Children of the future age

 

Children of the future age

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Children of the future age

Reading this indignant page

Know that once there was a time

When being poor was thought a crime

But seeing no help close at hand

We turn to God in a heartless land

Beseech his manna from the skies

To still our hungry children’s cries

 And in that year of eighty-seven

When so many young took leave for heaven

We took our faith and fate in hand

And formed our bold and gallant band

 Celtic was the name we chose

The shamrock mighty as thistle or rose

From far and wide they came to see

The men who stilled the hungry plea

                                                                J Glass Esq. May 1892

 

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

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

Brother Walfrid…FMS

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

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

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

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

 

Punching the Monkey

 

Punching the Monkey

Glasgow 1988

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

 

 

 

Wilful ignorance

 Wilful ignorance

I know I’m preaching to the choir when it comes to what I am about to write but I ask for your patience as some are either totally unaware of history or wilfully ignorant. Now and then I make the cardinal mistake of debating with followers of Rangers who insist that Celtic ‘died’ in 1994 and are somehow a ‘new club.’ Of course, this is the smokescreen used to assuage the pain and humiliation of the actual liquidation and death of their club in 2012. The idea that a ludicrous stunt by a trashy tabloid newspaper, in which they hired a hearse to park outside Celtic Park and pictured it with the headline ‘RIP Celtic,’ is held up as proof. Sensible people know that Fergus McCann led a takeover which paid Celtic’s debts and saved the club from entering administration.

Let me repeat that; there was no administration at Celtic, nor was the club ever liquidated. These are indisputable facts.

‘But, but’ they say, ‘the company name changed so it must be a new company,’ they bleat. Companies restructure all the time and Fergus McCann restructured Celtic in 1994 in order to meet the serious challenges they faced. In order to alleviate the club's debt, McCann reconstituted the then privately owned ‘Celtic Football & Athletic Company Limited’ into a public limited company – Celtic PLC. This was done in order to finance this restructuring of the stadium and the team, McCann set up a share issue which the fans backed wholeheartedly and it generated £14 million, making it one of the most successful stock market flotations in British financial history.

Let me repeat that; there was no administration at Celtic, nor was the club ever liquidated. These are indisputable facts.

When Celtic FC was founded in November 1887 it was an amateur organisation which, in theory, didn’t pay its players wages. In that sense it was no different to the amateur teams which still play in Sunday leagues to this day. Celtic was a sporting club with members and a committee elected according to some sort of constitution. Such a club has no legal identity in law, it is simply a group of like-minded people coming together to organise football matches and raise money for worthy causes. Today, it would be called a voluntary organisation. In 1897, the club incorporated; that is to say it became a company. It changed its legal status and so obtained a legal identity. The main benefits of incorporating and becoming a ‘Limited Company’ primarily revolve around limited liability, tax benefits, and enhanced credibility. It creates a separate legal entity, protecting the personal assets of members from business debts and lawsuits. 

In becoming a limited company in 1897, the ‘Celtic Football and Athletic Club’ was also responding to the changing nature of Scottish football. Professionalism was introduced in 1893, some 8 years after it had been introduced in England. Scottish players had left for the English game in serious numbers and the SFA had to act by allowing Scottish clubs to pay their players. As football grew in popularity, better and bigger stadiums were required and Celtic’s ambitious board knew that incorporation was the sensible way to fund the stadium and pay the players and staff.

The men who guided Celtic in those early years also knew that if you want to enter into contracts with players, then you need to become incorporated. As stated earlier, an incorporated organisation is a legal entity in its own right. It can enter into contracts, employ staff and lease property. Of course, fans support a football team not a company, but the team is merely something that the company controls; it has no separate identity in law. The players and officials at Celtic are employees of the company. Consider the store in Argyll Street, Glasgow, which used to be Woolworths. After Woolworths was liquidated, the assets were sold off to help meet debts the company owed. The shop that now operates from those premises is not in any sense Woolworth’s. The assets of the defunct Woolworths were bought by other businesses when the company was wound up.

In Scots law there simply is no separate “club” that is operated by a company. They are one and the same thing. If you sue a club, you are suing the company. If you sign for a club, you are signing for the company. The company employs players and officials, pays the wages, sells the merchandise and tickets, and it pays any taxes when liable. Celtic PLC is a Public Limited Company owned by its shareholders. The largest shareholder is currently Dermot Desmond, who owns around 34.7% of the shares. As stated previously, companies can, for a variety of reasons, change their name or form without their unbroken business record being in jeopardy. Celtic were incorporated on April 12^th 1897 and despite takeovers and changing into a PLC, remain the same legal entity as they were on that day 128 years ago.

Let me repeat that; there was no administration at Celtic, nor was the club ever liquidated. These are indisputable facts.

If you want to dispute this then the onus is on you to come up with evidence to support this view which holds more water than a trashy photo-op created by a low-end tabloid in order to sell papers. Where is the administration certificate? Where is the CVA offer? Where is the liquidation certificate? They don’t exist. Why? Because they never happened. The Celtic fans rallied and saved their club. Unlike some.

 

Something inside so strong

 

                                               Something inside so strong

As I was driving through Glasgow’s east end today, the car radio was playing a programme called ‘Soul Music.’ Despite the name, the show looks at the emotional impact of music of various genres on people. Today’s programme was about Labi Siffre’s song ‘something inside so strong.’ Siffre wrote the song in 1984 after watching a documentary on apartheid South Africa. He also stated that some of the lyrics reflected his life growing up as a gay man in less kind times. As various people spoke of the emotional impact of the song on their lives, I was surprised to hear a Scottish voice talking about the song and what it meant to him as a Celtic supporter.

Those of you who follow Celtic will know of the persecution of Neil Lennon during his time as a Celtic player and manager. The abuse he suffered in Scotland ranged from moronic barracking at certain stadiums, physical assault in the street and on the touchline, as well as receiving bullets and bombs in the post. Add to this the day-to-day low-level hassles which made even popping out for a pint a challenging experience. It remains a disgrace that anyone was treated in that manner in our country. Mark Cameron of the Arthur McKenna, Lochgelly CSC said on the radio show….

‘It has been a cult song for sections of the Celtic support for years. It’s a powerful, emotional song which has real meaning for sections of the support. I think because parts of the support have been marginalised in society. Something inside so strong means a lot to Neil as it epitomised his life story. He has been the subject of racist and sectarian abuse both her in Glasgow and in his native Northern Ireland.  In 2008 he was attacked while out socialising in the west end of Glasgow, then he was also sent parcel bombs in the post. In 2011 he was attacked at his work at Tynecastle Park.’

The song really resonated with Celtic fans at that time. Celtic played it before a game with Motherwell and Neil must have taken great comfort from hearing 60,000 fans singing it in support of him. Journalist Graham Spiers hit the nail on the head when musing on why Neil Lennon was singled out for the abuse he endured in Scotland…

‘Lennon embodies the very thing that some residual bigots in Scottish society and Scottish football cannot stand: a visible, vocal and successful Irish Catholic who doesn’t shirk from anything. This is too much for some to bear.’

Lennon’s time as a player at Celtic came at time when Martin O’Neill was building what some consider to be the best Celtic side since the Stein era. His 7 years at the club saw him win 5 titles, 4 Scottish cups and 2 league cups. He was also a part of the Celtic side which made it to their first European final in 33 years during that never to be forgotten run to Seville in 2003. All through those years, he lived with the pressure of being a ‘hate’ figure to some in Scottish football. He was clear about why he was picked on. There have been other players in Scottish football as annoyingly feisty as Lennon; one can think of Strachan, Souness or even Scott Brown, but none of them received the level of sheer vitriol Lennon did. He himself said in later years, why he thought this was…

‘Everyone tries to skirt around it but that’s the basis of it, has been since 2000. The first day I stepped onto Windsor Park (Belfast) as a Celtic player I was booed every time I touched the ball having previously played 36 times and had nothing. But with my association with Celtic being high profile, there’s no doubt in my mind that that was behind it and it’s what you want to call it; you call it sectarianism here in Scotland, I call it racism. If a black man is abused, you are not just abusing the colour of his skin, you are abusing his culture, his heritage, his background. It’s the exact same when I get called a Fenian, a pauper, a beggar, a tarrier by these people with their sense of entitlement and superiority complex. All I do is stand up for myself.’

Lennon, of course, managed Celtic too and brought further success to the club, leading them to 5 more titles, 4 Scottish Cups and 1 league cup. His entire career at Celtic as a player and manager saw him help the club to 10 titles, 8 Scottish Cups and 3 League cups. He also got the side to the last 16 in the Champions league and gave the fans some memorable nights in Europe. Yet, there lingers still among some Celtic fans a sour taste about the events of the so called ‘covid season’ or 2020-21. Lennon was let down by his players, that’s for sure. Playing in empty stadiums seemed to be something of a leveller when it came to Celtic and Rangers deservedly won their first title in a decade.

The abuse Neil Lennon received from a minority of Celtic fans in that ‘Annus horribilis’ of 2021 will, I’m sure make some of them blush when they look back on it. Football is a results driven business and there is no doubt that Celtic were awful that year. There were extenuating circumstances with the world-wide pandemic, expensive signings not showing up well and injuries, but the manager is always likely to be the fall guy. He’s the lightening rod who takes the flak from fans when things aren’t going well. The fact that Celtic totally blew a chance to win ten in a row compounded the misery of that season and somewhere amid all the hysteria some went overboard and displayed a level of petulance that is born of an unhealthy sense of entitlement.

I recall Jock Stein’s last year at Celtic in 1977-78. Celtic had a dreadful season, finishing 5^th in the league, going out of the cup to second tier Kilmarnock and failing to qualify for European football. People accepted that it was a bad year but recognised that injuries to key players (McGrain & Stanton) as well as Dalglish moving on in the pre-season contributed to the forgettable displays that year. No one questions the legacy or legendary status of Jock Stein based on that one season. Neil Lennon was clearly no Jock Stein, as he himself would admit, but his time at Celtic seems to be remembered more by some for failing to make it ten in a row, than for his many achievements at the club. He contributed to Celtic winning 21 major trophies and that, in my eyes, is deserving of respect.

Did he make mistakes as manager? Yes, you could argue he should have stepped aside sooner in that dreadful 2020-21 season, but as this pugnacious Irishman demonstrated on many occasions, he was never one for backing down or walking away from a challenge. I hope in years to come that the vast majority of Celtic fans will see what he achieved at Celtic and what he endured on and off the field to do so. As a fan, player and manager, he gave his all for the club. We can ask no more than that.

He stood up to the haters in society and in doing so represented Celtic with fire and determination. Like the club he loved, he faced obstacles that had little to do with football and succeeded despite them all. Like all Celts, he’d nod at the words of the song I heard on the radio today…

‘Brothers and sisters, when they insist, we’re just not good enough
Well, we know better, just look them in the eyes and say
We’re gonna do it anyway, we’re gonna do it anyway.’

 

 

Putting them in their place

 

 

Putting them in their place

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

The Best

 

                                                                 The Best

Glasgow 1998

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

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

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

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

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

 

Glasgow May 2025

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

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

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

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

Remember us

 

Remember us

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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