Playing Russian Roulette

 

Playing Russian Roulette

Nottingham 1983

The very last terraced houses on both sides of Colwick Road stood within touching distance of the walls of the ramshackle old stadium. The narrow street formed a tight channel which was already jammed with thousands of Celtic fans, as a freezing mist hung in the November air. The Policemen near the few turnstiles which served this throng of supporters struggled to cope with the sheer volume of fans who had made the trip to Nottingham for the UEFA Cup tie. Tony Foley looked at his sixteen-year-old son, Barry, and shook his head, ‘this looks really poorly organised, son We need to be careful tonight. If we get separated, I’ll get you back at the bus.’ Barry nodded, ‘they don’t have enough turnstiles. Twenty minutes to kick off and thousands are still out here.’ As they neared the turnstiles, they could hear a policeman shouting, ‘get fucking back!’ His words were as effective as King Canute ordering the tide to stop.

Tony had seen a lot of crushes in his years following Celtic and had a few narrow escapes in his time but on this particular freezing night, alarm bells were ringing in his head. It was clear the Nottingham Police hadn’t expected so many Celtic fans to travel south. It was equally clear that many had done so without tickets. As kick off approached, the crowd seemed even more densely packed around the few turnstiles. Tony could see guys sticking a fiver to the operator who clicked them through. This was all looking dangerous and he turned to speak to his son but he was nowhere to be seen. He looked around the sea of faces, ‘Barry!’ he called but the crowd just kept pressing him towards the turnstile. He handed his ticket to the operator who asked, ‘are there many more out there?’ Tony nodded, ‘aye, thousands, pal.’ 

As he clicked into the modest little stadium, he glanced to his left where four policemen were unbolting the big exit gates. The crush outside was serious but allowing hundreds, if not thousands to pour in was just as bad. Tony watched a torrent of fans  pour into the stadium and rush up the stairs. He hoped it would be the same as a similar crush he’d seen at Highbury a few years earlier. The crush outside was dissipated by the big open terraces of the clock end. When he climbed the stairs and saw the situation behind the goal, his heart sank. The terrace was divided into pens by tall steel fences. Into these already packed pens poured hundreds more fans who had been allowed in by the police opening the gates. He was now worried about Barry and scanned the packed terrace looking for him. He knew his son liked to find a spot near the corner flag and pushed his way through the crowd towards the front of the terrace. People were in genuine distress and packed in like sardines. As the teams came out, Tony fought the panic he felt rising within him, he had to find his boy.

At last, he reached the front of the terrace and grabbing the metal fence, hoisted himself up to look for Barry. More and more people were pushing onto the terrace and those at the front were being compressed against the fence. An older man beside him appeared to have passed out and was being held up by his friend. Some fans scaled the floodlight in the corner and looked down at the heaving mass of humanity below them. Tony looked at a young policeman on the other side of the fence, ‘this is heading for disaster, son, you’d best be opening that fucking gate!’ The young cop looked at him nervously, ‘can’t mate, Need orders for that.’ Tony felt the press of bodies tighten around him and shouted, ‘orders, fuck all. People are getting hurt here, open the fucking gate!’ Another worried looking policeman approached the younger officer and they became engaged in an animated conversation. The older man stomped off as the young cop looked at Tony and spread his arms out in a gesture which said, out of my control. Tony Foley looked to his right where a child was in tears before focusing on the young policeman again. ‘Son, I’m telling you, this’ll end badly if you don’t open that fucking gate!’

The young cop’s face was a mess of emotion and uncertainty. At last, he moved purposefully towards the metal gate and with some effort pulled back the big slip bolt. The gate flew open and people literally popped through it onto the track. Tony Foley was among them and he thanked the young officer before looking back at the packed terrace, hoping to see Barry. As more people sought refuge on the track and the corner of pitch, the referee stopped the game. People were lying on the track and turf, some unconscious and some holding friends who were injured in some way. More policemen arrived and seemed to realise that overcrowding was the problem and not any hooliganism. Tony looked at a senior looking cop with silver braid around his cap. ‘Your men opened the outside gates, that’s what’s causing this.’ He didn’t respond to Tony but merely pushed past him to speak to his officers.

As Tony Foley scanned the crowd for his son, a figure appeared beside him. ‘What’s happened here, pal?’ the voice said. Tony turned to see David Hay, the Celtic Manager beside him. ‘Too many people crammed in, Davie. It’s a fucking shambles.’ The worried looking Celtic boss then approached the senior police officer to converse with him. The Celtic doctor and physio, Brian Scott, were there helping the injured too. At that point the Celtic fans began to sing ’You’ll never walk alone.’ Tony Foley was becoming really worried about his son as the minutes passed and the police tried to clear the pitch.

Just as he was being ushered into the stand beside the packed terrace of the Colwick Road end, he heard a voice through the din. ‘Da! I’m here!’ Tony looked around, trying to locate where the voice was coming from. He heard it again and looked up at the fans who had scaled the floodlight. There was young Barry waving at him. A surge of relief passed through him as he gestured for Barry to stay where he was until the game was over. His son nodded and gave him the thumbs up sign. As he watched from the stairway of the stand, the police cleared the pitch and the game restarted.

It had been a close call for the Celtic fans and Tony realised that the shambolic organisation and antiquated stadiums were part of the problem. The footballing authorities and police were playing Russian roulette with peoples’ lives and they wouldn’t get away with it forever.

He loved his club, but he loved his son too and nothing was worth the risks he had witnessed people being subjected to on a cold and frosty, November night in Nottingham.

 

 

The Hunt for Dessie McGuigan

 

The Hunt for Dessie McGuigan

Glasgow 1967

PC McLeod entered the close in one of Govan’s less salubrious corners, noting the graffiti penned on the wall by some wag, as he did so; ‘If pigs could fly Orkney Street would be an airport.’  ‘Very good, ‘ he mumbled to himself, ‘no one likes the cops until you need them.’ He walked to the first-floor landing and knocked on the door he was looking for. A pale-faced boy of around ten who wore a Celtic shirt and navy-blue shorts, opened the door slightly and regarded him in silence. ‘Is your mummy in?’ the tall policeman asked in a friendly voice. The child muttered, ‘haud oan’ and closed the door. Two minutes limped past before the door opened again, a thin woman with bad perm and horn-rimmed glasses peered at him. ‘Sorry tae keep ye son, I couldnae find my teeth. Come in.’

PC McLeod followed her up the hallway and into the living room where three children sat playing with a variety of toys. One of them looked at him and said, ‘ye found ma da yet?’ The thin woman barked at the child, ‘shut it you. Away ben the room an geez peace.’ The child tutted and returned to his toys. Mary McGuigan invited the young policeman to sit down on the couch and sat facing him on an armchair. ‘Mrs McGuigan,’ PC McLeod began, ‘you reported your husband, Desmond, missing yesterday morning?’ She nodded, ‘Aye, said he was goin’ doon the Govan Arms for a few pints and never came back. I’ve been roon aw the doors. Naebody’s seen him. He’s no with any of his cronies and I’m getting worried aboot him.’ The policeman looked at his notebook, ‘he’s not done anything like this before?’ She shrugged, ‘aye, the odd New Year he goes oan a bender but no in May.’ The policeman continued, ‘he has no friends he might be staying with?’ She shook her head, ‘naw son, I’ve tried everybody he knows. He’s just vanished.’ The policeman pursed his lips as he approached the problem from a more delicate angle, ‘Mrs McGuigan, do you think it’s possible he has been seeing another woman?’ Her face cracked into a smile, ‘Dessie? Pick up a wumin? He couldnae pick up flu in an epidemic.’ The policeman suppressed a smile at this. ‘Right, we’ll keep looking for him but keep us notified  if you hear anything.’

As the policeman stood to leave, the ten-year-old who had opened the door to him watched carefully and smiled to himself that the Jaffa Cake he had placed strategically on the couch was stuck to the back of his trousers. Mary McGuigan saw him out the door, noticing the biscuit stuck to him but saying nothing. She closed the door quietly behind him. Dessie had been missing for almost 48 hours now and her initial annoyance had turned to worry.  She walked into the living room and looked at the children playing, ‘whoever put that chocolate biscuit oan the couch, I hope yer proud of yourself. That bizzy is trying tae find yer da and noo he’s away through the wine alley looking as if he’s shat himself!’ The children shook with silent laughter as she scolded them. She shook her head, ‘Daft, like yer feckin da, wherever he is!’

Mary McGuigan walked miles that day looking for any sign of her man. She tried bars, betting shops and asked anybody she knew if they’d seen Dessie but it was all to no avail. When she returned to her home, she saw the police car parked outside and her heart sank a little. Neighbours watched from behind curtains as she entered the close and found PC McLeod and another officer at her door. ‘Mrs McGuigan, glad we bumped into you. There’s been a development.’ She glanced at her neighbour’s door, knowing old Mrs Bell would be glued to her spyhole. ‘Come in,’ she said, keeping her voice steady, ‘the weans are at their granny’s.’

PC McLeod declined to sit when invited and said to her in a quiet voice, ‘Mrs McGuigan, we fished a body out of the Clyde and were wondering, if you feel up to having a look? The age seems similar to your husband but it might not be him. It just allows us to eliminate this chap from our enquiries if it isn’t Desmond.’  She unconsciously covered her mouth with her hand, ‘can we do this now, before the weans come back?’ PC McLeod nodded.

As they left the close and walked to the Police car, a local teenager shouted, ‘that you huckled, Mary? Ye done Dessie in?’ She glanced up, ‘shut it, Francis or I’ll tell yer maw wit ye get up tae in that dookit.’ The teenager’s face reddened and he said no more. Instead, he turned and headed through the close on the other side of the street. There were some magazines in his dookit he thought he’d best dispose of. As the police car drove off, Mary McGuigan said a quiet prayer to herself.

Before the sheet was pulled down on the cadaver pulled from the Clyde, Mary McGuigan saw the left arm protruding and said, ‘that’s no Dessie.’ The policeman looked at her, ‘how can you be sure?’ She pointed at the tattoo on the forearm which showed a man in 18^th century garb, on a white horse. ‘Mer chance of the pope being a Hindu than my Dessie having King Billy oan his arm.’ The two policemen glanced at each other with a look Mary read as saying they had made an arse of themselves.

Thursday dawned with still no news of Dessie McGuigan. Mary got the children ready and walked them to their granny's on what was a blustery but bright spring day. As she neared Paisley Road, a rather annoying woman she knew to be fond of her drink approached her, ‘morning Mary, I’m sorry tae hear aboot yer Dessie.’ Mary shrugged, ‘och, he’ll show up soon enough, Maggie.’ The woman’s face looked doubtful and after more than three days, Mary wasn’t as certain as she sounded. ‘I’ll say a wee prayer for him,’ the woman continued, ‘and if he’s pan breed, I’ll forget the fiver he owes me,’ Mary McGuigan looked at the woman who had said such an insensitive thing as if she was doing her a big favour. As the children ran in their granny's close, she turned to Maggie and said in a quiet but steely voice, ‘Maggie, dae me a favour and get yerself tae fuck.’

The day was a long one as Mary busied herself about the house. There was no news from the police and each hour that passed made a happy resolution to her problem less likely. When the children returned from Dessie's mother's house they rushed excitedly to the television. ‘Get it oan, ma! The game’s starting!’ Mary had little interest in football though Dessie had infected the three boys with his passion for Celtic. Who would take them to Celtic Park now? She wondered. As she prepared the supper, she could hear the roars and groans from her boys and from neighbours who were all glued to their TVs. Glancing out into the street, she was surprised to see it completely deserted. It seemed everyone apart from a bemused and lonely looking dog was inside watching the football.

She placed the plates of food on the floor beside her sons who barely took their eyes from the screen as they ate. At one point Celtic scored a goal and they screamed and hugged each other like demented dwarves. Mary watched them, unable to share their joy as the seed of worry in her chest was weighing her down. When Celtic scored again, her boys fell upon each other and rolled across the carpet like delirious Siamese triplets. As the match ended, she smiled a little. Celtic had won, and at least the boys were happy. She watched as Billy McNeil hoisted a heavy looking big trophy into the air.

The camera panned below at the thousands of fans who had invaded the field. Her body froze. ‘Dessie!’ It was him! She’d know that toothless grin anywhere. She rushed to the tv as her boys looked at her in shock, the camera panned on the crowd again and this time the three McGuigan boys saw it too. ‘Da! It’s my da!’ They three children hugged their mother and they all fell to the floor in a bundle of joy and relief. How the hell Dessie McGuigan had got to Lisbon with no passport and precious little money would be explained in the fullness of time and Mary would decide upon his return if he would be welcomed home with a hug or a slap, but for now she was just relieved to see that all was well. Her man would be coming home to her.

 

Dreams and songs to sing

 

Dreams and songs to sing

Following Celtic’s historic cup win at Hampden last week, I watched the body language of Ange Postecoglou to see if there were any clues about his state of mind regarding leaving Celtic. In truth, the camera panning onto Peter Lawwell and Dermot Desmond told me all I needed to know. Their side had just completed a historic eighth treble and they stood there with glum faces watching the celebrations unfold, looking for all the world like officials from the losing club.

As we all know now, Ange was in an advanced stage of talks with Spurs by the time of the cup final and by the following week, the Celtic fans were left like a teenager being dumped by text message. Maybe we should have learned by now not to get to close to players or managers, most have an eye on the riches south of the border and will go if the chance arrives. It all reminded me of Jock Stein warning a young Alex Ferguson years ago about players; ‘never fall in love with them because they’ll all two time you in the end.’  

Most of us fell in love with Ange and thought we’d found the perfect fit for our football club. We should have known better though, as we felt the same about Brendan Rodgers. Ange leaves us in a better place and has given us some good memories of how football should be played in the modern era. He also handled our sports media with contemptuous ease, which was pleasing to see.

I for one don’t blame Ange Postecoglou for wanting to challenge himself at the highest possible level. He’s 58 in August and in the latter stages of his coaching career. Like many in Australia, he’d have grown up watching English football on tv and seeing it as the holy grail to play or coach there. The money will help too with some suggesting he could be earning up to £10m a season at Spurs. That’s life changing for not only him, but also for his children.  We should graciously say thanks and good luck, but like that dumped teenager, it’ll rankle for a while, at least until someone new catches our imagination.

So, we pick ourselves up and move on. Celtic remains a very attractive proposition to any coach. They have a talented young squad, money in the bank, a terrific stadium a committed fanbase and, perhaps most alluring of all for a prospective coach, a place booked in next season’s Champions League. Early  rumours suggest Brendan Rodgers may return but he’d have some fences to mend with the support given the way he left Celtic in his first stint in charge. I doubt we’ve heard the truth behind that departure as yet and it might help if he spelled it out. Perhaps the board wouldn’t back his ambition? Perhaps he had signed a confidentiality agreement and couldn’t tell us what was going on. Or perhaps, more realistically, the lure of the English Premiership was too much to resist after a couple of seasons going around the grounds of Scottish football. If he is to return, it’ll take a major PR exercise to get the support on board. Winning always helps and he did build a very useful Celtic side, at least domestically.

Kjetil Knutsen of Bodo Glimt. Is another in the frame and the 54-year-old Norwegian is a coach with a similar outlook to Postecoglou on how the game should be played. Taking a side with an average crowd of around 3000 to the last 8 of a European tournament is an impressive feat and of course his side defeated Celtic that season home and away. He also claims to be the only manager to put 6 past a Jose Mourinho team when Bodo cuffed Roma 6-1. His fast, pressing style of play would suit Celtic and most fans would be happy to see him roll up the Celtic Way.

There will be others quietly expressing an interest, but the board mustn’t drag it out in the manner they did when courting Eddie Howe. It was over three months before they gave up on Howe after he appeared to fail to persuade his backroom side to come to the SPFL. That summer of purgatory must not be repeated as Celtic have a big season ahead and the new coach will need time to assess the squad, target new players, off load those no longer required and impress on the team how he wants the game played.

Celtic’s key players all have significant time left on their contracts and the club should only accept appropriate offers for any of them.  We don’t want unsettled players but neither do we want clubs in England treating us like the footballing equivalent of the bargain bucket. If any major players do move on, the new coach should be given the proceeds to strengthen the squad.

This is, of course, the silly season in the press and all sorts of names will be mentioned in the context of comings and goings at Celtic. It’s best to remain sceptical until deals are done. Perhaps we’ve all learned to be a little less trusting of those who claim to love the club but in reality, use it as a career stepping stone. As long as Celtic remain in the low-income world of Scottish football, or the game here is revolutionised, we will have difficulty holding on to any genuine class performers on the pitch or in the dugout. There is a food chain in football and big as Celtic is, it is nowhere near the top of it.

The quicker Celtic end the uncertainty and appoint a coach, the quicker we can move on to the next chapter in the club’s history. No individual is bigger than the club and players and managers will come and go. The supporters will always be there though, demanding that the standards remain high and the club is moving forward.

Like that jilted teenager, we need to meet someone new,  learn to let go of the past and build again for the future.

We need our dreams and our songs to sing.

Over to you Celtic.