Piling on the agony

 

Piling on the agony

Maggie Rooney put the phone down on the kitchen table and looked at her sons. ‘Yer cousin Kevin fae America is coming o’er for a wee visit next month. Uncle Frank says you’ve tae show him aroon the old neighbourhood and try and get him a ticket for the game wi Rangers.’ Jim Rooney looked at his mother, ‘Whit? Tickets for that game are like gold dust!’ His bother Paul, a young man given to using rhyming slang at every available opportunity, chipped in, ‘he’s right, ma. Wilson Pickets are as rare as a handsome hun. Mer chance of getting him his Nat King than a ticket for that match.’ His mother gave him that withering look she saved when for she was seriously annoyed. ‘Just find Kevin a ticket or I’ll be giving him yours or yer brother’s. He’s flying in fae New York, no hopping a bus fae East Kilbride.’ The two brothers looked at each other. They had two weeks to sort out a ticket for a cousin they had never met. It was a tall order.

Jim and Paul sat in the Brazen Head mulling over their problem. Most ardent Celtic fans would never give up their ticket for such a game. They asked around the bar but were met by the same blank faces and shakes of the head. Their cousin was arriving the day before the match and they’d be picking him up from the airport. They had only seen pictures of a smiling 20-year-old in a baseball cap and New York Yankees T shirt, on their uncle’s Facebook page. Kevin Rooney had never set foot in Scotland and now Paul and Jim were set to babysit him through a derby weekend.

It looked as if Celtic could actually clinch the title if they won the derby match which made finding a ticket even harder. As the days slipped past and the game approached, they were becoming resigned to one of them giving up their season ticket for the day. On the Friday before the match, they met in a Celtic pub on the High Street. ‘We’ll roll the dice or play rock, paper, scissors to decide who gives their ticket to Kevin,’ Jim said, before taking a long sip of his pint. His brother shook his head, ‘naw, He can have mine. I’ll get behind him and double up.’ Jim looked at him doubtfully, ‘you know the stewards and cops are complete dicks in our section. I don’t want you huckled.’ Paul shook his head, ’I’ve talked tae big Andy. We’ve got a plan but it’ll take good timing.’ Jim shrugged, ‘right fill me in. How are we getting three guys in with two tickets, to the biggest game of the season?’

Paul and Jim stood at the international arrivals gate of Glasgow airport waiting for their cousin to disembark from his flight. They had exchanged a few messages on a WhatsApp group they’d set up and Kevin seemed genuinely excited about his flying visit to his father’s home city. ‘He’d better no be a Sherman tank,’ Paul said caustically, ‘some of these yanks are full of Lillian Gish.’ Jim shook his head, ‘you’d best drop that stupid rhyming slang or he’ll no have a clue whit yer oan aboot.’ Paul grinned, ‘shut yer Queen of the South afore I rattle yer RS McCalls!’ Jim laughed out loud and was about to respond, but before another word was said a trickle of people began to pass through arrivals. Sleepy looking kids in their parent’s arms, old folk with their garishly coloured American clothes and, near then end came Kevin Rooney.

He was around six feet tall, with neat crew-cut hair and was wearing a green t shirt with an image of Billy McNeill holding the European cup high above his head, on it. He carried a rucksack over his shoulder and He grinned at his cousins, showing the best set of teeth either of them had ever seen. ‘Paul! Jim! Great to finally meet you guys,’ he said in a thick American accent before hugging them both in turn. As they strolled to the car park, chatting and laughing together, it was clear they’d all get on very well.

On the drive back to Glasgow, Paul filled his cousin in on the plan they’d come up with to get all three of them into the game with only two tickets. Kevin smiled, ‘fuckin A,’ he said, ‘this is going to be a fun weekend.’ Jim smiled at his brother and gave him a wink which said that Kevin seemed a spot-on guy. The big match was just 24 hours away and after touching base at home and grabbing some food, they’d be heading for the pub and a good singalong.

Kevin Rooney looked up at the curved ceiling of the pub, gazing at the flags, shirts and scarves of various clubs, but mostly of Celtic. Jim handed him a beer, ‘there’s a band on later. I take it you know a few Celtic tunes?’ Kevin grinned, and replied in his New York accent, ‘my dad plays them all the time. Our neighbours are Greek and dad’s always bustin’ their balls with his Irish toons. They keep asking me what’s a Scottish guy doing in New York playing Irish songs?’ Jim nodded, ‘aye, uncle Frank always liked the rebs. He’s been in America for over 25 years noo and he’s no changed by the sounds of it.’ Before Kevin could respond, Paul showed up with his pal Andy Toner. Andy was as tall as Kevin and shook his hand vigorously, ‘nice tae meet ye, mate. Paul’s been tellin’ me yer a good cunt.’ Kevin looked at Paul, ‘that’s a compliment around here, cuz?’ Paul laughed, ‘aye, here in Glasgow it is.’ They discussed their plan for getting into Celtic Park the next day and each of them knew their part. Behind them the band started playing and the bar became more raucous. The beer flowed and the crowded pub sang along to a variety of Celtic songs.

Big Andy excused himself during the interval in the music and approached the lead singer of the band. ‘Here mate, Rooney’s cousin’s in fae America,’ he turned and nodded towards Kevin as he stood drinking with Paul and Jim, ‘the black-haired guy wi the teeth like Red Rum, could ye do a wee request for him? He returned to his friends’ side just as the band started up the second part of their set. The lead singer strummed his guitar and shouted into the mic, ‘are we ready to rock this place?’ There was a roar from the packed bar as he continued, ‘this one is for Kevin Rooney from New York City, here for the game tomorrow.’ With that the band picked up the tune and began to sing…

’A  Yankee came to Hampden Park a football match to see

Attracted by the magic of the old firm rivalry

Well, little did he know just what a treat he had in store

When watching Glasgow Celtic adding to the score…

 

The whole bar joined in in the chorus and Kevin, the worse for drink, had a grin like a Cheshire cat as he punched the air and roared out with the rest…

 

‘Piling on the agony – putting on the style

1-2-3-4-5-6-7 scoring all the while

There’s nothing in this whole wide world

That makes you want to smile

Like watching Glasgow Celtic putting on the style.’

 

The night passed in a blur of songs, drinks and carousing before they made their way home for some much-needed sleep. There was a big game coming and they needed to be ready for it.

The following morning, they ate a heart fry up made by the ever-vigilant Mrs Rooney, and drank cups of strong tea. ‘Did ye get a ticket for Kevin?’ she asked a bleary-eyed Jim. ‘Aye, ma. It’s all sorted so don’t you worry.’  She smiled, ‘oh I wisnae worried, he’s going no matter what, but I just want you two tae go as well so ye can look after him. It can get wild at those games.’ Kevin reached for the tea pot, ‘oh, my head. What a night that was.’ Paul smiled, ‘sure was cuz, you enjoyed yersel, ay?’ The young American nodded, ‘yeh, but a month of that and I’d be dead.’ Jim Rooney finished his tea, ‘quick pint in McChuills and then on to Paradise!’ The fresh air cleared their heads, their plans were laid and all roads led to Celtic Park.

At the turnstile big Andy was waiting. ‘Alright boys, we ready to do this?’ They lined up with Andy in front, Kevin behind him, clutching Paul’s season ticket. Paul was right behind him ready to double up, while Jim trailed up the rear in case anything went wrong. ‘Remember,’ Andy said, ‘timing is vital, When I distract the stewards you two double up.’ Andy clicked through the turnstile, smiling at the pair of dour faced stewards who stood watching the fans arrive, as he did so. Kevin hesitated as he’d been told to do, and watched as Andy went behind the stewards and dropped a batch of Chinese firecrackers. The noise sounded like an explosion of gunfire behind the stewards and they spun in fright to see what the hell was going on. As they did so, Kevin pushed the season card into the reader and he and Paul squeezed forward together. For a horrible second it seemed like they’d get stuck but Jim Rooney pushed Paul from behind and the turnstile clicked them through. Jim used his season card to join them, muttering to his brother, ‘your fat Khyber Pass nearly jammed the turnstile.’ Paul laughed, ‘you using rhyming slang noo, ya tadger?’ They grinned at each other and led Kevin to Block 111. Now it was time to see if Celtic could win the title against their derby rivals.

Kevin Rooney had never experienced anything like it. The noise of the crowd, the relentless drumming and bouncing up and down had him gasping at the spectacle of it all. When Odsonne Edouard opened the scoring on 14 minutes, he was swamped by limbs hugging him and delirious faces roaring out in primeval joy. It was sport at its crazy, visceral best and he was loving it. Forrest and Edouard scored again before half-time as Celtic swept Rangers aside. The noise and excitement in the stands were almost reaching hysterical levels. The second half began the same way with Rogic and McGregor slamming home and Rangers seemingly in for a record hiding. The Rooney boys sang their hearts out as their beloved Celtic stormed to another title win. As the final whistle sounded, Kevin looked up, smiling at the blue Glasgow sky, ‘wow! Dad, I know just what you were talking about now when you said this place rocked!’ The fans around him began to sing a song he recognised from the night before and he looped his arms over his two cousins’ shoulders and joined in…

‘Piling on the agony – putting on the style

1-2-3-4-5-6-7 scoring all the while

There’s nothing in this whole wide world

That makes you want to smile

Like watching Glasgow Celtic putting on the style.’

As he watched Celtic lift the trophy and fireworks exploded into the sky above the stadium, he glanced at his cousins. They were totally immersed in their club, totally committed to following its fortunes for life. He had the bug now and was so glad that he’d been here to watch Celtic piling on the agony.

 

Lost in Translation

 

Lost in Translation

Tony guided his bike carefully along the darkened street, weaving in and out of the puddles as he did so. You never could tell which pool of water was hiding a pot hole. He’d been thrown of his bike on more than one occasion by the dreadful roads in Glasgow. His shift was winding down although his miserable boss had insisted that he work on this cold February night. Delivering food on his bike with a huge insulated box strapped to his back was not how he had envisaged his life panning out but he needed to pay the bills. On this particular night though, he would much rather have been at Celtic Park watching his side take on Rangers but his boss had told him that should he choose the football over work then he needn’t bother coming back. Tony had shaken his head upon hearing this news but he shouldn’t have been surprised, Mr Weir’s nose was such an obvious shade of blue.

He had seen the streams of Celtic fans in cars, buses and on foot all heading for the game and had been given a cheer by some as he cycled past wearing his Celtic scarf. As the evening progressed, he’d stop to check the score on his phone and felt a mixture of elation that his team were delivering a long over due skelping to their city rivals, and disappointment that he was not there to see it. As he rode an empty life at the Ladywell flats with a delivery, his phone pinged to tell him it was half time at Celtic Park. He knew the team was 1-0 ahead five minutes before half-time, but as he opened his phone to see that it was now 3-0, he couldn’t help but roar, ‘yaasss!’ in the empty lift.

It was nearly 11pm when he checked the courier app on his phone for one last job before he cycled home to his weary bed. He liked doing the late deliveries as the restaurants he delivered from often gave him some of the food that was left over from the kitchen. He’d tasted food from a dozen cultures doing this job and hoped he’d get some tonight. He also liked surprising his other half with some unusual cuisine. He parked his bike outside the Nippon Kitchen, smiling at the just about audible sound of Celtic fans singing somewhere in the city centre. He knocked on the door and the familiar figure of Mr Sato was waiting for him. ‘Hello Tonee,’ he smiled, ‘big order tonight.’ Tony unzipped his insulated box and they began to load containers of delicious smelling food into it.

Once he had carefully packed all of the food containers and some Japanese beer into the side compartment of the box, he zipped it up and smiled at Mr Sato, ‘that the lot for tonight?’ The little man smiled and handed him a carrier bag. ‘For you, when you finish. The udon and okonomiyaki are good tonight,’ Tony smiled, ‘I’ll look forward to trying that, Mt Sato. See you next time.’ With that, he hoisted the box onto his back and headed out to unlock his bike. He checked the delivery address on his app and set off on what would be a fairly long cycle.

The house was on one of those streets that Tony could only dream of living on. The big Edwardian pile stood in its own grounds and as he cycled up the tree lined driveway; he noticed four expensive looking cars parked at one side of the house. ‘All right for some,’ he thought to himself as he dismounted his bike and swung the box from off of his back. He rang the doorbell and the door was quickly opened by a east Asian man wearing a Celtic sweatshirt. Tony smiled, a little surprised at seeing his club’s crest, ‘food delivery!’ The man nodded and said in surprisingly good English, ‘thank you, could you bring it in please?’  The man glanced at the Celtic scarf, visible beneath Tony’s heavy coat. ‘You are a Celtic fan?’ Tony nodded, ‘aye, boy and man. All my life. What about you?’ The man guided Tony into a kitchen which was bigger than his flat, ‘yes, I am now. I work with Celtic as a translator.’

 Tony smiled and was just about to reply when he heard the volume being turned up on a tv somewhere. The unmistakable sound of Celtic Park singing ‘you’ll never walk alone’ filled the house. ‘Your family watching the game?’ The man nodded, ‘you could say that, come through and say hello.’ Tony followed the man into the big hallway, noticing how ridiculously overdressed he seemed, as he glanced at himself in a big mirror which hung on the wall. The man opened the living room door where a group of people sat on a large L shaped couch watching Celtic on perhaps the biggest TV Tony had ever seen. The only light in the room was a lamp in the corner and the group seemed totally focused on the tv.

The man spoke in Japanese to the four or five people watching the football. The first to turn around was a young woman who smiled at Tony and said something in Japanese, ‘she says, why don’t you take your coat off? You look very warm.’ Tony smiled at the young woman and unzipped his coat, his Celtic scarf falling out loosely. She stood and pointed at his scarf, ‘Henrik Lar-ssoon!’ Tony nodded, ‘aye, my hero when I was a lad.’ The translator repeated his words in Japanese and she nodded before heading off to the kitchen, Tony guessed to get the food ready.

On the tv screen, Reo Hatate shot towards the Rangers goal and the ball slipped into the corner of the net. Tony watched with a huge smile on his face, at least he’d see the goals tonight. ‘That was great, wee Reo has been immense this season. That goal he scored at Tynecastle was a peach.’ The translator smiled, ‘why don’t you tell him?’ He spoke to one of the men on the couch and he stood and turned to face Tony. To Tony’s amazement, the unmistakable form of Reo Hatate was gazing at him and smiling. ‘Thank you,’ he said in reasonable English, with a small bow. ‘Reo, my man!’ Tony blurted out, ‘what a goal that was tonight!’ The young Japanese midfielder listened as the translator did his work. Hatate smiled said in halting English, which one?’ He then gestured towards the couch as the translator looked at Tony, ‘he says you should sit and watch the football.’ Tony was taken aback but soon had his jacket off and headed towards the couch.

He sat, a little tentatively beside the track suited footballer, just in time to see Him slam in another goal on the screen. ‘Yes, wee man! Get in there!’ he said instinctively as the amused translator quietly relayed his words in Japanese.  Before Hatate could respond, Abada latched onto a cross from Jota and slammed number three into the Rangers net. Tony found himself punching the air, ‘Yaaass!’ he called out, as the assembled Japanese people applauded, almost politely, ‘skelped them good tonight!’  The translator touched his shoulder, ‘what is ‘skelped?’ Tony grinned, ‘it means, eh, give them a good slap. Like yer ma would skelp yer butt if you were a bad yin.’ He gestured with his hand. The man explained this in Japanese to Reo Hatate and his family. They looked a little confused but smiled politely.

At that moment the young woman Tony had spoken to earlier came into the room with a tray loaded with food. She put it on the coffee table in front of the couch and went to fetch more. When she returned, she handed Tony a bottle of Sapporo. The translator looked at him, ‘you have no more deliveries? You will stay for some food?’ Tony was a little embarrassed, ‘eh, well, that’s kind of you. Thank you.’ As the football continued on the screen, Tony ate the most unusual and unexpected meal he could remember, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.

After half an hour or so of trying different foods and trying very hard to control his chop sticks, Tony looked at the translator, ‘I need to go home. My bird is expecting me and I’m already late.’ The translator looked at him, ‘you have a parrot or finches, perhaps?’ Tony grinned, ‘naw, a ‘bird’ is like an expression for a girlfriend.’ ‘Ah,’ the translator smiled, explaining it to the other people in the room. He nodded and turned to him, ‘in Japan we say ‘koibito.’  Tony repeated it, ‘koibito.’

As he stood and put his coat on, he tossed his Celtic scarf to Reo Hatate who sat watching him. ‘One day, you’ll be on my scarf.’ The translator explained what he said and Hatate bowed a little, ‘Thank you.’ As Tony was about to reply, the young woman came into the room with more food. Tony gestured towards her then, looking at Hatate said, ‘koibito?’ The whole room bust into laughter as Tony looked around trying to figure out if he’d made a gaff. The translator smiled. ‘No, not sweetheart, little sister.’ Tony grinned and shook hands with Hatate and the translator before heading for the door. As he did so, he turned and smiled at the Celtic midfielder, ‘keep skelping them, Reo!’

As he cycled off into the darkness, he mulled over the unexpected turn the evening had taken. ‘Tracy’s no gonnae believe this,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘koibito or no!’ He freewheeled down the hill, feeling a little exhilarated and called out to the darkness, ‘mon the Celtiiic!’

 

 

The C Word

 

I had one of those experiences you get on social now and then, this week. I said on Twitter that the banner describing Douglas Ross, Scottish Tory leader, as a c**t, was a bit crude and lacked imagination. That’s not to say that I agree with anything Ross or his nasty party does, because I don’t. They have always been the party of the selfish, the imperialist, the Gammons, Brit-Nats and establishment. Grifters who use their chums in the media to help them convince enough people to vote against their own best interests while they enrich themselves at our expense. Rather, it was the fact they played the man and not the ball; there is plenty to slam the Tories for; reducing it to calling a man a ‘c**t’ was an opportunity missed. But that's just my opinion.

Of course, many disagreed with me as is their right, and expressed their whole hearted support for the banner. Most did it in a reasonable way and made points I actually agreed with. A tiny minority went down the depressing route of personal abuse. I never quite get that attitude. It kills debate and makes folk not want to say anything even mildly contentious on social media. It reminded me of the lyric in the Wolfe Tones song, which goes; ‘so this is your democracy-be silent or agree with me.’ Debate is nothing to shy away from, it is healthy and fleshes out the arguments. Personal abuse though, isn’t helpful in any way as it shuts debate down.

A friend sent me a direct message in which he quite clearly and intelligently laid out why the banner was acceptable to him, He said…

‘When I saw the banner, I thought to myself, what is the criteria for being a c**t these days?

If it’s voting against free school meals-Ross is a c**t.

If it’s demonising asylum seekers-Ross is a c**t.

If it’s supporting nuclear weapons-Ross is a c**t.

If it’s trying to destroy the NHS-Ross is a c**t.

If it’s causing ordinary people misery and worry-Ross is a c**t

If there are more food banks because of Tories- Ross is a c**t

If it’s blocking Scotland’s right to Indy Ref 2- Ross is a c**t

If it’s allowing energy companies to fleece us-Ross is a c**t

If it’s supporting policies which increase poverty -Ross is a c**t

If it’s supporting the rape clause-Ross is a c**t

 

It was hard to disagree with any of that and perhaps the difference between me and the people who made the banner is they way it was expressed, not the sentiments on it. If I used the criteria my friend sent me, then Ross is indeed a c**t.

There is an increasing trend of football supporters expressing views the establishment are not happy with. We saw this when the Queen died and conformity and ‘respect’ was demanded. Fans of many clubs refused to tug the forelock and expressed their own opinions on monarchy and the class system it helps perpetuate. Celtic supporters have always been political and have seldom been shy about expressing it. They have also been quick to debate and argue over what form political expression should take and within the bounds of decent debate that’s fine.

As for Mr Ross, I’m sure he has a thick skin and has got the message by now that a majority of Scots have no time for him and his poverty mongering party. That has been the case for since 1955 and I hope it remains so.