They’re not all like that
Paul sat on the couch as his brother turned up the volume on the radio.
The Sunday night chart show was a tradition in the Doherty household and both
he and his older brother had listened to it for as long as they could remember.
As the dulcet tones of Simple Minds sang ‘don’t you forget about me,’ Paul
looked at his brother, ‘ye gonnae ask her the night?’ Tony Doherty, three years
older than fourteen-year-old Paul, looked at him, ‘aye, but don’t build yer
hopes up. You know what she’s like when Celtic play Rangers.’ Paul smiled,
‘aye, but you can persuade her, eh?’ Tony shrugged, ‘I can try wee man but I
doubt she’ll let ye go.’
Tony Doherty chose his moment carefully. After volunteering to do the
dishes and making his mother, Anne Marie, a cup of tea, he sat beside her.
‘That song ‘nineteen’ is number wan. Lot of Lillian Gish if ye ask me.’ His
mother looked at him. She knew her oldest son well and said, ‘if it’s money yer
after, I’ve nothing till I cash my Monday book.’ He grinned, ‘naw, ma. I’m good for money. I
wanted tae ask ye if I could take Tony tae the match next week? I know it’s a
school night but he’ll be back for ten.’ She looked at him suspiciously, ‘who’s
playing?’ He saw no point in lying, ‘we play Rangers but it’ll be a quiet game
as Aberdeen have already sewn up the league. He’s 14 ma, he has tae go tae one
of these games eventually.’ She looked at him doubtfully, ‘you know these games
bring out the worst in some folk.’ Tony looked at her imploringly, ‘I’ll look
after him, ma. Besides, I’ll be with a few of the lads fae work.’ Much to his
surprise, she gazed at him and said, ‘OK, but you get him right back here and
nae drinking!’
When Tony had left the living room to tell his brother, Anne Marie lit up
a cigarette and exhaled a long stream of smoke into the air. ‘Why do they have
to grow up? It’s much easier when they’re weans.’ From the bedroom she could
hear Paul whooping with delight. ‘Yassss! Ya dancer!’ She took another draw on
her cigarette, ‘he’ll be ok, Tony’s a sensible boy, he’ll look after him.’ She gazed at the school photo of her two sons in their primary uniforms, which
stood on the sideboard and sighed, ‘he’s gotta grow up sometime. I suppose.’
The first day of May 1985 dragged past for Paul Doherty. As he walked home
from school, he talked excitedly about going to his first Celtic-Rangers game. ‘Ah
cannae wait, man. It’s going tae be great,’ he smiled at his pals. ‘My da won’t
let me near that game,’ his friend Joe Carville said. ‘Says if I sneak out and
go tae it he’ll kick my RS McCall’s.’ Paul laughed, ‘Tony is taking me wi a
couple of pals fae his work, so it’ll be fine.’ Joe shrugged, ‘I live on
Shettleston Road, ye know. I see it every game wi that mob. It’s chaos, mate.
You be careful.’ Tony reached his close and said his farewell to his friends. ‘Tell
yeez aw aboot it the morra!’
Later that night, Shettleston Road wore an altogether different face. As
Tony and Paul stepped out of their close and headed down towards the main road,
they could already hear the noise. As they joined the flow of people heading
towards Parkhead Cross, the younger of the two looked around him, a mixture of
excitement and trepidation written on his face. On their side of the road
marched a green clad army of Celtic fans, chanting as they headed towards the
stadium. On the opposite side of the street, an equally large and raucous crowd
decked out in blue shouted their songs into the spring sky. ‘ A thin line of
police officers walked between them to ensure there was no trouble. The songs
from both sides of the street blended together in the evening sky as Paul
listened, spellbound, ‘hullo, hullo…hail hail… the Celts are here… ye’ll know
us by our noise… and if ye know the history…’
Paul looked at his brother as they reached Parkhead Cross and the noise
intensified, ‘this is gonnae be brilliant, Tony.’ The older brother smiled at
Paul, his eyes continually scanning the street for any sign of trouble. ‘Just
you stick beside me and if we get separated you wait where ye are and I’ll find
ye.’ Paul nodded as they headed along the Gallowgate, the streets now filled
with just Celtic fans. They turned into Holywell Street, Paul taking in every
sight and sound. The closer they got to the stadium, the more tightly packed
the street became. The queues at the turnstiles swayed and sang as excitement
and anticipation rose. Paul Doherty grinned at his brother. This was it; he was
finally going to see the derby match.
From his vantage point near the front of the Celtic end, Paul watched as a
match of brutal competitiveness unfolded. His senses were assaulted by the
noise and vitriol in which this great working-class theatre was played out. There
was no holding back from supporters; they were 100% committed to the cause. Voices
around him roared and seethed. ‘Deck that bastard!’ ‘Foul, ya fucking rat!’ ‘Intae
them Celtic!’
Celtic dominated the first half and passed up a number of chances. Chief
among them an early penalty which Roy Aitken scored but the referee ordered to
be retaken. The second attempt by the curly headed midfielder hit the keeper on
the legs and was scrambled clear. It was
15 minutes into the second half before they bundled in the first goal and the
home supporters exploded with joy. Paul was embraced by a short man of about
thirty who smelled of sweat and beer in equal measure. ‘Yaaasssss, wee man,
Fuckin’ yassss!!’ he roared in Paul’s ear.
As the game ebbed and flowed, Paul watched in horror as Rangers were
awarded a penalty. He closed his eyes as McCoist struck it but the roar from
the away end told him all he needed to know. An ill-tempered, fairly brutal
game of football saw three players sent off before the referee called a halt
with a shrill blast of his whistle. It was over, honours would be even on this
occasion. The age-old grudge would have to wait for the next instalment.
Tony Doherty kept his young brother close to him as they joined the throng
exiting the stadium and pouring into Janefield Street. ‘That was something
else,’ said Paul, ‘my ears are ringing!’ Tony smiled, ‘should have beat them.
Big Roy messed up with that penalty.’ Paul glanced at the verandas of the
houses on his left as he walked down Janefield Street. On one, an elderly woman
held a large image of the Pope. On another, an Irish flag was draped over the
railings. He was about to speak to his brother when he heard a woman screaming,
this was followed by angry roars from people behind them. ‘Fucks sake!’
said Tony grabbing his brother by the arm and dragging him towards the metal
railings at the side of the road. The crush was enormous as people parted like
waves before the bow of a ship. Paul looked on in terror as four or five huge
police horses rode through the packed ranks of people.
As more people pushed towards him to escape the horses, he heard a metallic
sound as the railings along the whole side of the street collapsed. People
screamed and fell onto the twisted pile of metal and bricks. Paul felt
something graze his back and cried out in pain. Tony was on top of him, shielding
him from the piles of people knocked over by the charging horses. ‘Your all
right, Paul. I’m here!’ As they staggered to their feet, they looked along the
street, they saw people and rubble scattered on the roadway, like some scene
from a war movie.
Shock quickly turned to anger as the horses reached the Holywell Street and turned
to begin another charge up the street towards the stadium. Around the two brothers, young men picked up bricks
from the collapsed wall and prepared to defend themselves. There was a chant of
‘SS-RUC, SS-RUC!’ As the horses drew nearer, bricks and bottles flew towards
them, hitting riders and animals alike. ‘Let’s go!’ Tony shouted at his
brother, half dragging him towards the corner at Holywell Street. The sounds of
screams, anger, breaking glass and police sirens, filled the air as the police
and Celtic supporters fought out a vicious street fight.
Half way along Holywell Steet, a Police van screeched to a halt and ten or
more officers poured out. They swung their batons at anyone in the vicinity,
and Paul saw an older man crumple to the ground. ‘Bastards!’ he mumbled, as his
brother guided him through the mayhem. A tall policeman with a long, dark
moustache ran towards the two brothers, his baton in his hand, violence in his
eyes. He got to within five yards of them when a half brick hit him in the side
of the head and he slumped to his knees. ‘Come tae fuck, Paul,’ Tony roared as
his brother stared at the stunned Policeman, ‘we need tae get away from here.’
They fled, like many others away from the tumult going on around them. It
was clear that the Police were out of control, but so too were some elements of
the Celtic support. They were incensed by the recklessness of the police horses
charging into a packed street and were giving as good as they got. As the two
brothers reached the Gallowgate, more police cars and vans screeched to a halt
and officers raced towards the sound of battle. It was little short of a riot,
and to Paul’s young eyes it seemed as if many of the rioters were in police
uniform.
They finally reached their street, the distant sound of sirens and
shouting echoing like a distant battle. Tony stopped his brother under a street
light, ‘let’s look at your back.’ He lifted his jumper and saw a large, ugly
graze from his fall onto the rubble in Janefield Street. ‘That’ll bruise, Ye
cannae tell my ma about any of this. If ye dae, she’ll never let ye go tae a
Rangers game again.’ Paul nodded, still a little shocked at what he had
witnessed. The game seemed insignificant when he thought of the brutality he
had witnessed. Tony looked at him, ‘you, ok? Ye ready tae head in?’ Paul nodded.
They opened the front door and entered the quiet house. Paul heard his
mother call from the living room. ‘You boys, ok? I heard a lot of police
sirens.’ Tony replied, ‘aye, ma. I think there was a car crash.’ She was silent
for a moment, ‘Yer team win?’ Paul responded this time. ‘It was a draw, ma.
Celtic missed a penalty.’ She appeared at the living room door and regarded
them with searching eyes. ‘You’ve got school the morra, aff tae yer kip.’ Paul
nodded, ‘right ma. Good night.’ Tony winked at him as he opened the room door
and headed towards the sanctuary of his bed.
He lay in the darkness, his mind replaying the events of the night. What
were the police thinking, charging into a packed street on huge bloody horses?
It had been a sharp lesson to him that life could be dangerous and there was no
guarantee that there would be any justice, while officers of the law behaved
like that. ‘Strange,’ he thought, as sleep began to tug at his eyelids, ‘I
thought I’d be thinking about the football, but I’m not.’ His brother appeared
in the dark room and slipped into the other single bed. ‘That was some night,
eh?’ Paul mumbled in a weary voice, ‘aye, it was wild.’ His brother smiled in
the darkness, ‘don’t worry wee man. They’re not all like that.’ He smiled again
when his young brother replied in a sleepy voice, ‘thank fuck.’
