Do unto others…

Brendan Behan, writer, poet, drinker and Irish Rebel used to say that the first item on the agenda at every meeting of the Dublin IRA was ‘the split.’ He may have been joking but there is a certain argumentative side to those who have Irish blood in their veins. This weekend was not a pleasure on Twitter as a minority engaged in fairly acrimonious debate about issues affecting the Celtic support. As Celtic supporters, each of us has the right to an opinion on the club and the issues surrounding it. It matters not a jot if we go to every game or for whatever reason can’t manage to go to any. If we love the green then we are Celtic Supporters, the equal of any other. Celtic means so much to so many that at times passions can spill over into angry words. Didier Agathe once said after a section of a tetchy home support booed  Neil Lennon after he passed the ball back to the keeper when we needed a goal in a European tie… ‘The problem is not that they dislike any player, it is that they love the club too much.’ Sometimes this passion for the club can make us hold strong positions on certain issues. For some Celtic is the repository of Irish identity in a hostile land, for others it is a bridge between cultures which aided Irish assimilation into Scottish life. For more it is an ideal, a place where those of all faiths and none, of all political opinions can unite behind a team built on principles of Charity and integration.

The point is that the club belongs to all of us and we don’t all feel the same about the issues affecting it. From players coming and going to the situation in Section 111 there are as many opinions as there are fans. That is good as debate is healthy. What isn’t great is the abuse of others who hold differing views from us. Celtic fans more than most know what it’s like to be subject to verbal abuse. Last week’s lies about the songs sung at Brentford were just the latest in a 125 year old smear campaign by those who hate the club and all it stands for. So the last thing we need is acrimony among ourselves. I’m always amazed at the eloquent points made in just 140 characters by some of the Twitter Celts, or ‘Tweenians’ as some wit called us. Great points are made and debate can be excellent but there are a tiny minority who resort to the foulest of language and that isn’t necessary or welcome. In fact it tells you more about them than the folk they aim their invective at.

 So this short blog asks that we try to keep the level of debate up and treat each other with the respect we would want for ourselves. We often fail to realise the power of words, even on social networking sites, to hurt others. If we disagree then say so but without resorting to abuse. That isn’t the Celtic way. We can’t be responsible for the actions of words of others but we can and should be responsible for ourselves. Celtic is fortunate to have a great community of fans who care passionately about the club. They come from all walks of life and reside in just about every country on the globe. When they fuse with the team, as they did when we met Barcelona last season, they are capable of incredible things. Over the years Celtic has had its ups and downs like any club but the one constant was their incredible support. Tommy Burns was asked what makes Celtic so special after the team’s victory in the Cup Final in our Centenary year. He pointed towards the packed terraces of Hampden and said…. ‘Look at them, they’re there, they’re always there and God bless every one of them.’

 I would echo those words and ask you to remember them when you interact with our fellow supporters. When there is no enemy within, the enemy outside can’t hurt us.

 

Bobby Murdoch; Celtic Legend

Stein’s Celtic were all over Rangers but the old sucker punch duly arrived as it had so often in the past. Despite all their pressure and obvious superiority Davie Wilson’s low shot put Rangers ahead and they held out until half time. The date was January 1966 and Celtic and Rangers were locked in a ferocious struggle for the league title. A defeat or even a draw would leave Celtic trailing their rivals. Whatever big Jock said at half it had the desired effect. Celtic roared into attack from kick off and at last began to carve open the Rangers defence. Bobby Murdoch was imperious in midfield. He pulled the strings and pinged the passes to Hughes and Johnstone who were ripping the Rangers full back’s apart. An equaliser soon arrived as Chalmers reached a near post corner and nodded home. When Charlie Gallagher put Celtic ahead there was only going to be one winner. Rangers had run into a new Celtic, a Celtic marshalled by Stein who had moulded them into a formidable side and given them the belief to be the best. The moment which sounded the death knell for Rangers domination of Scottish football arrived soon after and it was moment of footballing beauty. Charlie Gallagher cushioned the ball towards the onrushing Bobby Murdoch 25 yards from the Rangers goal. Murdoch crashed an unstoppable shot through the chill January air which exploded high in the net behind the Rangers keeper. Celtic didn’t stop there and Chalmers smashed in two more goals to complete a 5-1 rout. If people didn’t realise that Stein’s new Celtic meant business, they knew now. The title was clinched later that year and the following season saw this emerging young team conquer Europe. Johnstone was a jewel, Chalmers a striker reborn but it was Murdoch who was the real maestro. He was was the engine of the greatest club side Scotland had ever produced.

 I was fortunate enough to meet Bobby Murdoch six or seven times in my life. Once on a train from Central station to Priesthill, where he worked in a bar, he enthralled my young mind with tales of tangling with the greats of Scottish and European football. He told me of a very angry group of players in Montevideo, Uruguay preparing for the third match in the brutal World Club Championship on 1967-68. Stein had told the players to maintain their discipline but some of them had had enough of the hacking, spitting and even pulling the hairs from players’ legs. Bobby’s eyes shone like an old warrior recalling battles long gone as he told my Dad and I that the players agreed, ‘If these bastards start it again let’s give them a bit back.’ What followed was the most brutal game in Celtic history. 4 men in Hoops and 2 of the Racing Club players were sent off. The thugs from Buenos Aires took the trophy they wanted so badly and Celtic was damaged in a variety of ways too. The whole team were fined £250 for letting Celtic’s reputation down. In truth Celtic should have refused to play that third game after the shocking brutality and intimidation of the first two games.

 Bobby Murdoch was a product of St Columbkille’s Primary School in Rutherglen and Our Lady’s High School in Motherwell. His footballing prowess and powerful physique marked him out as one to watch. Cambuslang Rangers snapped him up but Celtic had their eyes on him and the princely wage of £3 per week saw him sign on for the Hoops in 1959. He was farmed out again to Cambuslang to toughen him up but truth be told the young Murdoch was already a battler. Within 3 years he was a regular first team player at Celtic Park where Manager Jimmy McGrory played him wide or even at Centre forward. The bitter underachievement of those early years was summed up in the 1963 Cup Final when McGrory’s young Celts played the dominant and arrogant Rangers of Baxer, McMillan and Brand.  Celtic, with Murdoch and Johnstone, starring gave as good as they got and earned a credible 1-1 draw. The huge Celtic support looked forward to the replay, perhaps at last the false dawns would be over and they would finally master Rangers? It is history now that Bob Kelly interfered with the team selection for the replay and Celtic were thumped 3-0. The last 20 minutes saw Celtic fans leave the stadium in their thousands as Rangers toyed with them. Within two years all of that would change.

 The arrival of Jock Stein at Celtic Park in March 1965 energised Celtic and brought out the best in the talented young squad. Stein saw Murdoch as a central midfielder and partnered him with the astute and tough Bertie Auld. Together they helped Celtic play a form of total football unseen in Scotland and the rest is history. Murdoch strode the field in the European Cup final of 1967 like the superb midfielder he was. At his peak there was no finer midfielder in Europe. He could tackle ferociously, fire accurate passes over any distance and possessed a thunderous shot. He inspired those around him by his example and drove Celtic forward in those golden years.

 

The last time I met Bobby Murdoch was during a supporters dance at the Celtic Club on the London Road. He was in his element, among his people as he smiled, shared anecdotes and had pictures taken with many of the fans present.  He moved from table to table and took time to speak to anyone who wanted a word. This great footballer didn’t receive the financial rewards his skills deserved from Celtic in his playing days but he was committed to the Club he loved and he was a pillar of Stein’s great side.  Bobby was a great player on the field and a modest gentleman off it. For me, Jimmy Johnstone was the most skilful player I ever saw wear the Hoops but Bobby Murdoch was the most complete all round footballer. Those of you who didn’t see this great man play can catch a glimpse of his grace and power in grainy old video footage. But trust me, Bobby was a truly great player. He announced it with that thunderous goal on a cold, misty January in 1966 and proved it on hundreds of occasions subsequently.

 Bobby Murdoch, Celtic Legend; when will we see your like again?

 

 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GxLgmfB73sI

 

Not at any price...

I have a lot of time for the Green Brigade and the noise and passion they bring to Celtic Park. I’ve praised them when it’s due for excellent displays and imaginative banners. I’ve blogged on their persecution by the Police and have attended rallies in their support. I’ve also taken issue with them over things I fundamentally disagree with such as the singing of Political songs or the ill-advised ‘Poppy Protest’ of 2010. Today it was announced that UEFA will begin disciplinary proceedings over the ignition of at least 3 loud fireworks during Tuesday’s game with Cliftonville. Those of you who attended the game will no doubt have heard them explode with fairly loud effect. One old chap beside me jumped and commented, ‘Jeezus! That cured my constipation.’ Given that we were sitting in the Jock Stein stand and at least 100m from the fireworks one can imagine how loud they must have sounded to the fans in and around Section 111. It isn't certain by any meand that Green Brigade members let of the bangers but it came from that general area. They do attract some rather immature hangers on.

The Club is far from happy and are rightly concerned with safety issues in section 111. They released a statement which was quite clear on the behaviours they want to see stopped. They feel there were….

‘Concerns over overcrowding, the refusal of supporters to comply with safety stewards, "body surfing" and seat damage, the club said the safety of supporters was their primary objective. Following the events of last Tuesday's match, the club's position was to close Section 111, but following discussions between the club's supporters' liaison officer and representatives of the 'Green Brigade' that decision has been reviewed and the section will remain open," the club said. However, the situation will be monitored at both the Celtic FC v Borussia Monchengladbach match on Saturday, 27 July, and the Celtic FC v IF Elfsborg match on Wednesday, 31 July.’

Patience is wearing thin from the club and the majority of its supporters regarding the behaviour of a minority in Section 111. They may not all be members of the GB but they gravitate towards Section 111. The hardcore Green Brigade is clearly influenced by the Ultra groups abroad, particularly southern and eastern European groups, who regularly have impressive ‘Pyros’ at games and often have strong political views. Such displays are an alien import into the UK as our football fan culture was based on singing and flag displays. Although not caused by a ‘pyro’ display, the dreadful Bradford disaster of 1985 meant that there was little likelihood of any pyrotechnics being tolerated at British football grounds. Indeed since then the law strictly forbids them and clubs are bound to enforce this. Of course most Stadia are much safer now but the pyrotechnics are still dangerous and unnecessary. Lateral movement of fans is another safety issue the club worry about and if they come across like a nagging parent then it's simply because they don't want anyone hurt at a game. Similarly the use of green smoke bombs at Celtic games doesn’t provide a spectacle, it holds it us as the game can’t start until it’s cleared from the pitch. The guys who throw these things simply annoy their fellow fans and embarrass the club. UEFA will no doubt hit Celtic with another hefty fine but if this continues and no doubt warn them about future conduct. Celtic fans have previous for ‘Illicit chanting’ and that utterly moronic ‘F*ck UEFA’ banner and UEFA will look dimly on future transgressions. A closed doors game becomes a distinct possibility if such behaviour goes on. That is the crux of the problem; Why should a few undisciplined individuals risk all of us not being allowed to watch our team? Why should they cause the club to have genuine safety concerns?  Why should they feel they can endanger the good reputation Celtic fans have built over the years?  My argument with regards to the Political songs occasionally heard in Section 111 is relevant in this issue too. Poor behaviour by a few reflects on us all and that isn’t fair nor is it acceptable.

I note from my Twitter timeline a debate raging about these issues. The comments range from keeping safe and not endangering the supports reputation to backing the team with all the thunder and passion our support has. A few are openly abusive to those who challenge the Green Brigade’s bahaviour but their arguments lack conviction and boil down to a ‘We’ll do what we want’ attitude. Well, sorry to tell you but no you won’t. Celtic FC, UEFA and most of the Celtic support will see that you don’t. Ironically, we don’t need fireworks or pyros to show our team we’re right behind them. The noise Celtic fans can make is incredible and often leaves experienced visiting players awestruck. We’ve all read the comments from guys like Maldini, Messi, Pique, Iniesta and Pirlo. They comment positively on the songs, the passion and the unity we have with our team during those big games. Any third rate support can set off fireworks or throw smoke bombs. We don’t need to do that because we have one of the greatest groups of fans in the world.

Celtic's Disabled Supporters Association released a statement after an incident at Tynecastle last season which demonstrates clearly why flares and smoke canisters can be dangerous to their members. They said...

''After the recent incident at Tynecastle when a flare was thrown amongst Celtic supporters the CDSA felt it had to speak out about this. We appeal to those people who bring flares to games, and those who know people that do, to stop and think of the consequences as you have no control over the direction that the smoke will go. Many of our members have respiratory illnesses or respiratory limitations because of their disabilities including at least one member who is on a portable ventilator. If any of these Celtic Supporters, including myself, were to inhale a small amount of the smoke there would be extremely serious health repercussions which would come on very quickly.

We do not want to find a disabled Celtic supporter, or any other supporter, hospitalised because of someone's idea of fun. And we certainly do not want to find that it takes a fatality before this practice stops.  So we appeal to you, don't let this happen to your fellow Celtic supporters.''

The Green Brigade will no doubt feel that the mainstream support and the club are on their backs again but my plea to them is simple. You show incredible energy and passion at games and we all appreciate it.  Listen to your fellow fans and to the club. You can be the best Ultras in Europe and you don’t need fireworks or flares to achieve that as you’ve proved in the past. We want a united and noisy support which includes you so use your heads and stop goading the club and the rest of the support. You brought the thunder back to Paradise so don’t spoil it by causing a rift in the support. If there are a few wilder spirits among you who won’t show some discipline at games then they need to shape up or ship out. Celtic belongs to all of us and we have enough great songs and chants to back the Bhoys without the need for immature displays which cause problems for the club and your fellow fans. We want you at Celtic Park leading us in our anthems but not at any price. Think it over.

Postscript: 26/7/13...In the interests of balance it is worth reprinting what the Green Brigade say about events at the Cliftonville game. They make valid points about stewarding and their inability to control who accesses their area. They are also adamant that none of their members set off any fireworks at the game. It is to be hoped they have consistent leadership who can keep channels open with the club and we can all get back to supporting Celtic. That is, after all, why we are all there.

 

Green Brigade statement

"The Green Brigade find ourselves disappointed to hear that Celtic Football Club has deemed it necessary to release a statement which we feel unfairly demonizes our group as well as the Celtic supporters who sit in our section in 111. Following amicable discussions held behind closed doors it seems entirely counter-productive for such a statement to be released.

The group held discussions on Wednesday night with representatives of the club and outlined our position regarding the safety concerns that have been raised in Celtic’s statement. It was made clear that the Green Brigade were not responsible for any pyrotechnics which were used during the match against Cliftonville at Celtic Park and had no knowledge of any fan’s intention to use them. We accept that it took place in our section however and as a group we will strive to deal with the matter and have warned fans on our website against such behaviour in 111. We also demonstrated our willingness to work with the club regarding the mosh pits and crowd surfing which is concerning the safety team. It is however worth noting that the claim made regarding 131 broken seats is an exaggeration. Several of our members visited the empty section on Wednesday night following the meeting, and whilst evident that there was accidental damage, 131 broken seats appeared to be an embellishment. While this damage is regrettable it is totally accidental and simply a product of our sometimes boisterous style of support - intentional damage would not only be idiotic but it would not be tolerated.

A key safety concern mentioned was that of overcrowding. The group has worked with the club previously on this issue and urges those who do not have tickets for our section to stay away. We do our best to self-police the area in this regard however that has proven increasingly difficult, as Celtic this season had refused to allow us to control who has tickets for our block. If we do not know who has tickets for the area, and given that the stewards have proven their incompetence in this matter, it is extremely unfair to lay sole responsibility for this matter at the feet of the group. We have repeatedly requested that we have a regular stewarding team with whom we can build up a working relationship with in the hope that this will help with the issues raised.

Whilst the representatives of our group were willing to discuss the concerns that the club had, the club were extremely hesitant to discuss some of our concerns regarding the continual harassment of Celtic supporters. The Green Brigade have demonstrated a willingness to work with the club which is why we find it regrettable that the club have chosen to publicly castigate our section, and by doing so have invited the media to attack the Celtic support once more. At a time when Celtic supporters are being routinely harassed, intimidated and dragged through the courts we feel that this should hold greater priority than concerns over lateral movement.

It appears that Celtic Football Club are far more eager to publicly attack Celtic fans than they are to defend them."

 

 

Does he take Sugar?

The spring of 2004 saw a pulsating battle between the skilful and artistic FC Barcelona and Martin O’Neil’s determined and effective Celtic team. Sniper, Mick and Barry were in the big North stand roaring the Bhoys on when a long ball dropped out of the brooding Glasgow sky towards the towering Bobo Balde. Barcelona enforcer Motta, who had already clashed with Balde, jumped with big defender but his eyes were not on the ball. He aimed a gloved fist at Balde’s face which clattered him on the chin. The Ref may not have seen it but Sniper did. ‘Hawl you, ya pony tailed Argie porn star, I’ll be on that pitch and booting yer baws if there’s any mer ay that!’  Mick calmed him, ‘I think big Bobo can look after himself Sniper, besides Motta would batter your melt in.’ Sniper looked at his friend as if he was mad, ‘Listen ya fuckin demented midget, there’d be three hits if I fought that dick. I’d hit him, he’d hit the deck and the ambulance would hit 70!’ Mick laughed, ‘Jeezus, you’ve got an answer for everything haven’t  ye?’ Sniper returned his smile, ‘You better believe it, short arse.’ The game raged on and Celtic were giving as good as they were getting from the Catalan giants. Half time arrived with no goals and the boisterous crowd needed a break as much as the players did . Mick turned to Barry as the teams trooped off, ‘I’d settle for a wee wan nil here, gie us something to hold on tae in Barcelona.’ Barry nodded, ‘Need tae shackle yon Ronaldinho but we’re making chances.’ Sniper cut in with his usual blind optimism, ‘Listen ya pair of fuds, Ronaldinho over cooks it every time and yon Saviola couldny score in a brothel.’ Barry’s phoned buzzed to life at that point as his brother watching at home on TV told him that Motta had been in a fight in the tunnel with Rab Douglas and they had both been sent off. 18 year old rookie keeper David Marshall was coming on. Barry shook his head, ‘This’ll make or break that lad. Imagine making your debut against Barcelona!’ Mick was worried too, but ever the optimist, Sniper saw things differently, ‘The young team are scared of nothin, he’ll do fine, just you watch.’

 Young Marshal did more than ‘fine.’ He excelled and even saved a penalty from superstar Ronaldinho. The game turned on the hour when Petrov’s cross was nodded down by Larsson and Alan Thompson smashed it home. The 60,000 crowd exploded!  Barca pushed and prodded but Celtic held on for a famous victory, indeed they might have scored again when Larsson flashed a shot past the post near the end. It was another astonishing victory for Celtic and their remarkable fans. Few gave them a hope in hell against Barcelona that night but driven on by that incredible support they came through. On their way home Barry asked the obvious question, ‘So who’s up for a wee trip to Barcelona in a fortnight?’ 

 Barry arranged to meet his mates for a beer and a gab the Friday after the Barcelona game. Sniper barged into the pub, late as usual, like a man with something important on his mind. Behind him was his older brother Joe, a guy they all knew well. Sniper soon spotted the others seated at a quiet corner of the bar. ‘Aw right Fannybaws?’ he called to Barry with a smile, ‘I’ll get a wee pint then Joe and me want tae talk tae ye!’ Joe smiled at the group sitting around the table, ‘How we doing guys, still putting up wi that daft brother of mine?’ Barry smiled, he had always liked and admired Joe. Although he was Sniper’s older brother by a year, the two siblings were very different.  At school Joe had been an outstanding footballer and being watched by scouts of several clubs. All of that sporting promise had been cut short by a motorcycle accident on the notorious A9 in Perthshire. Joe was now paraplegic, which basically meant he had motor and sensory loss of his trunk and lower limbs. In more common terminology, Joe was paralysed from the chest down. Despite this he oozed positivity and still possessed a wicked sense of humour.  Joe wheeled his chair around to respond to his brother asking him what he wanted to drink, ‘Get me a Stella, Sniper and ask the barmaid tae lend ye some deodorant. Yer honkin mate.’ Sniper smiled at him, ‘Cheeky Bastard, ah have a bath once a month whether I need it or not!’  Sniper soon returned to the table with a tray loaded with drink and sat down. Joe looked at everyone and surprised them by saying, ‘I’m coming tae Barcelona wi you guys unless there’s any objections?’  Barry replied with no hesitation, ‘No problems at all Joe, just fill us in on any arrangements we need tae make. Yer welcome mate, ye don’t need tae ask.’ Sniper smiled at him, ‘That’s whit I like aboot you Barry, yer such a positive wee runt.’ Barry smiled, ‘Is that a compliment? You’ll be buying a round next ya big softy.’ Mick also agreed adding, ‘Celtic’s for everybody, aw faiths, gay, straight, black, white and as ye can see wi Sniper, ugly folk tae. So Joe, yer mer than welcome mate.’ Sniper looked at him, ‘Cheers for that Mother Theresa, you gonny start singing ‘We are the world’ noo?’ The friends laughed and got down to planning their trip.

 Mick spent the next hour on his shiny new phone organising flights for 4 to Barcelona as Joe, Sniper and Barry discussed the practicalities of Joe coming along. ‘He’s ace in yon chair of his,’ Sniper informed Barry, ‘arms like a weightlifter.’ Joe smiled at his brother, ‘You talking for me again ya big tube, I think I can explain things for myself!’ Sniper shook his head, ‘Oan ye go then ya big attention seeker!’ Joe explained his rather regimented eating regime which ensured some predictability in toileting. He also outlined the need to contact airlines in advance so that a transfer to one of their wheelchairs could be arranged. ‘Ye canny take yer own chair on the plane, that goes in the hold and we swap back when we arrive in Barcelona.’  We’re planning a daytrip so no need tae worry about Hotel facilities. The only problem is tickets for the disabled section of the stadium?’  Barry listened amazed, Joe had it all figured out. Sniper added, ‘Getting tickets for the game is easy enough but we’ll need tae see about the situation wi the disabled section when we get there.’ Mick finished his call and gave them a thumbs up, ‘Four tickets tae Barcelona organised boys! Thank you Easy-feckin-jet!’  The four friends stayed in the pub till closing time feeling a warm glow of anticipation about their upcoming trip.

 Ten days later Mick, Barry, Sniper and Joe were at Glasgow airport at the end of a long queue of green and white clad figures checking in for the 9.10am service to Barcelona. It seemed 90% of the folk on their flight were heading out to see Celtic. Once the bags were checked in they headed for a cafe. Joe was excited about the trip and as Sniper predicted manoeuvred his chair around all obstacles with practiced ease and was as funny as ever with his quips. A young woman who looked as if her make-up had been applied by a plasterer smiled at them from behind the plastic counter of the café. ‘Four teas it is!’ Then bizarrely she looked at Sniper and nodded towards Joe, ‘Does he take sugar?’ Sniper glared at her, ‘Why don’t you ask him it’s his legs that don’t work not his feckin’ brain.’ Joe cut in, ‘It’s all right Sniper,’ He said, then, turning to the girl added, ’No sugar, thanks just milk.’  They sat at a nearby table and Barry asked, ‘Do you get that a lot Joe?’ Joe nodded, ‘ Aye, Sometimes you feel invisible but I can handle thoughtless people OK, it’s the really ignorant ones I dislike.’  To her credit the waitress approached their table a few minutes later and quietly apologised to Joe. Sniper turned on his rough charm and procured her phone number. ’Auld magic still working,’ he grinned holding a yellow post-it note with the dizzy waitress’s number scribbled on it. Barry shook his head, ‘Listen ya big tadger, that’ll be the number of Carstairs or a good plastic surgeon. If it is genuine it’ll be a sympathy date mate, she’ll be too embarrassed tae say naw tae a big helpless wean like you.’ Sniper smiled, ‘Jealous basturt! Just cos you’ve no had yer Nat King since the Pope wis an altar boy!’

 Two hours later they were strapped into their seats and flying south towards Barcelona. Joe had been transferred to what they called an ‘Aisle chair’ at the Glasgow Airport by a veritable posse of helpers and was strapped into place beside his friends. He had the group in stitches with his tales of following Celtic and it was obvious to all that the guy was a fighter. One tale he was fond of telling was of a game at Tyncastle where a particularly nasty home fan was abusing some disabled Celtic fans in a most despicable way, ‘So this guy in a chair had had enough, he whips oot his colostomy bag and actually fired a shite at the Hearts fan. Hit the clown right in the face!’  As their raucous laughter filled the plane Sniper added, ‘So you could say the shit hit the fan!’ The group descended into fits of laughter at this comment. Tears ran down Barry’s face ‘hahahaha Shit hit the fan!... Fuckin belter, Sniper!’ Joe then produced Sniper’s passport from a clip on bag he wore around his waist and before his red faced brother could intervene he handed it to Barry. ‘Here Barry, check that picture oot.’ Barry looked at a younger Sniper’s photo and laughed, ‘Jaysus Sniper yer like Lurch oot the Adam’s Family.’ The passport was passed to Mick who shook his head silently before saying, ‘It’s like scientists crossed a man wi a peanut!’ Sniper snatched the passport, ‘Shut it ya mad walloper!’ Joe then asked Barry, ‘How come you all call him Sniper anyway? I never got that nickname,’ Barry smiled, ‘At school his head was so big we called him the ‘Sniper’s dream.’ I mean any sniper would love a target that big eh? It just kinda stuck after that.’ Joe laughed loudly enough for folk nearby to turn and see what was so funny, ‘Sniper’s dream, hahaha!’ Sniper though was not amused. He scowled at his brother and said simply, ‘Fud!’

 The flight crossed the Pyranees into Spain and banked eastwards towards Barcelona. In what seemed like no time they bumped down onto the runway. A cheer rose from the assembled Celtic fans on the plane as anticipation of the game and seeing one of Europe’s nicer cities found expression. The mobile walkway was fixed to the plane and once Joe was back in his own chair they headed for passport control and then sought out a large taxi to ferry them into Barcelona. They soon found one with a hoist at the back which raised Joe and his chair into the taxi. The driver, a short stout man of about 50 called Carles spoke to them in broken English and made them feel very welcome. ‘I follow Barca,’ he began, ‘I see you at  Camp Nou tonight!’ Barry smiled, ‘Good man, no crying when we knock you out of Europe!’ The taxi driver laughed as he wove in and out of the traffic, ‘My friend Barcelona will win five zero tonight!’ Sniper cut in at this point, ‘Don’t bet yer hoose on it Pal, O’Neil is nobody’s mug.’ They passed a pleasant 20 minutes before the driver set them down near Las Ramblas and as Mick paid him he made arrangements for the Taxi to pick them up at 6pm and take them to the Nou Camp. ‘I weell be here Scoteesh boys at six, I too go to see football too, enjoy the city!’ the driver said before pulling into the manic Barcelona traffic and disappearing.

 The spring sunshine warmed the friends as they wandered the elegant streets and boulevards of downtown Barcelona. At every bar and café green and white clad figures were drinking, singing and generally enjoying themselves. There was no hint of trouble just the usual banter and fun of a Celtic Euro trip. They settled at a pavement table where a street performer who looked like Che Guevara, replete with beret, army jacket and Cuban cigar was making a speech in Catalan. Sniper didn’t understand a word but watched fascinated until the act was over and then roared, ‘Fuckin right Pal, hasta la victoria siempre!’ Mick looked at him in surprise, ‘Speaking Spanish noo bawjaws, I’m impressed.’ Sniper ignored him and shook the actor’s hand. ‘My hero was Che, well Che and big Jock Stein. Both fought for the common man.’ The actor smiled at the big pale Scot and returned his handshake, ‘Sigues Celtic és el club de rebels també!’ Sniper smiled, ‘Don’t know wit yer saying big man but it sounds fuckin good tae me!’ He left his new friend with a clenched fist salute and a cry of ‘Tiocfaidh ár lá, ma man!’ Joe watched Sniper’s interaction with the Che lookalike with a smile on his face. ‘Yer some man Sniper, never knew ye had a bit of Spanish in ye? ’ he said. Sniper looked at him then at his empty beer glass, ‘You got a rattlesnake in yer pocket? Get a round in instead of sitting there like a spare prick at a wedding. Time you spent some of yer DLA money ya clown.’ Joe laughed, ‘I’m telling my maw your bullying me.’ Sniper, keen as ever to get the last word in replied, ‘Bullying ye? I’ll pap ye oot that chair and draw Ally McCoist on yer arse wi a permanent marker if ye don’t get a round in.’ Joe laughed at his brothers inventive threats. ‘Mad as a fuckin hatter so yi ur.’ The friends drank some cool San Miguel as the afternoon turned to evening. The mock insults, jokes and laughter filled the air as they teased and argued as only good friends can.  As match time approached they headed to the meeting point where to their relief Carles was already waiting with his taxi.

The Camp Nou glowed in the dusk of an early spring evening like a huge illuminated spaceship. It was an impressive sight. Mick looked agitated and Barry asked him what was wrong. ‘Our tickets are for Tier 3, if they don’t have a lift for Joe it’s about 300 stairs! We forgot tae check oot tickets for the disabled section’ A quick chat with a helpful steward some made it clear that there was no lift and no way Joe could be carried up the stairs. There was also no way he’d even get past security in his chair. ‘Go to entry 62,’ the Steward informed them, ‘An elevator is there and a ramp.’ ‘See the shit ye put up wi when you’re in a whelchair,’ grumbled Sniper. ‘Spend £20 million oan a player and canny install a fuckin lift?’ They fought their way towards gate 62 through a mixed throng of Barca and Celtic fans. Songs filled the air and kick off was looming, Gate 62 was a large opening in front of which two smartly dressed Barca officials checked tickets and guided fans in wheelchairs and their helper into the ground. One of them, a sweaty man with a huge stomach and a moustache a 70s porn star would be proud of stopped them, ‘No, these tickets are for away fans, Tier three.’ He pointed in the direction which they had come from. They explained about the lack of wheelchair access there but the man wouldn’t budge. His co-worker, a curly haired lad of about 18 spoke quietly to Joe in heavily accented English. ‘This guy is a son of a bitch. There is always lots of space in this area. Get him away from the doorway and you can come in.’ Joe quietly relayed this message to Sniper who immediately went into action.  As Barry and Mick watched in astonishment Sniper roared and fell to the ground, twitching and salivating like a man having some sort of fit. The stout official rushed to his aid in a mild panic. Joe moved instantly. He tapped Barry’s arm and nodded towards the doorway and they both silently sped through. The curly haired young man winked as they passed, ‘Enjoy the game.’ Joe mouthed a silent ‘Thank you.’ at him as they headed up the ramp to the area set aside for fans in wheelchairs. The view that greeted them was breath-taking. The huge bowl of the Nou Camp was bathed in light and a huge crowd seethed and sang as the teams appeared on the pitch. Behind the far goal the yellow and red stripes of Catalonia were flaunted on hundreds of flags of all sizes. High above the pitch Joe could see and hear six thousand Celtic fans roaring out ‘You’ll never walk alone.’ He looked at Barry and smiled, ‘Made it Barry boy!’ Barry returned his smile, ‘Aye thanks tae yer mad brother. Joe laughed, ‘Aye he’s some actor, used tae kid on he was fitting tae stay aff school when we were kids. My Ma soon sussed it though and used tae throw a pot of cold water on him. Soon cured his fits!’ Barry laughed as Barcelona kicked off and raced towards the Celtic goal where 18 year old David Marshal awaited them.

 Outside the stadium Sniper stopped the act and got to his feet. He wiped the saliva from his face and looked at the confused Steward. ‘Feeling better noo big man, comes and goes ye know?’  He and Mick headed back towards the away end and soon gained entry before heading up what seemed like a hundred stairs and emerging into the cool air high above the pitch. They were just in time to see Marshal foil another Barcelona attack with a fine save. ‘Gonny be a long night,’ said Mick. Sniper nodded, ‘A bit of luck, a decent Ref and we might just hold out.’ It was indeed a long night as Barcelona mounted a siege on the Celtic defence. Overmars, Guilly, Ronaldinho and Iniesta all fired shots at the Celtic goal but the young goalkeeper was in inspired form and defied them time and again. Celtic had only occasional forays upfield to give the hard pressed defence some respite but they were holding out. The Celtic fans in the top tier of the stadium sang and roared themselves hoarse. Some of Marshal’s saves had even the Barca fans applauding. This pattern continued for the whole game and as the frantic fans in green whistled for the final whistle Barcelona carved out one last great chance to score. Sniper and Mick watched open mouthed as their interplay split the Celtic defence. ‘Don’t blow it now!’ shouted Sniper as the ball was lifted over the defence to an unmarked midfielder who flashed a shot towards goal…

 Behind the goal which David Marshal was so heroically defending that night, Joe and Barry had watched as he defied the excellent Barca forwards time and time again. Now in the 90^th minute it seemed as if Barcelona might just win it. The defence was split by a beautifully weighted chip which found Xavi in the clear. He blasted his shot on the volley towards the top corner of the goal. Joe and Barry looked on from the perfect position behind the goal. The next split second seemed to pass in slow motion. As the ball sped towards the goal, Marshal dived to his right and was at full stretch. It seemed as if the very tips of his fingers got to the ball and caused it to change its trajectory just enough to send it flashing over the bar. ‘Yaaaas!’ roared Barry and Joe as did thousands of other Celtic fans away to their left on the third tier of the stadium. The whistles continued as injury time dragged out and then at last the referee blew for full time. Barry hugged Joe who was actually crying. ‘We’ve done it mate, we’ve fuckin done it!  A few hundred yards away, high above the pitch on the third tier Sniper and Mick were roaring out with thousands of other Celtic supporters ‘ And if ye know the history, it’s enough to make yer heart go oh, oh, oh, oh…’  They were delirious after watching their team knock the mighty Barcelona out of Europe. Another memorable and glorious page had been written in the story of the club they held so dear.

 Sniper was grinning from ear to ear, his arm around Barry’s shoulder as they walked through the crowds to find Joe and Mick. ‘I’m glad Joe made it to this wan,’ he said to his friend, ‘We’ll remember this night aw wur lives.’ Barry smiled at him, ‘Joe wiz never a problem mate, it’s the attitude of other folk that’s the problem.’  Before they could continue their conversation a familiar voice shouted towards then, ‘Sniper ma man! What aboot that then eh? Dumped the mighty Barca oota Europe! Dae ye know just love the famous Glasgow Celtic!’ It was Joe, propelling his chair at high velocity speed towards his brother. He wore a Barcelona scarf given to him by a local and a smile, as broad as the Clyde given to him by Celtic. The brothers embraced outside that famous stadium in Catalonia. Barry and Mick looked on as happy as they’d ever felt. Celtic had defied the odds again and so in his own way had Joe. It was great being a Celt.

 

Dedicated to all of those differently abled Celtic fans who follow the Bhoys with as much passion as any of us. Hail Hail to you all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tell me lies

In January 1943 as Hitler’s 6^th Army froze in the ruins of Stalingrad and the scales of World War 2 were about to tip irrevocably towards the Allies, a football match took place about 2000km to the west. A crowd of 30,000 turned up to see Rangers play Celtic  on that cold Ne’rday and witnessed a match of fierceness and farce. Celtic were in the doldrums and not taking the unofficial war time league too seriously but the men who wore the hoops that cold day were incensed at the refereeing of the match. Three of them were sent off for protesting at decisions as Rangers won 8-1. The game is relatively unimportant as it was unofficial but what is important are the lies which some modern Rangers fans spread to this day about the game. I first discovered the lie on a Rangers website which claimed that Celtic fans sang pro German songs at this game. Some Rangers sites suggest this happened at a game in September 1941, which demonstrates that they are just passing on rumour without checking the facts. While doing some Uni work, I took the opportunity to scan the reports of three newspapers in the Mitchel Library on these fixtures and none mentions pro German songs. Are we seriously being asked to believe that Celtic fans with family in the forces fighting the Germans were learning ‘Deutschsland Uber Alles’ to sing at a football game? Ludicrous as it is this is what some Rangers fans still claim.

We in the Celtic family are well used to the rough edged banter which goes on with our friends across the city but there remains in our society a hard core of people who hate Celtic with a vengeance and will stoop pretty low to throw mud at the club. From outright lies like the disgusting ‘Lee Rigby’ (RIP) story yesterday to the usual vile paedophile chants. In a way we expect this from the less intelligent sections of the Sevco support but what’s more shocking is that some of the ‘newspapers’ in our country are equally guilty of such anti Celtic reporting. In 1998 a picture of Paul Lambert appeared on the back of the Sunday Mail showing a happy Celt celebrating winning the title. He is holding a Celtic scarf on which had been ‘photo-shopped’ an extreme Irish Republican image. It stuck out like a sore thumb because it was so poorly and clumsily executed. Who would do this at a newspaper and why? Today we see the Sun print an online story about the burning of a bus used by the Newco. Throughout the story and with no obvious accompanying text are pictures of Celtic fans on the pitch at Brentford. Is this some poor attempt to prove guilt by association? Hopefully Celtic FC will pull that most morally bankrupt of ‘news’ papers up about this.

 

This willingness to lie about the Celtic support is part of the mud-slinging mentality which thinks if you throw enough mud some of it will stick. Whole websites are dedicated to finding negative stories about Celtic and their fans. Like all big clubs we have our share of idiots among the support but the propaganda spouted against Celtic and their fans can be truly laughable at times. Of course all football rivals bad mouth each other, generalise about and stereotype their rivals. However, the lies, distortions and half-truths used in attempts to discredit and damage Celtic are taken to new levels by those who hate the club. Over the years I have read or heard the following claims made about Celtic and their fans:

 All Celtic fans are IRA lovers

Celtic is a paedophile network

Celtic introduced Sectarianism to Scotland

Celtic fans had a banner with ‘Islam CSC’ on it

People collect money for terrorists at Celtic games

 I could go on but you get the picture. There are those in our society who despise everything they imagine Celtic is about. The anti-Irish/Catholic prejudice which still lingers in some dark corners helps feed the lies and half-truths. Others, with a dislike of Celtic, are quick to jump on any lie no matter how outrageous and spread it as if it were true. The mind-set which wants to believe the worst about Celtic is already half way to accepting the lie. Modern communication has been transformed by the internet and this makes the dissemination of lies as simple as clicking a mouse. We saw the Twitter wild fire over the alleged singing of songs about Lee Rigby. (RIP) It became boring reading message after message demanding proof because as most of us suspected none existed as it never happened. What was  disturbing though, was the willingness of some unthinking people to accept it as true without any proof and to tweet about it.   As Churchill said, ‘A lie can be halfway around the world before the truth has its pants on!'

It has been said that one of the problems of the modern world is that many people do not approach the media looking for the truth, They approach it looking to have beliefs they already hold validated. George Orwell, of course wrote 70 years ago about the need for journalism to seek the truth when he said, ‘Journalism is printing what someone doesn’t want to hear. Everything else is public relations.’ We saw a massive PR campaign when Rangers collapsed and were liquidated. The half-truths, lies and propaganda had those of us with critical faculties sitting up and taking notice. It was a lesson in how the media works for and was manipulated by vested interests. Somewhere among obfuscation the truth struggled to be heard. The point of today’s blog is to ask all of you kind enough to read it to think for yourselves.  It is only by being sceptical and developing our critical faculties that we begin to see through the lies and insinuations thrown about with such ease by those who hate Celtic. The world has changed so much since Hitler’s Army froze in Stalingrad back in 1943 but even Adolf knew that in any war, truth is usually the first casualty.
 

 

RIP Lee Rigby

 

 

 

The Boys of the Mock-Shock Brigade

Celtic’s visit to Belfast wasn’t as nerve shredding as I feared. They did a thoroughly professional job on Cliftonville and scored 3 good goals. They also looked like hitting more and carried a lot of threat up front with Forest, Samaras, Commons and Stokes all looking hungry.  At the back, Ambrose seems to have listened to those who told him that clearing his lines is safer than trying to dance out of defence with the ball.  The atmosphere in the ground sounded incredible although the boffins at the BBC seemed intent on turning the crowd volume up and down. Perhaps this was to allow us to hear the typically inane comments of Stephen Craigan who apparently makes a living by stating the obvious at football games. That apart it looked a good advert for both clubs and no doubt made Cliftonville a few quid. Few can grudge them that as they were gracious hosts who made visiting Celtic fans feel like they were among family.

 

 

One thing which did come across loud and clear on BBC Scotland’s coverage was the raucous singing of Rebel songs and this  had the Sevco web sites in meltdown. There was much discussion of which ‘Fenians’ were actually singing the songs; the home side’s fans, the visitors or both? They were also asking each other in fevered tones if they should email UEFA about this ‘shocking event’? The mock shock took on comic proportions when they referred to the chant ‘If you hate the Orange Order clap your hands.’ This was described by one apoplectic bear as ‘Vile sectarianism of the worst kind from the Bheasts!’  Rather ironic when one looks at the effigies of the pope, papal flags and even a holy statue placed on bonfires. There was also rioting by, among others, Orangemen demanding to march through nationalist areas. The silence on those events from those of a Sevconian hue is deafening. Closer to home we had of course the events in Coatbridge last week. We heard all the old hate filled anthems in the predominantly catholic town. Mr Salmond promised to stamp out such excesses but it all poured out as the Police stood by and did nothing. So the mock-shock on the Sevco sites is fooling no one. It’s simply more selective cherry picking of things to be offended by. A look closer to home would demonstrate that they have more than enough to concern themselves with among their own support.

 

 That being said, anyone who reads my blogs will know my opinions on the singing of ‘Rebs’ at Celtic games. UEFA fined Celtic £12,700 following ‘illicit chanting’ against Rennes in 2011. Peter Lawell said at the time: "We reiterate our position that, however small the minority, such chanting is not welcome at Celtic."  Neil Lennon too was adamant that such chanting was not wanted at Celtic.  Belfast was the perfect storm for the re-emergence of Rebel songs. A long hot day, beer flowing and the nature of the fixture at Solitude Park meant few were surprised to hear the ‘Rebs.’ But rest assured if there is a recurrence of such singing at future matches played under the auspices of UEFA then the ever vigilant Sevconians will be firing of the emails and YouTube links to the disciplinary department at UEFA. There is nothing the Newco followers enjoy more than trying to drag us into the gutter which the worst of their fans have inhabited for many years.  So it’s time to engage the brains and support the team with the many great Celtic songs in our repertoire. Belfast was much more than a game of football, it was a gathering of the clans, a folk festival of the Celtic family played out at a time of heightened tension. In that context it was perhaps understandable that the old songs were heard but there’s no excuse for it at any future Champions League fixtures. Those who love Celtic would never knowingly tarnish the club or its reputation. I’ve said before that I have no problem with these songs in the correct context it’s simply that in 2013 a football stadium is not the correct context. Think about it.

 On a lighter note I met that most talented of Tims, Billy No’Well today and we talked for hours about our memories of following Celtic and what the club means to us and thousands like us. Celtic is our heritage, handed on to us by the generations who came before us. Some say it is shocking that Glasgow has no Famine memorial like other places where the Irish settled in large numbers. I say to them stand in Kerrydale Street and look at Celtic Park. It’s is a living memorial to what the sons and daughters of the Irish diaspora achieved in Scotland. An Gorta Mor killed so many and displaced even more but these pugnacious people refused to give up. They built a life for themselves and their children in Scotland and they built a wonderful football club. It’s a precious gift they left us and it’s our duty to care for it. It’s also our duty to make it a place anyone feels welcome. Despite others claiming to be ‘Rapeepo’ it is Celtic who is the true club of the people in this city.  Walfrid saw his club as a bridge between cultures, a vehicle to help assimilate the Irish into Scottish society. To be true to his founding principles, his club must welcome people are of all faiths and none, of all ethnicities and backgrounds. That is the essence of a club of the people not some narrow exclusive group who think they’re better than other people. That was tried by another club who in the end collapsed under the weight of their own arrogance and greed.

It heartens me greatly to hear the enthusiasm and affection people like Billy No’Well have for Celtic. It’s matched by many thousands of people all over the world. I’m proud to be a Celt and to be part of this amazing story. Celtic FC is truly more than just a club.