Punching
the Monkey
Glasgow
1988
A lazy drizzle fell from the leaden Glasgow sky
as Malky Quinn made his way along the Gallowgate. Even four hours before the
match, he could see Celtic fans dotted here and here on street corners waiting
for the pubs to open. He turned onto Sword Street and headed up the stairs of
the first close he came too. The top floor flat was the home of Joe McGee and
they had been friends since their school days at St Mary’s. Malky thought about
the old school with its boys’ playground three floors up on the roof. Their
rowdy games of football up there usually ended when someone sliced the ball
over the railing and down into the girls’ playground below.
Malky could hear music as he stopped at the McGee
family’s door. He listened for a moment before knocking and heard a familiar
refrain… ‘Farewell to Tipperary said the Galtee mountain boy.’ The door was opened he was greeted by the
surprising sight of Joe’s father, in his vest, face covered in shaving foam. ‘Alright
son, Joe’s in his room. Tell him tae turn that fuckin’ music doon while yer in
there.’ Malky nodded and opened the room door and saw Joe was already drinking
a can of beer. The walls of the room were festooned with Celtic pennants and posters.
A team group picture from Shoot magazine showed the fresh-faced squad of
1987-88 season smiling hopefully.
‘Alright,
Malky boy?’ Joe grinned, ‘we all set tae do these bastards today?’ Malky sat on
the bed as Joe tied his shoe laces. ‘Yer old man said turn the Rebs doon.’ Joe
smiled, ‘He can get lost, he was half cut singing Danny boy when he rolled in last
night.’ Joe slipped his wallet into the front pocket of his jeans and looked at
Malky, ‘noo, where do ye want tae go for a pint?’ Malky shrugged, ‘the Wee Man’s
is usually packed. I’d say Baird’s or the Four Ways?’ Joe nodded, ‘aye, failing
that we can head tae Norma Jean’s.’ With that, Joe grabbed his Celtic scarf and
headed for the room door.’ Malky looked at the record player with the Wolfe
Tones LP still spinning and pumping out the music. ‘Whit aboot this?’ Joe
smiled, ‘Oh, aye, forgot about that.’ He walked past Malky and instead of
turning it off, turned the volume up. As they walked to the front door, Malky
head Joe’s da shout from the bathroom, ‘get that doon or I’ll put my foot up
your arse!’ Joe smiled and winked at Malky before stepping out and closing the
front door.
As they walked along the Gallowgate towards the
many Celtic bars which dotted the east end, Malky looked at Joe. There was a
certain wildness about him which had been there since childhood. At school, he
was belted on an almost daily basis but took pride in the fact he never cried.
As they grew into their teens his temper got him into a few scrapes and he was
no stranger to the desk sergeant at Tobago Steet Police station. They had both
briefly been drawn into the east end gang scene as teenagers but in truth they
preferred playing football to throwing bricks at other working-class lads from
Barrowfield or Bridgeton. Joe was always fearless in these scraps though, and was
usually found in the front of the action. It was on a bright summer evening
when a stray stone had struck an old woman that decided they’d had enough of
that particular pastime. Malky often wondered if losing his mother so young had
affected Joe. Either way, his wildness didn’t stop him being a good and loyal
friend who stood by Malky when it mattered.
As they neared the Barras Market, Joe nodded
ahead at a man dressed in a full gorilla suit walking towards them. ‘Whit the
actual fuck is he doing’?’ Malky shrugged, ‘You see some odd sights, eh?’ They crossed the street and headed towards
Baird’s bar where the shutters were just being pulled up. Scores of Celtic fans
poured into the popular pub and the two friends joined them. For two hours, the
beer and songs flowed freely before most of the patrons left the smoky,
malodorous bar and headed out into a gloomy, January day. The green clad river
of humanity flowed towards Celtic Park, their songs lingering the damp, winter
air. As they neared the stadium, the songs got louder and the mass of people
more tightly packed. Joe and Malky lined up at the turnstile at the Celtic end,
anticipation building in them for what was always the biggest game of the
season.
As they waited, Joe nodded towards the back court
of the shoddy houses that backed up near the stadium wall. Some local lads had
placed a scaffold plank against the wall and were running up it and grabbing at
the top of the wall as they sought to gain entry to the stadium. On top of the
wall, what looked like a grubby, folded, painter’s dust sheet had been placed
to stop them cutting their hands on the glass which had been cemented at the
top of the wall. ‘Imagine the club built tae feed the poor putting fuckin’
glass on the wall tae stop folk climbing in?’ Malky agreed and watched as a few
of the kids scaling the wall reached the summit and dropped from view into the
stadium below. As they neared the turnstile, a stout man in front of them was
ordered by a policeman to drop what appeared to be a bottle of sherry into a
metal dustbin. Before doing so, the man opened the sherry and glugged most of
it down his throat in two or three long gulps.
For Malky, that moment of topping the stairs at
the Celtic end and seeing the emerald rectangle of the field, surrounded by the
baying, swaying crowd always thrilled him. On derby days, when the noise was
deafening and the buzz of real excitement was in the air, he would grin like a
kid on his birthday. They made their way to their usual spot near the front of
the Celtic end just in time to see the teams come out. There was a deafening
roar from the 60,000 fans. From the Jungle to Malky’s left came the defiant growl
of a familiar song; ‘and if ye know the history, it’s enough to make yer
heart go oh, oh, oh, oh…’ The massed ranks of the Celtic end joined in and
a thunderous chorus echoed around the stadium; ‘We don’t care what the
animals say, what the hell do we care? For we only know that there’s going to
be a how and the Glasgow Celtic will be there!’ The stage was set and Malky
just hoped that on this year, of all years, Celtic could beat their ancient
rivals and mark their centenary in style. As play got underway, they became
completely engrossed in the drama being played out before them. This was it;
this was what they’d waited for.
Amid the thunderous tackles and snarling
aggression on the field, Celtic were having by the best of it. Paul McStay
stood head and shoulders above the other 21 players on the field. He probed,
pulled the strings, twisted away from challenges and was dictating the play.
Rangers were hanging on as Celtic bossed the game and created the better
chances. Midway through the first half, Rangers new signing, Mark Walters,
lined up a corner in front of the Jungle. The usual boos and cat calls were interspersed
with something else though; Joe looked at Malky as some Celtic fans made
unmistakable monkey noises. ‘Whit the actual fuck…’ Joe said. Malky shook his
head, ‘arseholes,’ was all he said. There was laughter behind them and Joe
turned to see the man they’d spotted on the Gallowgate standing a few yards
behind them in his full gorilla suit. He was moving his right hand vertically
and horizontally as if blessing the Rangers winger. Joe’s face was contorted in
anger and he roared, ‘here you, ya fuckin’ prick! Get yeself tae fuck.’ Malky
had to restrain Joe from pushing through the crowd to get at the fool. ‘Leave
it, mate. You’ll only get yerself jailed.’ A good few other fans agreed with
Joe, though. One old timer shook his head, ‘well said, son. If I was younger, I’d
lamp that prick myself.’
They refocussed on the game where Celtic continued
to dominate. Just before half time, McStay pirouetted like a ballet dancer in
midfield and slide a perfect pass up the right wing to the overlapping full
back, Chris Morris. The English full back met the ball perfectly and fired it
across the penalty box where the onrushing Frank McAvennie gleefully smashed
the ball home. It was a breath-taking goal a goal of grace and beauty to
brighten a dank Scottish day. The stadium erupted and Joe hugged Malky in utter
joy. Celtic were on their way and they both knew that nothing would stop them
now. McAvennie would add another late in the second half to seal the deal but
Rangers had gone long before that. Sometime you know it just isn’t your day.
The bars of the east-end were rocking after the
game and Malky and Joe found themselves in the Four Ways, singing and laughing
with an ecstatic crowd who were still buzzing from the game. As the evening
wore on, the doors opened and a group of Celtic fans entered. The last of them
was the guy they had seen at the game. He was still in his gorilla suit. Malky
heard Joe’s snort in anger and mumbled, ‘let if go, Joe. The guy’s an arsehole.’ Joe drank his pint and seemed to calm as the victory
songs filled the bar. A few pints later Joe excused himself and headed for the
toilet. Malky, now feeling the effects of the pints, watched him go. Inside the
cramped toilet, Joe looked at the only other person standing at the urinal. ‘Alright,
monkey man?’ he said to him. The gorilla suited man looked at him, ‘aye, no
bad. Ye enjoy that today?’ Joe, his face blank, replied, ‘aye, but it was spoiled
with racist arseholes like you.’ Before the man could respond, Joe sent a
whipping right hand crashing into the side of his head. They man slumped
against the wall. Joe muttered, ‘prick,’ and left the toilet. As he did so
another man was coming in. Joe smiled, ‘mind yer step. I think the gorilla has
had wan too many.’
Joe walked up to Malky, ‘let’s go, mate. I’ve got
a few cans in the hoose and I’ll get the Wolfe Tones oan tae annoy my da.’
Malky looked at him sensing something had happened in the toilet. He finished
his beer and said, ‘right ye are, Joe. Hopefully yer old man has taped
Sportscene.’ They headed out into the gloomy night. In the distance they could
hear someone singing; ‘we’re Celtic supporters, faithful through and through.
Over and over, we will follow you.’
Malky looked at Joe, ‘you alright, mate?’ Joe smiled, ‘never been better,
buddy, never been better.’
