtic supporters fought out a vicious street fight.

Half way along Holywell Steet, a Police van screeched to a halt and ten or more officers poured out. They swung their batons at anyone in the vicinity, and Paul saw an older man crumple to the ground. ‘Bastards!’ he mumbled, as his brother guided him through the mayhem. A tall policeman with a long, dark moustache ran towards the two brothers, his baton in his hand, violence in his eyes. He got to within five yards of them when a half brick hit him in the side of the head and he slumped to his knees. ‘Come tae fuck, Paul,’ Tony roared as his brother stared at the stunned Policeman, ‘we need tae get away from here.’

They fled, like many others away from the tumult going on around them. It was clear that the Police were out of control, but so too were some elements of the Celtic support. They were incensed by the recklessness of the police horses charging into a packed street and were giving as good as they got. As the two brothers reached the Gallowgate, more police cars and vans screeched to a halt and officers raced towards the sound of battle. It was little short of a riot, and to Paul’s young eyes it seemed as if many of the rioters were in police uniform.

They finally reached their street, the distant sound of sirens and shouting echoing like a distant battle. Tony stopped his brother under a street light, ‘let’s look at your back.’ He lifted his jumper and saw a large, ugly graze from his fall onto the rubble in Janefield Street. ‘That’ll bruise, Ye cannae tell my ma about any of this. If ye dae, she’ll never let ye go tae a Rangers game again.’ Paul nodded, still a little shocked at what he had witnessed. The game seemed insignificant when he thought of the brutality he had witnessed. Tony looked at him, ‘you, ok? Ye ready tae head in?’  Paul nodded.

They opened the front door and entered the quiet house. Paul heard his mother call from the living room. ‘You boys, ok? I heard a lot of police sirens.’ Tony replied, ‘aye, ma. I think there was a car crash.’ She was silent for a moment, ‘Yer team win?’ Paul responded this time. ‘It was a draw, ma. Celtic missed a penalty.’ She appeared at the living room door and regarded them with searching eyes. ‘You’ve got school the morra, aff tae yer kip.’ Paul nodded, ‘right ma. Good night.’ Tony winked at him as he opened the room door and headed towards the sanctuary of his bed.

He lay in the darkness, his mind replaying the events of the night. What were the police thinking, charging into a packed street on huge bloody horses? It had been a sharp lesson to him that life could be dangerous and there was no guarantee that there would be any justice, while officers of the law behaved like that. ‘Strange,’ he thought, as sleep began to tug at his eyelids, ‘I thought I’d be thinking about the football, but I’m not.’ His brother appeared in the dark room and slipped into the other single bed. ‘That was some night, eh?’ Paul mumbled in a weary voice, ‘aye, it was wild.’ His brother smiled in the darkness, ‘don’t worry wee man. They’re not all like that.’ He smiled again when his young brother replied in a sleepy voice, ‘thank fuck.’

 

Beyond the Banter Years

 

                                           Beyond the Banter Years

The controversy over the refereeing decisions in the derby match in late December rumble on. Like most of you, I don’t take myself to seriously and enjoy a bit of light hearted football banter, but some of the online content this week can only be classified as unhinged. Some supporters of Rangers, a club who conceded their first SPFL penalty in two years this last week, are gunning for the referees of Scotland and making statements of such outrageous content that they would be laughable if they weren’t so wholly believed by some.

One cerebrally challenged fan stated that the Catholics of  Scotland (a phrase interchangeable with Celtic despite many of the club’s players and fans not being Catholics) were ‘unsettling a Presbyterian country to further their globalist agenda.’ This, he claimed started with the papal visit to Glasgow of Pope John Paul II in 1982, when the Pope, it seems, urged Catholics to take over the country. Now, if you’re following this line of thought, this nonsensical gibberish is meant to explain why Rangers didn’t get a penalty kick 42 years after the Pope’s visit!

We might laugh at such opinions, and many do, but there is a serious side to this staggeringly insane bullshit. As Rangers lobby the SFA to have certain referees taken off the list to handle their games, it plays into the victimhood narrative we’ve heard since 2012, when it seemed those who hate and were jealous of Rangers ‘relegated’ them out of sheer spite. This nonsense echoes still for some of their fans and a degree of selective evidence and confirmation bias is produced to back it all up. They won’t talk about the games when Goldson was saving the ball more than Jack Butland but they will go on about Alastair Johnston’s handball. They won’t mention not conceding a penalty in 2 years but will tell you Celtic get all the decisions. They won’t tell you when Willie Collum gave a penalty against Celtic in a derby when he had his back to the action and claimed he ’heard’ contact, but they will call him a liar and besmirch his name when they lose a match to Celtic.

An English friend said to me years ago that the trouble with Scottish football is that it is two bald men fighting over a comb. The sheer dominance of the big Glasgow clubs means that it is now almost 40 years since anyone else has won the title. This heightens the intensity and importance of their meetings beyond a normal local derby, and when you factor in the cultural and historic baggage of the clubs, it’s a recipe for some spikey tension.

The build up to a derby match is often marked by the usual rough banter, but the aftermath of one is usually far more acrimonious. Contentious decisions are pored over in microscopic detail and reasons for failure are seldom put down to the team being poor on the day. The refereeing and VAR team who covered the Celtic v Rangers match on December 30^th have been given a hard time over two contentious issues in particular; Rangers’ penalty claim after Alastair Johnston’s ‘hand ball’ and a push on David Turnbull in the box, subsequently called up as an offside decision. We can debate the merits of each decision until the cows come home, but the fact is it won’t change the outcome of the game.

Football fans are fiercely partisan towards their team and for many, any idea of objective debate is lost amid the tribal passions of the game. In Scotland, a land where being second is being nowhere, losing in these big games culminates in looking for reasons for the defeat which go beyond the team’s performance. Rangers entered the derby match in good form and the majority of their fans expected to win the match. The huge disappointment they felt was compounded by the feeling that they’d do well. As is often the case; disappointment is to be found in the gap between our expectations and reality.

The modern referee is burdened with guidelines and the theoretical support provided by VAR has turned out to be a hinderance at times. We saw a club president punch a referee in Turkish football recently after disagreeing with a decision. We see regular disrespect for referees on the field from players who pressure officials verbally, jostle them and make their job harder by engaging in blatant simulation. Every big match is followed by trial by social media as decisions are scrutinised by fans, many of whom wouldn’t know objectivity if it bit them on the ass.

We need to let referees speak out and explain their decisions in the days following matches. We might also consider having them declare their allegiances and not let them officiate at the games of their favourite club. They should be full time professionals and we should work to train them to the highest degree and get back to the days when they were allowed to officiate using common sense. The hand ball rule is a bloody mess and needs to return to the concept of ‘deliberate hand ball.’ Offside should be flagged immediately as sooner or later a player is going to be injured continuing a move which the assistant will flag as offside at its completion. VAR should be utilised sparingly to help decide key incidents and not be allowed to break the flow of the game for minutes at a time.

I’m not suggesting referees are perfect and I have often pointed out inconsistencies and downright baffling decisions in the past. Historically in Scotland, there have been good referees, mediocre referees and a small minority who for whatever reason have lacked impartiality. That being said, the hysteria around on social media at the moment needs to calm or some idiot may do something silly.

Amid all the swirling tides of recrimination and accusation, we should remember that without referees we have no game. Let’s help them improve the standard and restore the confidence of supporters who ask for consistency and transparency above all. The game we all love deserves that.

 

Dutchie

 

Dutchie

A hard frost settled on Sauchiehall Street as Dutchie shivered in his hoody. The best spots for begging a few quid were jealously guarded by those who wouldn’t hesitate to use violence to keep them, so he was forced further down towards the Glasgow Film Theatre. He sat on a cold, hard step and held his paper cup in front of him, his breath visible on the cold December air. The winter weather meant the centre of town wasn’t as busy and some nights pickings could be slim. He glanced above the smart buildings at a clear, cold sky. A voice made him refocus on the street. Two young men stood regarding him; one grinned, ‘here mate, ye want twenty quid?’ Dutchie had seen and heard it all during his two years on the streets but played along, lest they cut up rough. ‘Aye, mate. That’d be grand.’ The punch line duly arrived, ‘well get a job then ya lazy, junky bastard.’ As they departed laughing at their witticism, Dutchie shook his head. ‘Pricks.’

Two hours of sitting in the cold earned him the princely sum of £9.45. Five pounds of that had come from a kind faced woman who had simply said, ‘God bless,’ as she dropped a fiver into his used Costa Coffee cup. Just as he was thinking of heading towards the hostel by the Clyde, a man regarded him. ‘Hughie? Hughie Mulholland?’ Dutchie looked up at the smartly dressed man, unconsciously straightening out his rather worn hoody. ‘Aye, mate. Ah know you?’ He always felt self-conscious when someone he knew in his old life recognised him. His thin frame, lank, greasy hair and crumpled clothes spoke more eloquently than he ever could about how far he had fallen in life. ‘Davie Beatie, we went to St Mungo’s together?’ Dutchie stood rather awkwardly, ‘Aye, Davie! We played in the school team? You scored that goal that goal against John Street that started a riot.’ The man smiled, ‘Jesus, I’d forgotten about that. The school mini bus had the windows smashed.’ Dutchie smiled a gap-toothed smile, ‘thought we’d get lynched that day, mate!’

They regarded each other for a long moment, wondering what to say. Dutchie spoke first. ‘So, whit ur ye doing these days, Davie?’  His former school mate regarded him, ‘I work in the Royal Bank. Doing ok.’ He almost asked Dutchie what he was doing but thought better of it and said instead, ‘Listen mate, I’m heading China Buffet King for a bit of grub. Fancy a bite? Be better than the school meals at the Mungo.’ It was a small lie, but told for a good reason. Dutchie grinned, ‘that’s nice ay ye mate. I could dae wi a bit of scran.’ They walked back up Sauchiehall Street together towards the cheap and cheerful eatery which boasted you could eat your full for ten pounds. The man behind the counter eyed Dutchie up and down as he entered but said nothing. They sat in a quiet corner, Davie removing his overcoat. ‘What do you fancy? I’m thinking something hot as I’m bloody freezing.’ Dutchie followed him to the counter, ‘anything hot for me.’ They sat with their food, Davie noticing that Dutchie had piled his plate high. ‘Getting your money’s worth. Good for you,’ he smiled.

As they started to eat, Davie tactfully asked Dutchie about his life since school. He listened in silence, letting his old school mate do the talking. ‘I started in Asda, Davie. Never much intae school as ye know. Done a bit of warehouse work. Fork lift driving and the like. I got oan ok for a few years. I was living wi ma burd in Dennistoun but then three year back, the landlord said he was selling up and wanted us oot. I was getting daft wi the bevvy and the ‘Bob Hope’ then tae.  I suppose Caitlin just had enough and I cannae blame her. I was a complete prick then. Went back tae her maws. I lost my hoose, my burd and my joab, all in wan week. Ended up in the hostels and that just led tae mer stupid behaviour.’ Davie Baird nodded, ‘that’s tough, pal. You’ve had a lot to deal with.’ Dutchie replied without looking up from his plate, ‘Aye, suppose so, but I made a lot of wrong choices tae. There’s nae hiding fae that.’

They sat eating and talking for a couple of happy hours. They soke of happier days at school when all things seemed possible for them. Davie recalled the time when Dutchie had thrown an egg at a number 62 bus and it had entered a narrow gap in the driver’s window and hit him clean in the face. Dutchie laughed loudly, ‘fuckin Lee Harvey Oswald couldnae have got that shot better.’ Davie laughed too, ‘then the time you set of a fire extinguisher in the hall during Mass. Old Burnett, the Heady, was doing his nut!’ As the plates were cleared away and they drank some warm tea, Dutchie looked at Davie, his face looking less troubled. ‘Thanks for this, Davie. Nice tae feel human again.’ Davie smiled, ‘It’s been good chatting over old times.

As they stepped into the frigid air of a winter’s night, Davie shook Dutchie’s hand. ‘I meant to say, I’ll be volunteering at a Christmas lunch next week. All are welcome. Good chat, warm food and a few laughs. You up for it?’ Dutchie shrugged, ‘I’ll ask ma P.A tae check ma diary, might find and hour tae join ye.’  Davie laughed, ‘No need to write the address, it’s in a place you’ve been to a good few times before.’ Dutchie looked at him, a little mystified. ‘Aye, but ye better write it doon anyway.’ Davie handed him the paper and two twenty-pound notes. ‘Promise me you’ll come.’ Dutchie nodded, ‘I’ll be there, pal. Trust me on that.’ They parted with another handshake and Dutchie watched Davie turn up Rose Street and vanish from sight. He looked at the piece of paper in his hand and then the two twenties. He had a full belly and a few quid. Maybe tonight he’d settle for a warm bed and nothing else.

Davie Beatie walked among the tables making sure the guests had enough to eat and drink. The Foundation Celtic Christmas dinner was one of the highlights of his year. Meeting Hughie Mulholland had reminded him of his east end roots and the fact that not everyone had had the chances he had in life. He hoped Hughie would come along today. He gazed at the faces of the men and women around him chatting animatedly to each other. They were happy, freed from the stresses of poverty and loneliness, at least for a few hours anyway. His old friend Dermot approached him, ‘in some ways I hate that we have to do this in a country as rich as this one, but in another way it’s great that we do. That they know some folk still care.’ Davie smiled, ‘I hear you, brother. What’s that old saying of yours?’ Dermot smiled, ‘the difference between justice and charity is that justice demands social change, whilst charity responds to needs caused by injustice.’ Davie nodded, ‘you got that right. You’re still a socialist at heart, eh?’ Dermot shrugged, ‘maybe, but it’s more than that. It’s about being a decent human being.’

Outside the warm building, a figure was making his way up the towards the stadium. Dutchie Mulholland stopped at the bronze statue of a man sitting in a chair. It had been years since he’d been near the stadium, but it still held a place in his memory. He gazed into the kindly face of the statue, before touching the plinth with his hand and moving off. He’d stayed clean since he’d met Davie Baird and was ready to try again.

The good Brother would have approved. Everyone had a shot at redemption. Dutchie knew he had to give it another go. ‘Wan step at a time, Brother,’ he mumbled before continuing with a grin, ‘hope the turkey is still hoat.’ 

The statue seemed to smile a little. 

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Nemesis

 

Nemesis

I had one of those conversations this week which demonstrates how people construct reality based on their own innate desires and prejudices, rather than the facts. I was in Tibo, a nice café on Glasgow’s Duke Street, with a couple of friends when a ‘friend of a friend’ joined us. The topic got round to football and the chap commented that, Celtic’s current dominance is built on the fact that they conspired with others to ‘kick Rangers when they were down and get them relegated down the leagues.’ All of this was caused, in his mind, by jealousy and hatred for the Ibrox club. This line of argument was a bit of a red rag to a bull to me.

I tactfully reminded him that Rangers had imploded financially by spending more than they earned for years and operated an under the counter payment scheme to entice quality players to Scotland with the lure of tax-free money. (EBTs) This, and the staggering level of debt built up by a club in the low-income Scottish league led to administration and eventually a liquidation which left creditors ripped off for millions. As a bankrupted business, employees, including players, walked away and had Charles Green decided to build flats at Ibrox rather than create a new company there would be no one playing there today.

My now red-faced companion retorted, ‘the company went bust, a club can’t die.’ I replied that, ‘Third Lanark died and in Scots law there is no separation of club and company once an organisation incorporates.’ This fantasy about being ‘relegated’ was also spouted and I reminded him that Rangers were not relegated. The new entity applied for membership of the league and fans and clubs across the land baulked at the idea of them being given preferential access to the top league immediately. Like all new entities they’d have to work their way up from the bottom.

Of course, this caused an Everest of cognitive dissonance with my verbal sparring partner and he was not a happy man. His attempt to somehow portrait the old Rangers as victims, when they in fact cheated on an industrial scale, was as implausible as those Atletico Madrid fans who claim that the thugs who kicked Celtic off the Park in 1974 were victims of a bad referee and diving Celtic players. Most of us know the facts of what occurred in 2012 and aren’t buying this victimhood narrative. If anything, Rangers FC (1872) were fortunate the SFA lacked the guts to follow their own rules and strip them of trophies won during the EBT years. I wrote at the time…

‘All of these arguments about whether Rangers as it currently exists is a new or old club are in some respects a smoke screen hiding the real issue here- the EBT scheme which saw Rangers pay tens of millions of tax-free pounds to players they might not otherwise have tempted to Ibrox was and remains the real bone of contention. To be clear, these payments were not illegal but as the Supreme Court of the United Kingdom ruled, they were payments for playing for Rangers and as such should have been subject to tax. For Rangers to pay players in such a manner and to record it in side letters they subsequently hid from the SFA, broke player registration rules. As such players who represented Rangers whilst receiving EBT cash were in breach of SFA rules which state all contracts and payments to players be recorded with the governing body. It stretches credulity to ask us to believe that Rangers expected scores of footballers to pay back the EBT money they received. The money paid was not loans but wages, and those  in control at Ibrox at the time knew that.’

It all seems like an old debate and hardly worth rehashing after a decade but the fallout from 2012 is still with us. The Rangers of today still spends more than it earns but is learning that that it must have its limits or the same could happen again. Celtic’s dominance in the past decade is down to generating more income, running the club prudently and having 10,000 more seats which generate over £5m in revenue above and beyond what Rangers could in season ticket income. They have also bought well and made handsome profits on player sales.

Learning to live within your means is a hard lesson for those who watched the hubris and arrogance of the Murray years at Ibrox. The ‘if they put down a fiver, I’ll put down a tenner’ attitude of Mr Murray did for Rangers in the end and he sold HMS Rangers to Craig Whyte for £1, knowing full-well it was heading for an iceberg.

In Greek mythology, Hubris is seen as exhibiting excessive pride and arrogance, and it is usually followed by Nemesis. Those of you who saw the bloody, British gangster film ‘Snatch’ will recall the psycho gang boss ‘Bricktop’ describe Nemesis as…

‘A righteous infliction of retribution manifested by an appropriate agent.’

For the Ibrox club of 2023, watching Celtic having the sort of dominance domestically which is as complete as any club has had in any era in Scottish football history, is an appropriate Nemesis. Of course, some will go through the list of organisations which state that Rangers are the same club. I don’t actually care. What matters is that sporting integrity demands that all clubs play by the same rule book. Paying players secret, tax-free money was clearly wrong and honest Rangers fans will concede this.

As we left the café, I asked the chap what he would say if Celtic had done the things Rangers did in those years. He smiled and replied, ‘exactly the same things you’re saying now about Rangers.’ I could see he was implying that I was exhibiting the same bias he had. I shrugged and replied, ‘but the facts don’t lie.’

I don’t think I’ll be on his Christmas card list.

Collateral Damage

 

Sitting in the incessant autumn rain watching Celtic struggle but ultimately prevail over a well drilled St Mirren side this week, it was obvious that something was missing. The drum beat of the Green Brigade, like traffic noise to city dwellers, is often only noticed when it stops. Celtic, in their wisdom, had decided to suspend the season tickets of some 250 of the ultras and their absence was noticed. Celtic’s reasoning was that there had been…‘increasingly serious escalation in unacceptable behaviours and non-compliance with applicable regulations.’ Celtic’s communique also spoke of the use of pyrotechnics, rushing the turnstiles at Motherwell, illegally gained access before the Lazio match, unauthorised banners and aggressive behaviour towards stewards.

The banner in the aftermath of the October 7th attacks which read 'Victory to the Resistance'  (Hamas translates as 'Islamic resistance') would have been viewed with particular alarm by the board as it seemed to lend, at least tacit support, for what had occurred. It was certainly viewed that way in parts of the British media and many with no love for Celtic. In truth, it was an ill thought out display which may have nudged the Celtic board to act.

The club had asked the group not to organise any display which referenced the ongoing conflict in Palestine-Israel.  Given the ongoing brutality of the Israeli assault on Gaza, that was always likely to fall on deaf ears. The group responded to the litany of charges laid before it by stating…  

 

‘It is undeniable that the sanctions imposed against those affiliated with the Green Brigade are as a result of the group's unapologetic solidarity with Palestine. The sanctions applied, most notably collective bans, are evidently unfair; bereft of policy, process and communications with individuals wrongfully being punished before receiving any allegation, any evidence, nor right of defence. We categorically deny sinister and defamatory allegations of 'breaking in and intimidating, threatening and abusive behaviour towards staff'."

 

It is clear that the fan group sees Celtic’s actions as being linked to their solidarity with the Palestinian people. The club can expect a fine from UEFA for the widespread display of Palestinian flags at the match with Atletico Madrid. The occupants of section 111 were not alone in displaying such flags as they were seen all around the stadium. There was some organisation to at least part of this as fans approaching the ground were offered free A3 sized printed flags. The large flags seen across the north stand were carried into place with some coordination before kick-off. That being said, there was clearly a significant number of Celtic supporters who were not from area 111 who wanted to demonstrate their solidarity and sympathy with the Palestinian people. It therefore seemed odd that Celtic made no effort to sanction anyone but those registered as members of the Green Brigade. There is little natural justice in punishing the innocent just to get at those they consider guilty.

 

It's an emotive and controversial issue and the debates online about the  political stance of the Green Brigade and the response of the club are rancorous and often bitter. No one in their right mind supports the slaughter of innocent civilians in any conflict and  what occurred in Israel on October the 7^th is as unacceptable as the onslaught now occurring in Gaza. The difference is of course the response of world leaders to the Israeli bombardment. Many leaders in the west parrot the line that Israel has the right to defend itself, and it has, but they are mealy mouthed when it is pointed out that almost nine thousand people have died in Gaza so far, the vast majority of them innocent civilians. The heart-breaking images we see online of children slaughtered and then described as collateral damage are deeply disturbing. Yet in pursuit of their big geo-political game, the powerful western countries are muted in their condemnation. It is that hypocrisy which rankles with many.

 

We have seen governments and even sporting organisations condemn Russia for its invasion of Ukraine yet the same governments and sporting organisations have nothing to say as Israel annexes territory, demolishes houses, builds settlements on occupied territory and practices virtual apartheid, all of it against international law. The media in the west are transparently biased in their reporting of the Russia/Ukraine and Israel/Palestine conflicts. Palestinian advocates are regularly asked on tv if they condemn Hamas atrocities and one responded, ‘do you ever ask Israeli spokesmen if they condemn Israeli atrocities?’ The presenter was lost for words. There is a huge propaganda war going on and the media has, for the most part, thrown its weight behind Israel. They have powerful friends who talk of self-defence and freedom whilst ignoring Israel’s many breaches of international law.  We live in cynical and cruel times.

 

Using football as a political platform is nothing new. From the England side giving the Nazi salute in a match in Hitler’s Germany in the 1930s, to those Celtic supporters who demonstrated their solidarity with the long-suffering people of Palestine, it has always gone on. From field guns being fired and soldiers abseiling down stands at Ibrox, to James MacLean refusing to wear a poppy, we have always seen political expression in stadiums. Those Celtic supporters who flew Palestinian flags would tell you they are demonstrating solidarity with an oppressed people in the face of horrendous assault on them. Each individual must decide where they stand on the great issues of the day. A friend said to me this week that silence in the face of genocide is complicity.

 

I could weep at the images I’ve seen coming out of Gaza this past few weeks. I could also weep for the innocent Israelis murdered on October seventh. Our leaders, who should be forcing a resolution to this century old tragedy, are hopelessly compromised and biased. They have been shown up for their utter hypocrisy and that is why, love it or loath it, many ordinary people express their own opinions on the streets and in the football stadiums. We wring our hands and argue about the appropriateness of political expression at sporting events. Meanwhile the innocents die and any hope of justice seemingly dies with them.

Are we to condemn future generations to replaying this tragedy? A good man said a long time ago, 'blessed are the peacemakers.' Where oh where are they today?

Ex nihilo nihil fit

 

Ex nihilo nihil fit

Greek philosopher and thinker Parmenides is best known for the succinct phrase ‘ex nihilo nihil fit.’ It translates roughly as; nothing comes from nothing. The revulsion felt by decent people at the slaughter of the innocents on both sides of the Palestine/Israel tragedy, is as heartfelt as it is deep. The appalling slaughter carried out in southern Israel and in Gaza is not an aberration which simply happened. It is the latest in a long series of violent incidents which show no sign of abating because the root causes of this evil have never been addressed.

Any scholar of history will know that the great injustice that is the continuing dispossession and humiliation of the Palestinian people, has incrementally robbed them of their land, their aspirations of statehood and their dignity.  This most intractable of situations has rumbled on for over a hundred years now and a solution looks as far away as ever.

After the collapse of the Ottoman empire at the end of World War One, Britain held a mandate over Palestine which allowed the UK to police the country and make decisions without so much as consulting the 90% of the population who were Palestinians. The famous/infamous Balfour declaration of 1917, named after the British Foreign Secretary, Arthur Balfour, was contained in a letter sent to Lord Rothschild, a leader of the Jewish community in England. The declaration stated with the usual imperial arrogance of the time…

‘His Majesty’s Government view with favour the establishment in Palestine of a national home for Jewish people, and will use their best endeavours to facilitate the achievement of this object, it being clearly understood that nothing shall be done which may prejudice the civil and religious rights of existing non-Jewish communities in Palestine, or the rights and political status enjoyed by Jews in any other country.’

Thus, the UK had declared that they would facilitate mass migration of Jewish settlers into Palestine without so much as consulting the people already living there. They had of course discussed it with Zionists who, after a series of persecutions and pogroms against Jews in Europe, were delighted. It should be noted that the British had said that they were favourable to a Jewish ‘homeland’ and not a Jewish state. With Arab nationalism rising between the wars, the influx of tens of thousands of Jewish people into Palestine added to a very volatile mix.

As the number of Jewish settlers grew in Palestine, conflict with the majority Palestinian population seemed inevitable. By the mid-1930s, the British were worried about the Palestinians becoming more strident in their opposition to what was going on in their country and cracked down hard at any sign of revolt. In time honoured fashion, they did as they had done in scores of colonial conflicts; they resorted to force. They, along with Zionist militias they trained and armed, burned Palestinian villages, murdered unarmed civilians, exiled thousands and used torture and mass imprisonment to enforce their will. These are verifiable historical truths, not some anti-British rant. The imperial war museum recorded the voices of British soldiers who spoke about these things and their testimony was used in the excellent BBC Radio series ‘The Mandates.’

World War 2 distracted everyone from what was going on but in the aftermath of that conflict, thousands of Jewish survivors of Hitler’s genocidal madness arrived in Palestine seeking a new start. Among Jews the setting up of a state was now a realistic and achievable aim. They turned their guns on the British with the intention of driving them out. The bombing of the King David Hotel in 1946 by the Zionist  paramilitary Irgun which killed 91 people at the HQ of British rule in Palestine was the biggest atrocity of the campaign. However, Irgun, led by future Israeli Prime Minister, Menachem Begin, kidnapped two British sergeants the following year and hanged them when the British executed three of their people. The bodies of the two soldiers were booby trapped and the resulting explosion injured more British soldiers when they were cut down. British public opinion was outraged and there were anti-Jewish riots in some UK cities. The British, sickened and not seeing what they had to gain by staying, announced they were leaving.

Once the British pulled out there was nothing to stop Ben Gurion declaring the foundation of the state of Israel, whilst standing under a large portrait of Theodore Hertzl, the father of political Zionism. As was predictable, the better armed and trained Zionist forces carried out brutal operations against Palestinians, which today we would call, ethnic cleansing. It was the time of the Nakba for the Palestinians and that catastrophe has continued to this day.

Successive wars have brought more and more Palestinians under the control of the Israeli military, culminating in the occupation of the Golan heights, Gaza, the Sinai-peninsula and the west bank in the six-day war of 1967. The cycle of violence has continued since then with few serious attempts to find a lasting and just peace. The current crises didn’t appear out of nowhere; it is just the next chapter in a long and blood-stained history.

The murderous attack on Israeli settlements by Hamas militants a week ago cannot be excused as anything other than an atrocity which was rightly condemned by the world’s media. Civilians should never be targeted in this manner in any conflict but much of that same media ignore or excuse the same murderous treatment of Palestinians. The hypocrisy of the west is staggering; Russia is condemned for trying to annex Ukraine and Zelensky armed to the teeth to defend his country. The occupation of Palestinian land and the building of settlements on it are in contravention of international law and yet our leaders say nothing. The targeting of civilians and the collective punishment of people in Gaza is also illegal and yet again there is silence. We are not children; we know the west sees Israel as a trusted ally in a troubled and volatile part of the world. We know they will support Israel in any regional conflict, but that support should not be a blank cheque to behave as they have done for decades towards the Palestinians.  

Some supporters of Celtic Football Club have already said they will bring Palestinian flags to the Champions League match with Atletico Madrid in late October. Few, if any of them are in support of the dreadful things perpetrated by Hamas in the Israeli settlements last week. They would say that they are showing solidarity with the Palestinian people who will now pay the price of that violence. UEFA will doubtless fine Celtic for any ‘political’ display at a UEFA match. This is the same UEFA who allowed commemorations at matches for the late Nelson Mandela, who said following his people’s victory over apartheid…

‘We know too well that our freedom is incomplete without the freedom of the Palestinians.’

Mandela was a believer in a peaceful, two-state solution and undoubtedly a man who had seen enough of strife and war in his own land to know the bitterness it leaves behind. A statue of him stands in the west bank city of Ramallah where he is still revered as a friend of the Palestinians. Few thought that South Africa would ever find a way out of their own brutal conflict, but they did. Few could see a way forward for the north of Ireland at the height of the troubles, yet peace came. The Berlin wall fell and the cold war ended. History teaches us that change can come but that it needs courageous leaders prepared to unclench their fists and talk.

The heartbreaking tragedy unfolding before our eyes in Gaza seems just the next page of a long and bloody history. The innocent men, women and children of Israel and Palestine are paying the price of their leaders’ historic and current failures, as a hopelessly compromised and hypocritical world looks on. At the time of writing, it has been reported that 2,200 Palestinians have died in Gaza and a further 8000 have been injured. Most of them are innocent of any crime other than being born in the wrong place at the wrong time. 

Half of Gaza’s population is under 18. I hope those young people live to see a lasting and just peace in their lifetimes. It seems far away at the moment but we have to hope.

This image and the image at the top of the page

are artworks from Palestinian painter, Heba Zeqout.

She was sadly killed in the bombardment of Gaza

this week. May she and all innocent victims rest in peace.