They’re not all like that

 

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.’