Call it what it is

 

Call it what it is

The General Manager of the club had had enough and decided to address the fans before a game from middle of the pitch.  His words were scathing and for once he pulled no punches with the people letting the club down…

“The greatness of the club has been smeared all over the world by an unruly mob, who spread destruction and venom wherever they go. It is to these tykes, hooligans, louts and drunkards that I now pinpoint my message. Rangers Football Club want no part of you, who spread viciousness with party songs and foul, obscene language. You are warned – do not use obscene language. Do not sing provocative songs.”

Those words were spoken by Willie Waddell almost half a century ago after disgraceful scenes in Barcelona where Rangers had played the cup winners cup final. They could have been spoken today in the light of the despicable behaviour of a hard core of people in the centre of Glasgow this weekend. There exists what Journalist Graham Spiers called ‘a white under-class’ which clings to Rangers like barnacles to the bottom of a ship. They seem to wallow in their prejudice and not give a damn the damage it does to the club they purport to love nor the reputation of Scotland as a decent country.

Everything is now a photo-op for their social media channels and they mindlessly post evidence of their own stupidity for the world to see. Amid the drunken brawls, the sectarian chanting, the assaults on Police officers, racist language, the drinking and pissing in the street and the total ignoring of a pandemic which has killed over 10,000 Scots, the decent supporters look on and wonder how the hell they can rid their club of this element. It is a forlorn hope.

Much has changed at Ibrox since 1972 when Waddell was in danger of being called out for hypocrisy for castigating the ‘venom’ and ‘provocative Party songs’ of supporters whilst the club itself was still discriminating against Catholic players. Their unwritten policy still had years to run and despite Waddell again speaking to the fans 4 years later after another riot, this time in a match with Aston Villa, it was 1989 before Rangers’ sectarian signing policy ended. With it ended the tacit approval by the club of the songs and actions of the bigots in their support.

Much has changed in Scottish society too since 1972; there exists now a confident and articulate Catholic population no longer prepared to put up with abuse their grandparents and parents suffered. Their days at the back of the bus are over. There is also, at long last, some sign that some of the political class, are now prepared to call this bigotry out for what it is. The First Minister of the country stated…

“I’m angry on behalf of every law-abiding citizen. In normal times, the violence & vandalism, and the vile anti Catholic prejudice that was on display, would have been utterly unacceptable. But mid-pandemic, in a city with cases on the rise, it was also selfish beyond belief.”

Alas, Frist Minister, ‘in normal times’ we see this behaviour enacted on our streets regularly. Not only in a sporting context but also in the triumphal parades we endure each summer which attract similar people to those we saw in George Square.

Let’s call it what it is; anti-Catholic and anti-Irish racism has existed in Scotland for far longer than association football. It found a vehicle to express itself in the sporting arena when clubs with a perceived Irish or Catholic identity were brought into being.

Scottish society needed a mirror shoved in its face to see the ugly wart of hatred which disfigured it. It is ironic that the mirror was supplied by those engaging in moronic, medieval behaviour, as they videoed their own debasement and posted it online for all to see. There seemed to be a societal blindness about this behaviour which was passed off as just some quirky historical feature of ‘the old Firm’ or a form of ‘sectarianism’ which both sides joined in equally. The truth is that if the sort of bigotry and aggression the Catholic population in certain areas of Scotland has long endured was targeted at Jews or Muslims, there would be a huge outcry.

We need a government prepared to act. We need a media prepared to report the facts honestly without falling back on the bullshit idea that when it come to this issue ‘both sides are as bad as each other.’ We need a Police force prepared to enforce the law. We need the decent Rangers supporters, yes, they do exist, to raise their voices and say enough! If you love your club and want to see it prosper as a modern, inclusive institution then you’re going to have to fight for it. The soul of Rangers has been dragged through the mud too often by the ‘People’ and their misplaced sense of superiority.

Scottish society is slowly waking up to this poison in its midst. It is to be hoped that those with the power and influence take the necessary action and don’t allow this moment to pass in a welter of mealy-mouthed statements and talk of ‘inappropriate behaviour.’

This abscess is in need of lancing, I hope we have politicians and sporting leaders with the balls to do it.

 

 

Correcting History

 

Correcting History

 

This week I watched Raoul Peck’s excellent and troubling documentary series, ‘Exterminate All the Brutes.’ It is a beautifully made yet brutal exposition of colonialism, racism and genocide. The documentary traces the development of the idea that European culture was somehow superior to other cultures and that it was their manifest destiny to replace, exploit or even exterminate the ‘lesser’ cultures of the world. This idea, supported by appalling pseudo-science, led to the horrors of slavery, imperialist conquest and in many cases the genocide of native peoples and cultures.

These ideas of cultural and racial superiority are skilfully traced from 1492 when Columbus ‘discovered’ America, and Spain expelled its Jews, through to the Holocaust of the Nazi era and the attitudes of many who follow populist fear mongers like Trump in the USA or Orban in Hungary. It is not without irony that some of Trump’s supporters marched through the streets chanting the white supremacist trope, ‘You will not replace us!’ This slogan grew from the supremacist notion that white races are in danger of extinction due to the rise in numbers of non-whites in their society and that all of this is somehow controlled by the Jews. Such ludicrous thinking links back seamlessly to the ideas in Raoul Peck’s documentary about the superiority of white people.

I also got to thinking about the ideas expounded by Peck as I read about the inquest into the murders of ten Irish men and women by the British Army in August 1971. Ireland was England’s first colony and no doubt the north-east corner of the island will be its last. There is a wealth of evidence about the racist attitudes towards the Irish which stretches back centuries. Victorian pseudo-science declared the Irish to be culturally and racially inferior to their Anglo-Saxon neighbours. Charles Kingsley, author of the popular children’s book ‘The Water Babies’ visited Ireland at the height of the great hunger. He saw the horrors unfolding there and reacted with a chilling lack of sympathy, devoid of any hint of empathy or humanity…

 

"I am haunted by the human chimpanzees I saw along the hundred miles of that horrible country. I don't believe they are our fault, but to see the white chimpanzees is dreadful; if they were black, one would not feel it so much, but their skins, except where tanned by exposure, are as white as ours."

What struck me about the Ballymurphy atrocity and the slaughter in Derry six months later by the same army unit was the manner in which the victims were demonised and a compliant press printed every lie the army asked them too. They were told at the time that the people shot were innocent but they refused to listen to witnesses who saw what happened. We were told to believe that a mother of eight out looking for her son before being shot in the face by a paratrooper was a terrorist. We were asked to believe that a parish priest, shot dead while giving the last rites to a victim, was a gunman. It was absurd at the time and absurd 50 years later when the lies were exposed.

At the time of the Ballymurphy massacre there was a TV show airing called ‘The Comedians.’ It regularly lampooned the Irish as stupid, ignorant and illogical. Those attitudes could have been lifted from Elizabethan or Victorian England such was their lineage. Common thought at the time suggested that there could be no blame attached to the British Military for Ballymurphy or Bloody Sunday as our ‘brave lads’ were decent fellows trying to keep the mad warring tribes of Ireland apart. The reality was that the Army in Ireland was using the same tactics of brutality and propaganda they had deployed in various colonial conflicts from Kenya to Aden. There have been scores of ‘Ballymurphys’ from Amritsar to  Ventersburg, from Kenya to Croke Park, as the Pax Britannica was enforced on the ‘lesser’ peoples.

John Teggart, whose father Daniel was murdered in Ballymurphy said after the coroner found his father and nine other victims were completely innocent of wrongdoing said…

‘We have corrected history today. The inquest confirmed that the soldiers who came to the area, supposedly to protect us, turned their guns on us.’

 

What remains shameful is that the majority of the British people, for the most part, have no idea of the crimes committed in their name. The history curriculum in schools talks of Empire as a great achievement and all too often the certainty of ignorance is manifest in the attitudes of many who swallow the myths and any lies that they are fed.

I was lucky enough to visit Berlin a couple of years back and in that fine city I found a people who, for the most part, had confronted their past. The Germans acknowledge the magnitude of what occurred in the Hitler years and the city is dotted with memorial great and small to the crimes of the Nazis. From the large Holocaust memorial, to small metal plaques embedded into the pavement bearing the names of lost Jews, they remember and more importantly they teach their children about it to ensure such things are not forgotten and are unlikely to occur again.

We humans are a tribal species by nature and are often most at home with our ‘ain folk.’ We seek the reassurance and identity which comes from belonging to the group. We see it mirrored on social media where likeminded people form bubbles containing the same opinions or supporting the same sports team. This can shut out other opinions and lead to a group think which shouts down or abuses any who stray from the party line.

Raoul Peck’s masterpiece eviscerates the idea that any human being is superior to any other. It challenges us all to learn from the mistakes of the past and to see where some of our current prejudices stem from.  As Voltaire is reputed to have said, ‘history is a bag of tricks we play on the dead.’ In learning the truth, we are better able to order our societies today and better able to relate to the ‘other’ in our midst who have their own stories to tell.

There is only one race; the human race, despite what the charlatans have told us.

God Bless Albert Kidd

 

God Bless Albert Kidd

A blue haze of cigarette smoke hung in the air as old Tommy O’Neil brought in another New Year with his family. The clan always gathered at his house for the bells and as 1985 turned to 1986 it was no different. He’d seen a lot in his long life, two world wars, the great depression and a life of hard graft for little reward. He had learned though that family was the real treasure to cherish and nothing pleased him more than having them under his roof enjoying a good time together. ‘Granda,’ called his thirteen-year-old grandson, Tony, through the chatter and laughter, ‘will ye sing yer song for us?’ Tony’s mother smiled and rolled her eyes before calling the room to order, ‘Right, a bit of quiet noo, my da’s gonae sing his song.’ The room became still and old man, born in 1900, closed his eyes and began to sing in a surprisingly strong voice…

‘A young lad named John Thomson,
From the west of Fife he came,
To play for Glasgow Celtic,
And to build himself a name.

On the fifth day of September,
'gainst the Rangers club he played,
From defeat he saved the Celtic,
Ah but what a price he paid.’

Young Tony watched the old fella as he sang and notice how still the room was. His grandfather had been a young man when John Thomson had played and was at Ibrox on that fatal day in September 1931. He had read about Thomson, McGrory, Gallagher, Tully and all the rest but here was a man who had seen them play in their prime. As he reached a certain point in the song, the people in the room joined in quietly, almost reverentially…

‘Farewell my darlin Johnny

Prince of players we must part

No more we’ll stand and cheer you

On the slopes of Celtic Park’

 

When the song was over, Tony squeezed onto the sofa beside his grandfather. ‘What was John Thomson like granda? Was he as good as they say he was?’ The old man smiled, ‘He was a marvellous goalkeeper and brave as a lion. Maybe too brave. I recall a game with Airdrie, he dived at a forward’s feet. Cost him a couple of teeth and a fractured jaw.’ Tony nodded, ‘did ye see the accident at Ibrox?’ The old man nodded silently before adding, ‘Aye, son and it was just that; a dreadful accident. Poor Sam English never got over it.’ As the old man regaled his grandson with tales of times long before he was born the mood in the room changed again. Someone started singing and soon the whole room joined in….

‘Piling on the agony, putting on the style

1-2-3-4-5-6-7,  scoring all the while

There’s nothing in this whole wide world

That makes you want to smile

Like watching Glasgow Celtic putting on the style’

As young Tony joined in, he could see his mother by the living room door pointing to her wrist. It was time for bed. At least he was going with his old man and uncle Frank to see Celtic play Rangers the following day. Despite the ongoing racket in the living room, sleep soon came and claimed young Tony O’Neill.

1986 began with one of those wet, grey winter days that so afflict the west of Scotland. Many of the adults in the great river of humanity flowing towards Celtic Park were still half drunk from the night before so the mood was upbeat and the songs were filling the air. Young Tony stuck close to his old man and uncle as they marched along the Gallowgate with thousands of others. He was well drilled about what to do at these games in order to stay safe.

As they lined up at the turnstile on Janefield street the crowd was swaying and singing. ‘Mo Mo Super Mo. Mo Mo Super Mo. Super Maurice Johnston…’  Alas the aforementioned Mo was ill and wouldn’t be playing and that worried many of the fans heading into the match. Celtic had finished 1985 in patchy for and lost at Ibrox, Aberdeen and Tannadice. They’d need a big performance to get their faltering title hopes back on track and missing their star striker was a concern.

Tony managed to get a spot beside the other youngsters right at the front beside the green painted wooden barrier. His old man and uncle were just a couple of yards behind him as the teams ran out to a tumultuous roar. The game exploded to life in the ninth minute when Owen Archdeacon swung in a cross for Paul McGugan to rise unchallenged and head Celtic in front. Two thirds of the stadium erupted in a crescendo of noise and colour. The game became a grim battle of attrition in the mud and it took a Brian McClair header early in the second half to settle the issue. Tony O’Neill, like thousands of others, got home freezing, soaking but absolutely delighted.

Celtic’s form was up and down that winter but they got their act together as spring arrived. Runaway leaders Hearts were already being called champions elect by the press but there was a glimmer of hope as the last few games of the season approached. After an astonishing 4-4 draw at Ibrox, Celtic wracked up 7 consecutive wins to at least put pressure on the Edinburgh side going into the final day of the season.

Tony O’Neill popped into his granda’s house for a chat before heading to Paisley on the supporters’ bus for Celtic’s date with destiny. ‘It’s a long shot.’ Tony said, ‘we need Hearts tae lose and Celtic to win by a right few goals.’ The old man who had seen it all smiled, ‘this is Celtic son, we don’t do things the easy way.’  Tony looked at him, ‘ye think we can dae it Granda?’ The old man nodded, ‘of course we can, we just need a wee bit of luck up in Dundee.’  Tony could hear his old man shout up at the window, ‘Time I headed granda, see ye after the game,’ he said with an excited smile. The old man grinned as the boy hurried out the door, adjusting his Celtic scarf as he went. Watching young Tony fall in love with Celtic was like watching his dad falling in love with the Lions as a boy. In fact, when he saw the boy’s enthusiasm it reminded him of how he was a long time ago, when he watched McGrory, Crumb and Divers maul the defences of Scotland. ‘Good luck son,’ he said quietly, ‘bring home that title.’

Love Street was packed with Celtic fans there in hope rather than expectation. Hearts had been on good form all season but now it came down to the last match of the season. Would they crack under the pressure at Dens Park? Could Celtic win by enough goals at Love Street if they did? Tony O’Neill watched Celtic rip into the Paisley side from the start. They looked dangerous at every attack and had soon raced into a 2-0 lead. Then on 36 minutes came a moment which sealed his love affair with Celtic forever. As he watched from the front of the covered enclosure, Danny McGrain flicked the ball over his head to Murdo McLeod who caressed it to Paul McStay. McStay turned inside his man and fed Roy Aitken who instantly cushioned it back to the overlapping McGrain. The wily old veteran fed Brian McClair who nutmegged a defender and raced towards the St Mirren penalty box. He cut a perfect pass across the face of goal where the onrushing Maurice Johnston slammed it home. It was a goal of exquisite beauty. A goal none of those who witnessed it would ever forget.

Young Tony O’Neill roared his head off like the thousands of other fans around him. Celtic had the 3 goals they required now all they needed was a minor miracle at Dens Park.

90 miles away in Dundee, a Celtic fan sitting among the subs on the Dundee bench glanced around at a nearby fan with a radio pressed to his ear. The fan held up three fingers and mouthed, ‘three nil to Celtic.’ He refocussed on the game which was a tense, scrappy 0-0 draw at that point. He exhaled, hoping the manager would give him a chance before the 90 minutes was up. His name was Albert Kidd.

In Glasgow, old Tommy O’Neill sat closer to his radio. Celtic were now 4-0 up at Love Street. The presenter, breathless with the tension of it all, said, ‘Dundee are making a change. Albert Kidd is on and Tosh McKinley is coming off. A positive change for Dundee.’ The old man knew time was running out, Celtic needed Dundee to score. As he turned the volume up on his radio, Dundee had a corner with just 7 minutes remaining. The corner was headed on into a ruck of players and Albert Kidd reacted fastest and lashed the ball high into the net. Old Tommy clenched his fist and smiled, ‘Go on Celtic!’ he said, a tear rolling down his cheek.

In Paisley Celtic were in cruise control at 5-0 as thousands of ears strained to hear the radio commentary from Dundee. Suddenly there was a roar louder than any which had greeted Celtic’s goals that day. Tony’s father pushed through the cheering crowd to his son who looked around him wondering what was going on. ‘Dundee have scored! God bless Albert Kidd!’ Father and son embraced as the Celtic supporters started their victory songs around them.

Ninety miles away in Dundee, Albert Kidd scored again, just to be on the safe side. The party could now truly begin.

A Burning Indignation

 

A Burning Indignation

Peter Kerins pulled the old-style overcoat over his shoulders, feeling its weight press down on him. The clothes were modelled on authentic period dress and although he felt like an actor, he knew he had look genuine. The only modern device he would carry would be his location beacon; no bigger than a fingernail, it was sewn into the lining of his heavy overcoat. Without it there would be no return journey.

Professor Choi looked him up and down like the mother of a bride looking for flaws in the wedding dress. ‘You have the period money?’ he asked as if checking off a mental list.  ‘yes,’ said Peter a little impatiently, ‘the medical inoculations, the period speech coaching, the map of the city, the location of the portal for the return and of course the list of prohibitions. It’s all in my head Choi, COLIN taught me well.’ COLIN was the colloquial term for the Computerised Learning Interface. An invention which it was hoped would change the world.

It was over 20 years now since the Institute had pioneered the brain research which allowed for the virtual downloading of information from a computerised motherboard into the memory centres of the brain. Their initial experiments planted just a few snippets of obscure information but within five years they could implant an entire foreign language in an afternoon. A Nobel Prize followed and it was assumed that COLIN would be rolled out into universities and schools but the big corporations smelled money and the process was patented to be sold to the rich for exorbitant amounts.

COLIN though was nothing compared to the invention of the time displacement portal. Initial experiments sent sensor packed mini drones back a few days and their measurements were checked against the known data to confirm that it had indeed gone back to the prescribed time. The first living thing sent back was a cat named Milo. It was sent to a sealed cave containing food, water and a battery of sensors. It survived and seemed unchanged in any way when they recovered it. The data showed its journey was complete in the blink of an eye. The technology developed further and Milo was sent back and then recovered via the portal the master computer had designed. The algorithms suggested there was no way to send people or things forward in time but the past was reachable and it was now possible in theory to get there and back again in safety. The risks remained high though and initially the Presidium of the Institute forbade any human being to be sent back. They were rightly concerned that the actions of a visitor in a given timeframe could have unforeseen consequences or even change history. The master computer had worked on this and other paradoxes for several months before discerning that the stream of time could not be altered once set. The past was fixed; you could visit it but you could not alter it in any meaningful way.

The first visitors returned safely and had no discernible impact on history. It was noted that several had sustained minor injuries during their trips which healed in moments. One had even caught a bullet to the shoulder visiting the battle of Gettysburg but that too had healed almost instantly. It was almost as if time was not allowing them to be hurt or to affect history in any way- past or future.  Within a few years scientists and historians were visiting various key points in history and gaining a greater understanding of the past. They had to undergo acclimatisation courses which covered everything from language usage to dress code before their journey. The computers had used miniaturised implanted beacons to locate and return them safely to their own time. Yet again though, big business had seen the potential of ‘flipping’ as it became known and the first fee paying time tourists lined up to visit various points in history.

Peter Kerins had first learned of his distant ancestor while researching his genealogy and had little trouble persuading the Institute to let him make his first flip back to the late 19^th century. He wrote his proposal paper in one sitting and titled it ‘Infant mortality in an industrial city in the late 19^th century.’ That was only part of the reason he wanted to go. He also wanted to meet his remarkable forebear. He had waited three months for a reply but eventually they agreed. He undertook the prescribed acclimatisation courses and neural downloads and he was ready to go.

Professor Choi looked at him, his dark Korean eyes taking in every detail. ‘Don’t lose your coat as it contains the location beacon to bring you home. Remember you have 48 hours to complete your research then you must return.’  Peter nodded, ‘Understood Professor.’ The smaller man spoke to the master computer, ‘activate the portal. March 11^th 1888.’ The rectangular frame on the wall to their left glowed green then red as it filled with plasma energy. ‘Portal activated. Subject may pass through,’ the rather feminine AI voice said. Choi looked at Peter as he stepped forward towards the portal, ‘See you soon Dr Kerins.’ Peter Kerins smiled at him and stepped into shimmering field of light.

The sensation of passing through the portal was just as Kerins had been led to expect. It was like blinking your eyes and opening them a split second later and finding yourself somewhere else. The warmth of the lab at the Institute was replaced by a chill March wind and he was glad of his heavy overcoat. He was exactly where the computer decided he should be; in a quiet park early on a Sunday morning. When flipping to a city targeting an open area at a quiet time was the best way to arrive unobserved. The place seemed quite deserted and he started walking towards the exit a few hundred yards in front of him.

He glanced around the London Road and started walking east. A few horse-drawn carts were already on the roads but in the main, as was the case on Sundays in the era, the shops were closed and the streets quiet. The sabbath day was a day of rest for most. As he reached a crossroad at Dalmarnock Street he turned north. The cottages and tenements crowded on either side of the road seemed jumbled together and there was a smell of human and animal waste. A man lay snoring against the wall of a shuttered tavern, sleeping as if in a comfortable bed. Peter passed him and stopped at the place he wanted to see first. A wooden palisade fence enclosed an area of perhaps 150 metres by 80. He craned his neck to see over the high fence.

A voice behind him startled him a little, ‘if you’ve come to join the labourers, they won’t be here for another hour.’ Peter turned to see a small, stooped man regarding him. He had a wheelbarrow full of shovels and picks and sucked on a thin white, clay pipe. ‘No, I hoped just to look at the ground itself. Do you think I could?’ The man regarded him, ’sure your clothes should have told me you’re not here to sweat with the navvies.’ He nodded towards a padlocked door further along the fence, ‘come have a look at our endeavour so far.’ He unlocked the door and Peter followed him inside. A green rectangle of grass was laid out before him. To his left a small grandstand was in construction and banks of earth were formed on the three other sides of the modest little stadium to serve as rudimentary terraces. Piles of timber lay to one side and the whole place had the feel of a construction site. ‘All built by local men on their day of rest. We should be ready for our first sport in 6 or 8 weeks.’ Peter took it all in, his eyes missing nothing. ‘Tell me,’ he said to the man, ‘where might I meet Brother Walfrid on this fine day?’ The man rubbed his grizzled chin, ‘the good brother will be hearing mass at St Mary’s this morning, I hear tell. What business have you with him?’ he added, a tad more suspiciously. Peter smiled, ‘I have heard of his endeavours and wish to make a donation to his good works.’ With that he thanked the man and slipped a shilling into his hand. The older man nodded, his expression not changing, ‘thank you sir and good luck to you now.’

The church was the only attractive building in a street of dark, dank looking tenements.  People milled about the doorway, talking and smoking. Some in their Sunday best clothes, others in what were probably the only clothes they had. There were children seemingly everywhere, some in their bare feet. Peter made his way through the crowd and into the church. He copied the woman in front of him and dipped his finger in the small water font at the door and made the sign of the cross. The church was already busy and he sat near the back taking it all in. Religion in his own time was a personal affair relegated to the back channels on the cyber-world beside other obscure pass times. Physical churches no longer existed save those saved as museums.

Peter scanned the pews looking for the man he had come to see and hopefully converse with. Within a few seconds he had spotted several men in the robes of the Marists kneeling at the front on the church. His distant relative had to be one of them. The service was in Latin, a dead language Peter had studied briefly at the institute. It flowed melodically, interspersed with songs and ritualised responses, Peter found it relaxing, beautiful even. He stayed in his seat when the people went to receive the bread. When the service was over, he waited behind until the church was almost empty. The four Marists prayed a while longer before taking their cue from the eldest and rising to leave. Peter waited until they passed his pew before standing and following them outside. He touched the elbow of the last of the four Marists and said quietly, ‘Brother Walfrid, I wonder if you could spare a moment?’

The man’s pale eyes regarded him and he replied in a soft Irish accent, ‘I have some business to attend too but if you are brief.’ They stepped to the side the church entrance so as to be out of the flow of people. ‘My name is Peter Kerins, I believe we are distant relatives. I wanted to talk to you about your endeavour to feed the children in this part of town and about the football club you will soon launch into the world.’  Walfrid regarded him, ‘You are well informed Mr Kerins. I can’t place your accent. Are you American perhaps?’ Peter nodded, ‘Yes, I’ve spent some years there.’ The Marist smiled slightly. ‘The Sligo Kerins’ never spoke with such an accent.’ A voice called to him and Walfrid turned briefly to see a bearded man wave him over. ‘Come to the school tomorrow around ten. We can talk then. You know the Sacred Heart School?’ Peter nodded his thanks as Walfrid shook his hand and left.

Peter Kerins pondered his first meeting with his distant ancestor as he strolled towards the centre of the city. Walfrid looked older than his 47 years. Grey flecks in his hair and lines around his eyes spoke of years of hard work. It seemed alien to him that such people would sacrifice their whole lives in the service of others with no reward but an early grave. The words of the sermon in the church came back to him, the only words of the service spoken in English. ‘Jesus wants us to be men and women for others.’ Was that what Walfrid was? A man for others, labouring so hard and long to help others? It was an alien concept in his own time.

Peter wandered the streets of the city taking in the sights and sounds. He strolled past the site of the great exhibition which would open that spring in a grand park in the west end of the city. He saw grand houses and appalling slums, well fed children and waifs in need of food and warm clothing. As the shades of night approached, he booked into a hotel in the centre of the city and after eating, slept for the first time in this strange new reality.

Sacred Heart school was adjacent to the little church bearing the same name. Peter entered and told the severe looking secretary he had an appointment to see the head master. She led him to a small office where the good Brother sat behind a desk, spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. ‘Ah, Mr Peter Kerins, tis yourself. Be seated, please. Peter sat and looked at the man whose life he had researched in as much detail as he could. ‘Thank you, Brother,’ he said, sitting in a comfortable chair facing the head teacher. The two men looked at each other for a second as the secretary left. ‘Now, tell me,’ Walfrid began in his soft accent, ‘what can I do for you this fine morning?’

Peter explained he wanted to make a contribution to the poor children’s dinner tables but also wanted to hear Walfrid explain why there was such need for them. ‘These past 30 years or more I’ve been in Glasgow,’ Walfrid began, ‘I’ve seen poverty and hunger go unaided. I’ve seen children, legs bowed for want of sustenance. I’ve seen infants sicken and die before they learned to walk because their housing is damp, overcrowded and disease ridden. What is a follower of Christ to do in such circumstances but try to help?’ Peter listened to Walfrid speak of his experiences in Ireland during the great hunger and the horrors he witnessed as a child. He could not help but see the man was possessed of a burning indignation at the injustice wrought on his land and his people.

‘When I came to Scotland, I saw my people still in great need but at least some could work here. Some of the people here despised us as drunken and lazy. I knew that education was the key to lifting our people from their lowly position. How to get the children to school though when most worked at menial tasks to bring in a coin or two for their families? The answer was food. A hot meal each day brought so many through the doors that we were serving over a thousand meals in a day.’

Peter Kerins listened to the middle-aged Irishman speak for almost an hour. All his work, all his endeavours were all aimed at helping the poor. It was hard for him to believe, coming as he did from a time when no one went hungry or lacked medical care, that 5000 children in this city alone would not live to see their fifth birthday this year. Walfrid looked at Peter, ‘Why do these things interest you? Are you a writer with one of the journals?’ Peter looked at him, tempted to tell him the truth but knowing the protocols stuck to his story. ‘No, I’m an academic. I want to learn the cause of this misery.’ Walfrid inhaled a long breath, ‘the cause is the same as ever; human greed and a people who do not live out the meaning of their creed.’

Peter gave him an envelope containing twenty perfect facsimile £5 notes. It was a year’s salary for some in that era. ‘I hope you can make use of this and rest assured your football club will be a great success.’  Walfrid left the envelope on the table and nodded his thanks before saying quietly, ‘will you pray with me, Peter?’ The request caught Peter off guard but he mumbled that he would. There in a small school set among the dusty chimneys of a grim industrial city, two men born 400 years apart bowed their heads in prayer. As they parted Walfrid gifted Peter a small medallion. ‘A small token of my appreciation.’ Peter thanked him and slipped it into his pocket.

The following day Peter headed back to the Park for his journey home. It had been a most informative trip. His beacon vibrated slightly to remind him that the portal would open soon. He looked around at the many chimneys belching acrid smoke into the sky. This was a hard time to be alive, especially if you were poor. He waited until there was no one near and stepped behind the tree. The portal opened, its rectangle of light looking odd amidst the greenery of the park. He closed his eyes and stepped though.

Choi smiled at him, ‘welcome back. I hope you learned something from your trip?’ Peter smiled, ‘it was truly fascinating, Choi. The people there lived with hunger and death as their companion but they were more alive than we are in this sterile age.’ Choi watched him, ‘did you meet the man you wanted to meet?’ Peter paced across the room and made to take of the heavy overcoat. ‘Yes, I did and he was as remarkable as I’d envisaged.’ He searched the pocket of the heavy coat and felt cold metal of the medal given to him by Walfrid touch his hand. He took it out and looked at it. ‘A souvenir?’  asked Choi. Peter smiled, ‘Yes, a worthless piece of metal to most people but it was worth everything to him.’ Choi nodded, ‘superstitious people in the past often imbued certain artefacts with a power they don’t have.’ Peter nodded, ‘Perhaps, but that man’s beliefs motivated him to great acts of altruism. Maybe the artefact doesn’t give him that power, maybe his actions give the power to the artefact?’

Peter placed the small medallion on the table and headed for the decontamination room.

 

 

The mood music

 

The mood music

German international Andreas Thom joined Celtic in the summer of 1995. It was a time of hope for Celtic as they returned home to Celtic Park which was rising like a phoenix above the east end Sky line. The team was improving after being in the doldrums for a few years and Tommy Burns had them playing some fine attacking football. Thom was barely at Celtic Park three months before he was standing numbly with some of his team mates at the funeral of a young Celtic fan murdered on his way home from a match with Partick Thistle. I recall seeing his image in a newspaper of the time and thinking that he must be wondering what the hell is going on.

Violence at and around football isn’t a new phenomenon even in countries like Germany but what was new to Thom was sickening bigotry which hangs around the fringes of the Glasgow football scene like a bad smell. There are those who argue that violent people would find an outlet for their actions even if football had never been invented. That may be true but there remains a poison at the core of the Celtic-Rangers rivalry which offers a ready context and a vocabulary of hate for the less bright in our society.

Hatred can of course be a learned response which is passed on from father to son. The old Jesuit aphorism, ‘Give me child for the first 7 years and I’ll give you the man,’ reminds us how susceptible children are to the opinions and attitudes of the important adults in their life. Abuse takes many forms and teaching a child to hate others is surely one of the most pernicious. Hatred can also be a deep psychological response to feeling powerless or trapped in our lives. It festers in poverty and ignorance although it is by no means exclusive to those contexts.

Most of us who enjoy watching Celtic or Rangers are clearly not deranged bigots and it was heartening to see at the time of Mark Scott’s death in 1995 that many of a blue persuasion were equally appalled at the senseless brutality of the act and the underpinning hatred which drove it. When we dehumanise people and make them Taigs, Fenians, Huns, Wogs, Yids or any other catch all term for a target group in our society, we mark them out as different from us and that is a dangerous thing to do.

The decent majority have a role to play in not setting the mood music where the haters can thrive. Journalist Graham Spiers wrote of the Rangers support at a match with Celtic a few years ago…

"The incessant bigoted chanting by Rangers fans at Hampden was shocking. Unarguably the most socially-backward fans in British football. The really damaging thing for RFC is, it’s not the mythical ‘small minority’. There appear to be 1000s upon 1000s singing these songs."

There will of course be a wide spectrum of opinion among those taking part in the bigoted chanting that day, ranging from those caught up in the atmosphere and excitement of the match to those with deeply ingrained prejudices. It won’t stop until the sensible folk stop singing these songs and challenge those who do to think about what they are saying. By joining in, they help create the welcoming environment where the more unhinged find a home for their hatred. Expressions of anti-Catholic or anti-Irish bigotry have no place in any modern country and it remains a stain on Scotland that we have allowed this to go on for so long.

This article though isn’t a diatribe against Rangers or their supporters as all clubs have their share of fools and knaves among their supporters. It may be that the issue is worse at Ibrox but we must all look to ourselves and ensure we don’t add to the mood music of hate. Celtic supporters have always sung Irish nationalist songs at matches and it is a right many would defend today. It is though also important to see ourselves as others see us and ask what is appropriate at a football match in Scotland? Celtic fans will recall Rob McLean on the BBC’s Sportscene show raising the issue of Celtic fans singing the ‘Boys of the old Brigade’ at a match at Hampden some years back and labelling it as ‘sectarian.’ There was understandable outrage from some Celtic followers as the song is clearly not sectarian but few asked about the appropriateness of singing the song at a Scottish football match at all.

Social media is the forum for much positive debate on Scottish football but the anonymity it affords allows some to pour forth their bile and prejudice with seeming impunity. Sometimes decent folk consider adding more moderating comments to some discussions but are dissuaded by the thought of the zealots coming down on them. It can be hard to be a dissenting voice in an echo chamber of like-minded people but as Sophie Scholl, a young girl executed by the Nazis for opposing the war said…

‘Stand up for what is right even if you are the only one standing.’

Scottish football is trying to make inroads into hate speak at matches through various initiatives and this is to be lauded. The SFA as overseers of our game have made historic mistakes, such as not challenging Rangers’ sectarian signing policy for a lifetime when it was common knowledge. This gave tacit approval to a policy which haunts Rangers to this day in terms of how they are perceived. The hate expressed in songs and words at football though point to a deeper, societal issue which perhaps finds a handy focal point in the stands. Football on its own won’t solve these issues but as a country we really need to confront them more vigorously as we seem to drift along accepting that the way it has always been will be the way it will stay..

It is now 26 years since Mark Scott’s tragic death and events in Glasgow last week when another Celtic fan lost his life remind us that the dragon of bigotry has not yet been slain. It isn’t someone else’s problem; we all need to own it and we all need to challenge it. We all need to look at ourselves before pointing the finger at others. As a society, we need to ensure that we don’t perpetuate the circumstances in which bigotry thrives.

Change is always possible though and the journey to a better place, long as it may be, always begins with the first step.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Union of Dumb Amateurs

 

The Union of Dumb Amateurs

I was born in the old Duke Street hospital more years ago than I care to remember. Today, the remnants of the former hospital sit boarded up, empty and somewhat forlorn beside a Lidl store. Built in 1904 in the days before the NHS as a Poor Law hospital, it sits today like relic of times gone past and only its grade B listing has stopped the bulldozers sweeping it away as they have with so much of Glasgow’s history. Each time I walk around the east end of Glasgow, I can’t help but think of incidents and people from days long gone. It’s filled with memories and the ghosts of the past hang heavy in the air.

On a quiet Sunday morning, I took a long lockdown walk through the east end and had one of those odd experiences you only get in the ‘dear green place.’ I strolled down Abercromby Street picturing in my mind the old black tenement building I lived in as a boy. I thought of a football match in the back court amid the debris of a decaying city when I slid in for a tackle only to slash my leg on some broken glass which was lying around. I still bear the scar from that day so long ago. Opposite my tenement home was St Mary’s church and the old school behind it with the boys’ playground on the roof. I recalled during one playtime football match accidently kicking the ball over the rooftop railings where it plummeted into the girls’ playground below. That was game over and I wasn’t too popular that day.

I reached the junction of Abercromby Street and the London Road, thinking I would walk around Glasgow Green when something caught my attention. I could hear what sounded like someone making a speech and people roaring approval. So instead of heading to the Green, I turned left and headed towards Bridgeton Cross. The speech continued but the Sunday morning streets were deserted. The puzzle was solved when I realised that someone had their first-floor flat window open and was blasting out what sounded like Ian Paisley at his roaring best. The old firebrand Minister, who had something of a conversion late in life to the peace process, was roaring out, ‘Never, never, never!’  It seemed like I had stepped back in history 50 years or more. A man in a Rangers top was at the window and clearly still merry from celebrating his side’s deserved championship win. He was shouting out some tired old sectarian slogans to no one in particular as a rather bemused old chap walking his dog completely ignored him. A police van was parked across the road, although the officers seemed more concerned with what they were getting out of Greggs than the bizarre display going on 50 yards away.

As I passed, Dr Paisley stopped ranting, the virtually empty street was treated to a song with the line ‘we are the men of the UDA.’ Of course, that part of town has some history of people being involved in supporting the loyalist cause during the troubles. Indeed, some less cerebral types actually planted bombs in ‘Irish’ bars in Glasgow causing some severe injuries. The Police of the time infiltrated them easily enough and some lengthy sentences were handed out. One senior officer of the time referred to the Glasgow UDA as the ‘Union of Dumb Amateurs.’ In one piece of black comedy, they hid explosives in an oven in a loyalist club. During a dance, someone put on the oven to heat up some pies and literally blew up the club.

Those dark old days are long gone, hopefully forever, but for some, a sense of community and identity is still sought in old paradigms of Loyalist and republican, old antagonisms of orange and green but the vast majority of Scots have never had much interest in such things and of those who did, most have left it in the past. It was odd seeing that chap at his window, addled with drink and going through his empty rituals like an outdated performer in an empty theatre. It would be easy for those of us who don’t share his outlook on life to simply dismiss him as an outmoded crank or deranged bigot but that is to fail to get to the root of issue.

Prejudice thrives in ignorance and poverty and dealing with those things as a society is the first step to alleviating it. Research suggests that the bond between people who hate the same thing is often stronger than when they like the same thing. There is bonding among groups who are opposed to others and the scapegoat they target is often a projection of their own fears and insecurities. One article on group dynamics in society said…

‘Humans desire structure and certainty in their social lives. To establish that, people naturally divide into in-groups (social circles where everyone feel like they belong with one another) and out-groups (people who exist outside of social circles and are typically not welcomed into them). When people declare their dislike for others, it helps people understand the boundaries between social circles. This is a powerful motivator for people to form bonds because it satisfies their need to feel connected to others.’

The man at the window was perhaps not so much ranting to offend those in the group he dislikes but rather to signal to others who think like him that he belongs in their group. A more cohesive and perhaps fairer society could develop from dealing with poverty and ignorance and helping people feel part of a greater whole. Too many are left behind and left to wallow in ignorance and look for someone to blame. It may be counter intuitive, especially if you are on the receiving end of the abuse such folk dish out, but they really are to be pitied rather than hated. It can be hugely difficult to escape the conditioning we endure as children. Hatred is often learned at our daddy’s knee and those attitudes, once embedded, are hard to shift.

I continued my walk, leaving the man at the window shouting, ‘we are the people,’ at a world that wasn’t listening. It seemed such a waste of a life to spend your days trapped in the prison of ignorance without realising the doors are unlocked. Some people isolate themselves from contact with the group they claim to hate and that failure to see them as people like themselves can lead to a cycle of stereotyping which perpetuates their prejudice.

A few years ago, as part of the peace process in the north of Ireland, former IRA men met former British soldiers to reconcile their views of the past. One former soldier said of the encounter…

“There was an element of fear there and, I have to be honest, a bit of mistrust,” he said. “I had never met a republican before except when I was on operational duties with the army, which is quite shocking really. I was taken aback by their hospitality and, for want of a better word, their normality, and they weren’t aggressive to me. They had a good point to make which was easily understood once I sat and listened: why they were involved in the armed conflict.  Initially, I didn’t tell them very much. I was guarded. But it didn’t take long to come around. Their story is not really much different from our story as soldiers. I think the key to the reconciliation process is listening.”

One former IRA man who took part in the encounter said…

“It’s important to listen to their stories, to get an understanding of what they were actually going through and also the effect that the conflict has had upon them. People who were involved in the conflict have a responsibility to attempt to rebuild society, to ensure that our children’s future is not our past”.

Here in Scotland, I hope the new generation sees past the out-dated squabbles of yesterday and builds a better country where everyone has a stake. Where we are all ‘the people’ regardless of faith, ethnicity, politics or any other construct made up in our minds. As Maya Angelou once said….

‘Hate has caused a lot of problems in this world but it has not solved one yet.’

 

 

 

 

The Milk Boy

 

The Milk Boy

A few years back I was invited to a book launch by Stephen Murray who was the author of the excellent ‘Ten Men won the League,’ a book which recounted the incredible events of season 1978-79. Just when all seemed lost for Celtic that year, the snow came and halted the league season for almost two months. Celtic returned from a trip to Portugal and seemed to have rediscovered their mojo and went on a run which saw them streak up the league table until finally it all rested on a game with Rangers at Celtic Park on a bright May evening. Much has been written about that astonishingly dramatic game in which Celtic fought back from a goal down and a man down to score four goals in the final 25 minutes of the match to record a fine 4-2 victory and win the league.

At that book launch I had the pleasure of meeting a few players who played that season. Full back Joe Filippi was there as was Peter Latchford but for me the highlight of the evening was to spend some minutes talking to the one and only Danny McGrain. He remains a humble, soft spoken man who retains great affection for Celtic. It is no exaggeration to say that he was a world class footballer in his time and added to this had a great attitude on and off the field. He had to deal with some serious injuries as a player. His skull fracture at Brockville in May 1972 after a sickening clash of heads with Falkirk striker Doug Somner saw McGrain, clearly concussed, yet in typical fashion he played on until half time before the extent of his injury was known and he was rushed to Falkirk Royal Infirmary.

The following season, with Jim Craig moving on, he made the right back berth his own and blossomed into a fantastic overlapping full back. He rightly gained international honours and was in time part of the Scotland squad which headed to West Germany for the 1974 World Cup Finals. The Scots were the only undefeated team in the tournament but lost out in the group stages after stirring displays against Brazil, Yugoslavia and Zaire. McGrain it seemed could do no wrong but then he was diagnosed with diabetes. Danny was drinking pints of water after one game on a particularly hot day and team medics soon spotted what was amiss. Later in his life he skipped a meal and it almost proved very costly indeed. He wasn’t answering his phone and his wife called the Police knowing that his condition could lead to a loss of consciousness if the circumstances were against him.

The Police car slowed to a crawl as the young officer scanned the nearby cars for the one they were looking for. ‘Nothing’ he said to his colleague as they turned and headed for the Linthouse area which borders the huge Southern General hospital complex. Again, the same pattern was repeated; check the parked cars in the area for a colour and model match, then move on to the licence plate. Just as they were thinking of moving on, they spotted a likely car. ‘Colour matches… checking the plate.’ The driver slowed to a halt. There was soon no doubt that this was the car they were looking for. As they stepped from the vehicle, they could plainly see a familiar figure slumped over the steering wheel. ‘That’s him, quick get the door opened.’ The door was thankfully unlocked but even if it had been locked, they would not have hesitated to break in. This was an emergency. One of the officers quickly assessed the situation and used the sort of common sense long experience had endowed him with, ‘He’s hypoglycaemic, but still with us.’ He produced a soft, sugary sweet from his pocket and eased it into the man’s mouth. As life-saving procedures go it was undramatic and inexpensive but to a diabetic whose brain has been drained of sugar it was manna from heaven. It saved his life.

The man in the car was of course Celtic legend Danny McGrain. He had failed to show up at home after attending a meeting and his wife had the wisdom to quickly call the Police when her calls to his mobile went unanswered. Skipping a meal had meant Danny’s body was seriously low on sugar and in such circumstances the brain’s reaction is to close the non-vital bodily systems down and conserve what little sugar there was in his system. He had lost consciousness shortly after having the presence of mind to park by the side of the road and it then became a race against the clock to find him. Thankfully the Police did find Danny’s car and knew what to do to revive him.

Those of us lucky enough to see Danny McGrain play during his Celtic career saw a player who combined natural talent with determination. It was noted by a fellow player that he possessed a ‘cruel tackle’ which gave no quarter. He was never a dirty player though as he possessed too much talent to need to stoop to that but he was as tough as they come in the physical world of Scottish football. In memory’s view he is the young swashbuckling full back storming up the right wing, the mature bearded captain linking the play on that memorable day at Love Street in 1986 and the player you looked to when things reached the tipping point in tight games.

The young boy who was up a 4am for five years delivering milk in Drumchapel had a dream of making a living playing the game he loved. His first inkling that Celtic were watching his progress came in 1967 when the Hoops were sweeping all before them at home an in Europe. He recalled in an interview that things didn’t quite go to plan when Celtic’s Sean Fallon came to watch him…

“Tommy Reilly brought Sean (Fallon) to Ibrox when I played for Scotland under-18s against England,” he said. “We got hammered and it was a horrible winter’s day. The ground was heavy and the English guys were just giants running about in the mud. I remember being carried off at the end with cramp in both my legs. I played left-midfield then, left-half, and Ibrox is a big park for any 16-year-old so I was running around chasing people and chasing the ball. There were a lot of scouts there and I was getting carried off, and I thought, ‘I’ve blown my chances of playing for Celtic.’ But Sean Fallon phoned my mum and said, ‘Can I come up and see Danny about signing for us?’ And he came up to my house in Drumchapel in 1967, it was before the European Cup final although I don’t remember watching the game and thinking, ‘That guy was in my house!”

Danny was pursued by Celtic though and joined a fine group of youngsters at Celtic Park which included Macari, Dalglish, Wilson, Hay, Connelly and many more who would do great things in the game. As the Lisbon Lions broke up and retired or moved on, these youngsters continued their domestic dominance. Celtic of the period were not among the best payers in the game and eventually many of his best team mates headed south to the riches of the English game. Danny stuck it out at Celtic Park and is rightly seen as a club legend. He led Celtic through good times and bad with dignity and pride.

There is a poignant photograph of a grandfatherly McGrain with an up-and-coming Kieran Tierney. He doubtless passed on his wisdom on the game to the young player at Lennoxtown and in such meetings and perhaps saw something of himself in the young full back. I’m sure the Celtic mad Tierney listened well to the older man and knowing his history hoped he’d aspire to be in McGrain’s class as a player.

Every generation which follows Celtic has been blessed to watch some fine players. Some are called ‘greats’ a select few ‘Legends.’ Danny McGrain is both.