Thursday, 14 November 2024

The Price of Freedom



The Price of Freedom 

Another Remembrance Sunday has come and gone and once more the media has had a field day castigating Celtic fans for the actions of some of them at Rugby Park. The Telegraph, a paper fined £30,000 for sending unsolicited emails to subscribers in 2015 urging them to vote Conservative said... 

A Remembrance Sunday tribute ruined in nine seconds but it is a subsequent wall of silence from Celtic that most perturbs the rest of Scottish football. Green Brigade boos, offensive banners and pro-IRA chants were as grimly predictable as the three points that followed for the in-form Scottish Premiership champions on Sunday. Post-match frustrations vented by Kilmarnock manager Derek McInnes, however, betray a growing sense within the game that Celtic – and, in turn, its far-left ultra followers – are becoming unaccountable. “I don’t get any decisions,” McInnes said in response to the “awful” show of disrespect, before adding Celtic “even decided when the minute silence stops”. “I’m not a politician or anything, but it’s our ground, it’s our minute silence.’ 

Such opinions were published in a variety of newspapers and online leading to the usual pile on by those with no love for Celtic at any time. Some pointed out that the so called ‘pro-IRA’ chant was in fact a song about Aidan McAnespie, a young man killed by a British soldier during the Troubles, but it had little effect as the predictable hand wringing went on. The Telegraph's take on things seems to suggest that Celtic FC are somewhat scared to take the ‘far left’ ultras among the support on. Their article is headlined, ‘Celtic’s wall of silence over Remembrance Day shame rooted in fear of Green Brigade.’ Given the bans the ultra-group has endured in the past, I doubt this. 

I also doubt we’ll hear the same hullabaloo about songs others sing about being up to their knees in the blood of their fellow citizens which was heard at the same stadium back in October. The outrage tends to be selective. 

Remembrance in the United Kingdom has changed in the last couple of decades; once it was a time of somber reflection on the horrors of war and the need to see that it doesn’t happen again. These days it can be, on occasion, a jingoistic display of British nationalism and a crude test of loyalty. People actually phone TV stations to complain that a given presenter isn’t wearing a poppy, totally oblivious to the fact that the freedoms our war dead died to maintain include the freedom of dissent and of conscience.  

The pressure to conform can be enormous on some as exemplified by the annual baiting of Irish footballer, James MacClean. To ask a nationalist man from Derry to stand and show respect for the British Army is to demonstrate a lack of understanding of the role of the army played in the conflict in Ireland and its murderous actions in MacClean’s home city. Yet, every year as predictable as the sun rising the abuse is doled out by those who demand respect for their views, yet simultaneously show none for the views of others. 

MacClean has stated that he would wear a poppy if it was to commemorate those lost in both world wars but can’t in conscience wear one for those responsible for the murder of six young men from the Creggan, where he was brought up. The British Legion is clear that pressuring people into wearing a poppy goes against everything the poppy symbolises. 

Celtic FC quietly donates £10,000 each year to the poppy appeal but the media aren’t interested in that when they can stir up controversy. I don’t need to list the Celtic players who were killed or injured in wars nor the family members we all have or had who likewise saw and endured terrible things during conflicts. Remembrance is appropriate as is taking to task the politicians who lead us into these conflicts in the first place. Remembrance is a hugely personal act and cannot be forced on people. The noise we hear at this time of year about poppies and respect is in fact part of the messy world of freedom of speech which we are told our veterans died for. It may be considered a poor show by some that others choose not to remain silent on Remembrance Day, but it is an equally a poor show that the government doesn’t adequately look after those self-same veterans they ‘honour’ each year.  

It is also hugely inappropriate that far right groups have been attempting to co-opt the poppy as one of their symbols. One of the most ludicrous pictures to appear in the media in recent years was that of a man at a Remembrance ceremony sporting a poppy on his jacket and a swastika tattooed onto his neck. Such people are a small minority among those genuinely seeking to honour the fallen but the politicizing of remembrance is a concern to some. Remembering those lost in wars and working to end conflicts go hand in hand. Politicians can never use remembrance as a way to avoid criticism of their modern military adventures. Some ‘patriots’ may say, ’my country right or wrong.’ They should use the full quote; ‘my country, right or wrong. If right to be kept right. If wrong to be set right.’ 

It seems each year we are now destined to hear the discordant voices of outrage, real or faux, about this group or that not responding to the bugle call to conformity. We’ll also endure editorials from hypocritical newspapers who rant at length about disrespectful football supporters whilst remain uncritical or even silent as this country helps arm a military which is slaughtering civilians in Gaza on a biblical scale. 


 

 

 

 

 

Sunday, 6 October 2024

Always have been and always will be - Celtic



The train glided into Dortmund Hauptbahnhof with almost stereotypical German efficiency. 'Right oan time,' smiled Barry looking at his long time friend Sniper. They been on many European trips together and had shared some interesting adventures from Seville to Trondheim as they followed Celtic. Sniper opened his bloodshot eyes, 'what the fuck was in that Dutch firewater we drank last night?' Barry sorted his bag as he replied, 'Jenever is gin but I only had a mouthful, you tanned the lot. I telt ye it was 50% proof, but wid ye listen?  Naw, wid ye feck! ' Sniper stood unsteadily, 'that us in Dortmund then?' Barry pointed through the window to a huge sign which read, 'Dortmund Hauptbahnhof.' 'Well spotted, Sherlock, noo lets find our digs before we head intae toon tae find the fanzone.'

Dortmund city centre looked shiny and modern, which in fact it was as the RAF had utterly destroyed it during the war. The two friends made their way through the busy streets towards Linienstrasse where a room and hopefully a shower awaited. The street was long and narrow with tall buildings on either side. The buildings on the right were orange in colour and Barry studied the numbers as they walked. Sniper looked at the graffiti covered walls, 'looks like fuckin Drumchapel here. You sure this place is legit?' Barry nodded, 'Aye. I typed in that we needed wan night's bed and board when I booked it.' He found the number he was looking for and pushed the buzzer. A woman responded in German, 'Hallo, wer is da?'  Barry rolled his eyes, 'morning. Ye speak English, doll?'  Without any further verbal response the door buzzed open and the two Glaswegians stepped into the dark interior of the building.

Barry and Sniper gazed at the black painted walls as they stood at the bottom of the stairway. 'She must be a Goth,' Sniper mumbled as he began to ascend the stairs. As they neared the top of the stairs, a woman appeared. She had a mop of untidy black hair and wore a short leather skirt and a white blouse. Barry looked at his friend but said nothing. 'Ah my Scottish guests have arrived,' she said with a smile, 'no kilts? I like kilts.' Sniper regarded her, 'naw doll, a bit hill-billy for the auld kilt.' The woman looked at him as if he was speaking Mandarin. Barry continued the conversation in slightly more formal English, 'can you show us our room please?' She nodded, 'follow me, Scottish boys. I am Krista.' 

They walked along a short corridor which had three black painted doors on either side. 'Like the fuckin Crystal maze in here, Barry,' Sniper mumbled. 'You can sure pick a B and B.' The woman stopped at a door and opened it. 'This is your room. I hope you enjoy your stay.' With that she pushed open the door and gestured for them to enter. They did as they were bid and found themselves standing in a curiously decorated room which had two single beds and a large wardrobe. Everything was the same colour; pillar-box red. 'Sniper looked around in silence before saying, 'who's her interior designer? Stevie fuckin Wonder?' As the woman left, Barry looked at his friend. 'I think this place is an ex-knocking shop.' Sniper shrugged, 'Aye, well we're here tae see the Hoops no get you yer Nat King. So drop the bags and lets head intae the toon.' 

A few hours and a few pints of Erdinger later, they were squeezing into the away section of the magnificent Westfalen Stadion to see their team take on the previous season's Champions League runners up. The opening minutes of the game were a blur of noise and action. Dortmund took the lead before Daizen Maeda bundled in an equaliser. The joy in the Celtic section was short lived as the slick and powerful German side clinically took Celtic apart. As the fifth goal was rattled past an exasperated Kasper Schmeichel, Sniper looked incredulously at Barry, 'they're good but by fuck we're wide open!' Barry had to agree. Brendan Rodgers had a track record of going toe to toe with much better sides and it usually ended badly for Celtic. Too many players were hiding or acting like rabbits caught in the headlights of an approaching car. The second half was a slight improvement, but only because the Germans had slipped down a gear or two. When the horror show was over, it was 7-1.

As they trooped out of the stadium, the Celtic fans were still singing defiantly, but they knew they'd been outclassed on the night. 'That was embarrassing, ' Barry said to Sniper, 'if they needed ten goals they'd probably have gotten them.'  Sniper nodded, 'I thought we were wisening up in Europe but we're still soft touches.' Barry nodded, 'aye, still, we have six more games. I still fancy us tae pick up nine or ten points.' Sniper shook his head, 'playing like that, they couldnae pick up flu in an epidemic!' Barry had to laugh. 'We're in this for the long haul, mate. Celtic's like a tattoo, once it's on ye, it's there for life.' Sniper looked at him, 'aye, yer right enough, short arse. Faithful through and through and aw that. Noo, let's go and get pished.' It sounded like a good idea to Barry.

They awoke in their red room early the next morning, heads throbbing and throats as dry as the Sahara. 'Whit time is it, Barry?' croaked Sniper. 'We need tae catch that train tae Amsterdam.'  Barry looked at his phone, 'five past seven. Best get up.' He wandered unsteadily into the small bathroom and clicked on the light. He looked at himself in the mirror over the sink, 'aw, Jesus, ah look as rough as a badger's arse.' A brief shower made little difference but at least he was ready for the journey home.

The train to Amsterdam was full of Celtic fans heading for Schiphol airport and their flights home. Most wanted to sleep the night's excesses away but oddly Barry and Sniper were wide awake. 'Seen us take a few gubbings in Europe but that wan was the worst,' Barry said, gazing at the back page of the newspaper being read by the man opposite him. Sniper disagreed, Barcelona and PSG were worse, but they were all pretty sore.' Barry looked at him, 'why do we follow this team? Spend hundreds of pounds and watch them get pumped?' Sniper shrugged, 'it's out team, mate. It was our da's team before that and our grandads tae. We're Celtic. We always have been and we always will be.' Barry smiled, 'aye. We've had some good time tae, eh? Liverpool, Blackburn, even yon time in Stuttgart when you thought you were nipping a burd and it turned out tae be a tranny.' He laughed and Sniper joined him, 'aye, clear case of hand ball that night.' Barry laughed, 'nae VAR needed that night, mate. Yer arm was in an unnatural position aw right.' They both laughed loudly, the bonds of shared experiences strong with them.

Somewhere down the train someone starting singing a familiar song and a good few weary voices joined in... 'We don't care if we win lose or draw, what the hell do we care. For we only know that there's gonnae be a show and the Glasgow Celtic will be there.' Sniper sipped his can of beer and looked at Barry. 'If Celtic think I'm gonnae haul my arse all the way tae Dingwall on Sunday after that shit show last night... they'd be dead right!'  Barry grinned, 'me tae, mate. Yer team is yer team.'





Saturday, 21 September 2024

Last night as I lay dreaming



Last night as I lay dreaming

Watching Celtic play in the Champions League over the past decade or so has been akin to watching someone make the same mistake over and over again. Sloppy goals conceded, the more street wise teams we have played mugging us and those with more ability praising us for the atmosphere at Celtic Park before waltzing off with three points in the bag. There were hard luck stories along the way but in truth 3 wins in 32 Champions league matches before Wednesday night tells us all we need to know. Celtic has for too long been failing in Europe’s top club competition and seriously underperforming when compared to some clubs with less resources than us. Celtic have slipped to 66th place in UEFA’s co-efficient rankings, below clubs such as Bodo Glimpt. Molde, Tel Aviv and Dynamo Zagreb. All of those clubs, struggle to get 10,000 fans at their league matches.

Something was different on Wednesday night though. I fully accept that the relatively inexperienced Slovan Bratislava side was the perfect opponent for us on match day one, but Celtic was in the mood from the kick off and so too were the fans. The team has been playing well and continued in that vein against the Slovaks. Part of the problem Celtic have endured in the Champions League in recent years has been squandering most of the chances they create. That clinical edge we see from the best sides was often lacking. This week, the team scored 5 goals and could have had a few more. They have an attack with real pace and competition in key areas of the side. The manager is being backed in the transfer market and has added some quality to the squad. On top of this he seems to be improving individual players as well as impressing on the side the attitude they need to adopt to be successful.

The club’s model of developing young talent and selling them on to the richer leagues has been very successful financially and Matt O’Riley’s transfer fee covered most of this season’s purchases. In Arne Engels they look to have secured a young talent who will adequately replace Matt and who also has boundless potential. In the past we haven’t always replaced quality with quality like this and the depth of talent and experience in the squad clearly wasn’t adequate for the challenges of Europe. This season, the club seems to have got it right. The bench against Slovan Bratislava had men like Idah, Forrest, Bernardo, Trusty, McCowan, Palma, Ralston and Valle waiting to come on. That strength in depth will be needed in the depths of winter when the fixtures come thick and fast.

It was telling that Brendan Rodgers said, ‘this feels like the most-ready I’ve been as a manager. (for the Champions league) He clearly feels the squad is evolving in the correct manner. As an elite manager, he has demonstrated again that given the right backing, he can improve the Celtic team. The players are clearly responding to him and confidence is high. He handles the media well and knows that the Celtic support is hungry to make an impression on the park in Europe. It’s no longer enough for us to hear foreign players to say, ‘what an atmosphere,’ we want them to be speaking about the Celtic team too.

Nor are the fans content with staying ahead of Rangers domestically, they want to halt the slide of our European reputation and have a team to be proud of. We all recognise that the big leagues with their huge resources will always hoover up the top talent and our upcoming fixtures in the Champions league will be hugely challenging. No one expects us to go to Italy or Germany and cuff their multi-talented sides. We do however expect Celtic to go there and compete. We want their fans talking about our players and not just our terrific fans.

In 2004-05 season, Celtic was ranked 22nd in UEFA’s co-efficient. Twenty years on we have dropped 44 places to 66. The football world has moved on greatly in those twenty years and we recognise that Martin O’Neill had built a very good side back then. However, O’Neill was backed with relatively big money to bring in the likes of Hartson, Sutton and Lennon. He was also a good judge of a player who wouldn’t be fobbed off with inexpensive ‘projects.’ He knew the side needed quality, experienced professionals and when he got them, Celtic’s fortunes improved greatly. Celtic are now in a position of financial strength to back Brendan Rodgers in a similar way and get Celtic at least competing again with the big boys in Europe. We have the stadium, the fan base and the financial muscle to develop further and we must.

The banner in section 111 at Wednesday’s game with Slovan Bratislava contained the words ‘last night as I lay dreaming…’ alongside an image of John Clarke and Billy McNeill with the European cup. We all know that it is now a dream that a club from a country the size of Scotland could win the Champions league, but we do dream of building a side that is respected in Europe again; one that makes visiting Celtic Park a daunting prospect for any side. Brendan Rodgers said to his young side that they must make Celtic Park, ‘Paradise for us but hell for the opposition.’  Celtic now have all the pieces in place to make that come true again.

The first tentative step in the restoration of our European reputation came in that 5-1 victory over Slovan. It was the first chink of light after a long dark night in the Champions league for Celtic. I hope and pray that it isn’t another false dawn. There will be tough moments ahead but we face the future once more with hope in our hearts.



 


Friday, 6 September 2024

The Bridges of Glasgow

 

Ireland 1881

Fergal O’Sullivan ran as fast as his young legs would carry him. The soft dampness of the bog, cushioning his feet as he sped over a familiar landscape. He knew that the mounted police detachment would be sticking to the roads and tracks, but it would still be a close thing if he was to warn his father and the others that they were coming. He leaped like a hare over puddles and low spots that he knew would slow him down; he had to reach the drier land of McTaggart’s meadow before the horsemen did. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest and his breath coming in cold, sharp mouthfuls as he sped onward. Two ravens cawed their complaints at him for disturbing their peace, flying to safety at the top of a gnarled old bog oak. They watched as Fergal leapt like a young deer over a dark puddle of brown water and at last reached the drier land of the meadow.

The large wooden barn stood a dozen yards ahead of him and gave the impression of being deserted. Fergal clambered over the rickety boundary fence almost without breaking stride.  He noticed a tall, thin man standing sentinel in front of the closed barn doors. He was sucking on a clay pipe and regarding the approaching boy with a concerned eye. Fergal splashed through the puddles in the farmyard, scattering the chickens as he went, and raced past the watching man without a word. He pushed at the heavy barn door and it opened enough for him to squeeze inside. He clambered onto a bale of hay and scanned the scores of faces, looking for his father. John O’Sullivan was near the front, avidly listening to the man standing on the bed of McTaggart’s cart, addressing the assembled farmers and agricultural labourers.  Even at twelve years of age, Fergal knew it was Michael Davitt. The missing arm he had lost in a mill accident in England when he was but a boy, meant one sleeve of his coat hung empty by his side. He also had a natural air of authority as he spoke and Fergal was loathe to interrupt him. There was no time to lose though and much as it embarrassed Fergal to shout over the man speaking, he knew he had to. He cupped his hands by his mouth and roared out, ‘Peelers, the peelers are coming!’

The effect on the assembled crowd was instant and Fergal could feel the change in atmosphere his words had provoked in the barn. There was much worried murmuring and consternation before Davitt spoke in a commanding voice. ‘Gentlemen! Please be quiet!’ Turning to Fergal he asked, ‘How far away are they, lad? How many of them are there?’ Fergal felt every head in the cavernous barn turn to face him but remained composed, ‘Twenty at least, on horseback. They’re on the famine road, they’ll be here soon.’ Davitt ordered the assembled farmers to slip away quietly into the hills and woods and make their way home as best they could. In what seemed a moment, the barn emptied, Davitt himself being the last to leave. As he passed Fergal, he smiled and placed his hand on his shoulder, ‘Thank you, lad. You’ve saved a few honest men some trouble this day.’ With that he hurried from the barn and was spirited away into the Donegal hills.

Fergal and his father clambered over the fence into the bog and stealthily made their way back towards their own small plot of land which lay three miles away. The tell-tale sound of horses on the famine road to their north told John O’Sullivan that he had been wise to post Fergal and some other local lads as lookouts. The Police had been breaking up land league meetings with increasing brutality and those found in attendance ran the risk of being evicted from their smallholdings. No horses would risk the bog in the wet months though, so they knew they’d be safe using this route home.

Fergal’s grandfather had taught him at an early age to read the bog like a map and avoid its more dangerous places. He learned where to find cranberries and crowberries which were used to flavour food. His grandfather would collect sorrel leaves which he used to make a sharp, citrus tasting tea. They’d cut peat together in the warmer days of summer and let it dry before storing it closer to home for use in the winter months. His grandfather also told him the old legends about bog sprites and the Pooka; shape shifting spirits which could help or hinder travellers depending on their mood. The bog may have been considered a desolate and slightly dangerous place by some, but to Fergal, it was a living landscape, a place which offered much to those who knew and respected it.

As they neared home, Fergal’s father glanced back in the direction they had come from. A dark trail of smoke was drifting into the clear sky telling him that McTaggart’s barn was on fire. ‘Bastards!’ he muttered, ’Irishmen doing that to their own people for a few stinking shillings a week.’  Fergal said nothing as he watched the smoke in the distance rising higher into the sky. It could be seen for miles around, but then perhaps that was the intention. The increasingly ruthless behaviour  of the RIC was meant to cow and intimidate the people, and John O’Sullivan knew that it was having some effect. Numbers at meetings were down and some whispered darkly of informers and evictions. The ordinary people seemed caught in a hopeless bind as powerful forces allied themselves against them. The way John saw things, when people started to organise, it seemed to worry those in charge and they responded with repression.

Fergal rose with the sun the following morning and slipped quietly out of the cottage. As the oldest of five children, he had chores which required attending to before breakfast. He fed the chickens, fetched the water required for cooking and washing and took the bucket filled with potato peelings and various other left-over pieces of food, and used it to feed the family’s pigs. They’d bred their sow earlier in the year with neighbour, Ned Brannan’s boar and would split the litter once it was weaned. It was an odd number, so they’d give the runt to one of their poorer neighbours, as was tradition. The sow and her offspring were the only real thing of value his family possessed. The potatoes, barley and carrots his father grew were mostly sold but the money raised was insufficient to pay the rent on the few acres they farmed and Fergal’s father would often have to work on the landlord’s estate in order to make up for this. He would frequently come home utterly exhausted and would be asleep soon after eating his evening meal.

John O’Sullivan knew himself that it was a precarious way of life and that his frequent absences  meant his wife and the older children would be expected to complete much of the labour around their small patch of rocky land. That was the way it was and it seemed, the way it had always been. There was little time for schooling his children; hard work for little profit seemed to be all life offered them. Fergal and his sister Mary could only be spared for two days each week to attend school. There was too much work to be done and infants to be cared for. It hurt John, as he knew his older children to be bright and making progress with what he called the ‘book learning.’ He had managed to pick up the odd musty book at market for a few pennies, which he knew they’d devour, regardless of the topic. He augmented this with a bible and religious texts the church provided, but knew it wasn’t enough for them to feed their growing appetite for knowledge.

He had heard the land leaguers speak of rent strikes and giving ownership of the land to the poor farmers who toiled on it, but the landlords were unlikely to concede even a penny without a fight. All that mattered to them was that the rent was paid. It seemed that they had  powerful allies on their side, in parliament, the police and the court system. More than a few good men had been sent to prison or evicted from their land because of their involvement with the land league. It was a dangerous game to play when the landlords held all the cards and people like John O’Sullivan had a growing family to support.

John O’Sullivan knew well the harsh truth that finding the rent each month was what was impoverishing him and many of his neighbours. The factor, acting on the landlord’s instruction, was increasingly ruthless with those who failed to meet their monthly dues. John was lucky that he was young, strong and able to offer his labour in lieu of a portion of his rent. For older tenants, it was not an option. Davitt’s ideas about abolishing landlordism and allowing the farmers to own the land they worked, were good in principle, but the Coercion Act was now law and this meant that men could be imprisoned, if they were even suspected of being land leaguers or were heard to speak of withholding their rent. There was also the ever-present threat of eviction, which hung over so many families, like the sword of Damocles. Without the land to sustain them, they had nothing. They were at the mercy of landlords who could throw them off the land at a whim.

The so called ‘land war’ between poor tenant farmers and rapacious landlords had led to the foundation of the land league in Irishtown, county Mayo, two years earlier. John O’Sullivan had heard how the imminent eviction of local farmers had been stopped by the timely intervention of a priest named canon Burke. He had organised a meeting and helped the people stay together on the land question. They had refused to rent the land of evicted tenants and it lay fallow and useless. They had also enough numbers to negotiate a 20% reduction in monthly rent. That meeting was the genesis of the land league and it was said that there were now over 400 branches all over Ireland. Michael Davitt and Charles Stewart Parnell gave substance to the leadership, the latter agitating in parliament on behalf of struggling tenant farmers. With Gladstone prime minister again, there was hope that a land act might be drafted before too long in order to ease the burden on the long-suffering farmers. As things stood though, landlords, for the most part, remained stubborn and unbending on the question of evictions. Following two poor harvests, many tenants did not have the money to pay their rent and were turfed-out onto the road. That angered many, who saw the injustice of poor families being made homeless for trifling amounts of money by landlords who lost far more on the card tables of London.

John O’Sullivan knew of tenant farmers who had joined secret organisations to try and fight for justice, but after reading of a man who had been shot dead by persons unknown after he took on the farm of an evicted tenant, he had decided against such a move himself. He had attended the occasional clandestine meeting of the land league and agreed with much of what was said. In his heart though, he would never contemplate the use of violence to achieve the justice they sought. That dragged the whole movement down and simply invited further repression.

As a steady drizzle began drifting down from leaden skies, Fergal glanced at the modest thatched cottage he lived in with his four younger siblings and his parents; it was small and increasingly cramped for seven people. He could see that it would soon be eight as his mother was clearly pregnant again. The cottage consisted of one large room with a compacted dirt floor and no windows. Fergal had paced the room many times and knew it to be twelve steps long and eight wide. At one end of the room stood the stone fireplace his father had built. It provided heat and light, as well as the place where all their meals were cooked. It was dark inside, even in the summer months, and Fergal much preferred being outside. His father had spoken of extending it when time and money allowed, but that seemed a distant prospect.

As the Donegal rain began to fall more heavily and thunder groaned and rumbled like a distant giant, Fergal headed for the cottage to start the fire for cooking the morning meal. He also had to rouse his father, who was once more heading to the estate to offer his labour in lieu of rent. Fergal knew that the hard physical labour his father endured for six days each week had made him strong and durable, but he also knew from watching his grandfather, that in time, age would take its inevitable toll on him. For now, he admired his father’s strength and his ability to turn his hand to most things. He had a quiet air of authority about him and seldom needed to tell his children to do something twice. For all of that, he was a kind man and a good father.

As John O’Sullivan dressed for his day’s labour, the noise of approaching horses drew his attention. He stepped outside his modest home and watched the Constables approach. There were eight mounted Police officers approaching the farm. He could see the ghostly breath of the horses on the damp morning air as they came to a halt a few yards from the cabin. The leader, a bearded sergeant called Campbell, dismounted with two of his fellows and approached John as his children watched tentatively from the dark doorway of the cabin. Campbell was a stocky man with dark suspicious eyes. ‘John O’Sullivan, tis yourself,’ the Sergeant began, stopping a yard from the tall farmer. ‘Well now, if it isn’t Thomas Campbell, one time sheep stealer and now an officer of the law, no less?’ The Policeman’s face remained unchanged, ‘I have reason to believe you attended an illegal and seditious meeting yesterday and under the terms of the Protection of the Person and Property in Ireland Act, I have been ordered to bring you into custody. For the sake of your family, I suggest you come peacefully.’ 

John O’Sullivan’s fists clenched as he looked into the eyes of the Policeman, ‘what happened to you Thomas, that you so mistreat your own people?’  Campbell nodded to his underlings, ‘seize him and hold him fast.’ Two burly policemen grabbed O’Sullivan roughly by the arms and held him tightly as Campbell approached, drawing his baton. ‘You and your kind are not my people,’ he hissed as he delivered a backhanded, blow with his baton across O’Sullivan’s face. Fergal heard his mother scream as more blows were delivered and his father fell to his knees, spitting blood into the mud at his tormentor’s feet.

A burning anger filled Fergal O’Sullivan as he watched the scene unfold. He seized the peat spade by the door and ran towards his father. One of the mounted Policemen, seeing his intention, spurred his horse forward and blocked his path. Fergal swung the spade with all the force he could muster at the man’s booted leg. There was a scream of pain and the policeman roared, ‘arrrgh! You little bastard!’  Campbell seeing what had occurred stepped behind Fergal and felled him with one swipe of his baton to the back of the boy’s head. Darkness swirled around Fergal as he lay prostrate in the mud.

John O’Sullivan, head bloodied, was tied behind one of the Police horses and dragged away as his wife and younger children cried for him. He stumbled and fell in the mud and was dragged along for some yards before the horse paused to allow him to regain his feet. Campbell was the last to leave the small farm, his impassive face glancing at the tear-streaked Kathleen O’Sullivan, ‘I’ll be informing the land agent of this assault on my officer and recommending that you be evicted from this plot as the dissolute trouble makers you are. Good day to you now.’ Kathleen glared at him with undisguised contempt, ‘how do you sleep at night?’ Campbell did not respond, but rather turned his horse away from her and followed the grim procession.


The above passage is an excerpt from the upcoming novel 'The Bridges of Glasgow.'  You can purchase it here:  

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Bridges-Glasgow-PJ-Marrinan/dp/B0DFWV6C1P?source=ps-sl-shoppingads-lpcontext&ref_=fplfs&psc=1&smid=A3P5ROKL5A1OLE