Seven days in May

 

Seven days in May

10^th May 2026

‘Nawww!’ roared Barry as Chermiti’s blocked shot spun into the path of the onrushing Mikey Moore who had the easy job of clipping it into the net. ‘Whit did I say? Don’t lose and early goal and we’ll pump this mob!’ Sniper, normally the most confident of the three pals, shook his head. ‘That defence couldnae keep weans oot a close. Trusty is getting rag-dolled by that big, lanky plank of wid. Ye better hope the attack are on it or were winning fuck all title this season.’ Mick, who sat on Sniper’s left in the huge north stand was more positive. ‘I’d rather lose a goal in the first ten minutes than in the last ten. They’ve no choice noo but tae go after this mob. We’ll still do them.’ Sniper shrugged as the game restarted. ‘Every game has been torture, since that shit show at Tannadice. We don’t have the firepower to kill teams off.’ Mick remained adamant though. ‘Listen, Easter Road was torture right enough but we got there in the end. Same wi Dens Park but sometimes ye need tae win ugly.’  Sniper grinned, ‘a bit like yer Mrs when she won you in a raffle.’ Mick shook his head, ‘That’s rich coming fae you, the Quasimodo of Pollok. You calling somebody ugly is like a homeless guy slagging yer curtains.’ Sniper laughed out loud. ‘Shut it, Squint Eastwood.’ As Celtic pushed forward the three friends refocussed on the game. Their team was a goal down and they all knew that defeat today would spell the end of their chances in the league. Their banter could wait.

As fate would have it, Celtic restarted the game in determined mood and flew at a nervous looking Rangers defence. Maeda curled an effort narrowly past the post before Luke McCowan’s perfectly weighted pass found Engels racing into the Rangers box. His cut back found the onrushing Yang ten yards out and the Korean wide man slammed the ball into the net. Celtic Park erupted. ‘Yaaasssss!’ roared Sniper, ‘here we fuckin go!’ The rest of the first saw Rangers pinned back and relying on counters as Celtic dominated the ball. They clung on till half time, but after the break, the onslaught continued. In 54 minutes, Tierney drove past Tavernier and sent a wicked low ball into the box. Maeda lost Fernandez and guided the ball into the corner of the net. The three friends, and 59,000 others, literally jumped for joy as their team took the lead. ‘One more, just to finish this mob,’ Mick said, his heart pounding in his chest. They did not have to wait long before the goal which sealed a famous win arrived.

There are moments in football when the game escapes the confines of tactics, industry and calculation. Moments when it reminds us why generations have surrendered themselves so willingly to its charms. This was one of them. Only minutes had passed since Daizen Maeda's astonishing intervention had tilted the game in Celtic's favour when Sebastian Tounetki embarked upon another raid down the left flank. When he drove the ball into the penalty area it seemed, at first glance, that Rangers had sufficient numbers to extinguish the danger.

Yet football has always possessed an affection for the improbable. A Rangers defender, anxious to clear his lines, only succeeded in redirecting the ball towards the one opponent in the stadium who appeared to possess a private arrangement with destiny. Maeda once more, alert amid the confusion, was merely attempting to bring the ball under the dominion of his left foot, and there was every indication that the moment, like so many others, would pass without consequence. Instead, the ball sprang awkwardly into the air and, in the instant that followed, imagination defeated probability. To the astonishment of all who witnessed it, Maeda twisted his body and launched himself into an overhead kick of outrageous ambition. Mick, Sniper and Barry could do little more than stare in slack-jawed disbelief as the ball climbed high above the penalty area, hanging for what seemed an age before beginning its descent. The Rangers goalkeeper, abandoned by fortune as much as by his defenders, could only watch as it floated beyond his reach and settled in the net.

For an instant, disbelief held the stadium in its grip. Even in a game so susceptible to the improbable, there are events that the eye records but the mind refuses to acknowledge. Then, in a split second, understanding came, and with it the explosion. Celtic Park surrendered itself to bedlam. A great roar rose from the terraces and climbed into the clear blue sky, carrying with it relief, triumph and that fierce exultation that only this old rivalry can inspire. They had done it. There would be no resurrection from this for Rangers, no spirited retrieval, no late act of defiance. The contest had received its decisive blow. The victory for which Celtic had laboured so anxiously had at last been secured and delivered into the keeping of their supporters, who greeted it not as a mere result, but as an affirmation of faith. In that tumult of noise and colour, reason gave way to joy, and the afternoon belonged entirely to them. In the midst of it all three friends hugged each other and remembered why they had come to love this club so much.

13^th May 2026

Fir Park, Motherwell was jammed to the rafters and for once it was not just the excited away fans creating the noise. Jens Berthel Askou’s free flowing young Motherwell side had already schooled Celtic this season and their fans would love nothing more than ending the Glasgow side’s title challenge. Celtic knew what was at stake; nothing less than a win would do if they had any hope of retaining their title. Sniper had called in favours and managed to get three tickets for the stand behind the goal occupied by 4500 Celtic fans. ‘This’ll be a big test. This mob battered us back in December,’ Barry said. Sniper had to agree. ‘Yer no wrong there, short arse, it could have been four or five that night.’ As the teams came out to a huge roar, Mick added, ‘this is it. Win here and it all goes to the wire on Saturday. Screw it up and they’ll be partying doon Gorgie way.’ Sniper, who had no love of Hearts gazed at him, ’we’d better win then. I’m no wanting that shower celebrating.’ They focused on the lush, emerald rectangle of grass that would be the stage for their triumph or their disaster. As the Celtic players entered their pre-match huddle, the fans behind the goal roared out their support. This was it. It was all or nothing-again.

In a season of high drama in Scottish football, the events at Fir Park that night would be long remembered. Celtic, full of energy and tension, chased every ball but their skilled opponents knocked the passes about with precision as they had all season. It was an even game when after seventeen minutes Motherwell swung the ball into the Celtic box. It was headed clear but fell to an onrushing Motherwell player who fired a shot through a ruck of players. The ball took a cruel deflection off Austin Trusty and spun into the net. Celtic’s title dream hung by a thread. Celtic huffed and puffed before Daizen Maeda, a player finding his form at just the right time, arrowed a low shot off the far post and into the net. Celtic were back in it but needed to get in front. As the players trooped of for half time after a pulsating first half, the Celtic fans knew that Hearts were ahead in their match with Falkirk. Celtic simply had to win.

In the stand behind the goal Sniper was in optimistic mood. ‘This is as tight gnat’s chuff, but aw we need is wan goal tae set up some finale on Saturday.’ ‘Easier said than done,’ Mick replied. ‘They look just as likely as us tae score. My nerves are shredded with this by the way. If we didnae waste a month wi yon daft French guy we’d be clear by now.’ Barry had to agree. ‘Eight games in charge and we lost six. The guy was a nightmare. Every team in the league knew his tactics were killing us. Thank God we got Martin back in time tae give it a go.’ With Celtic shooting towards their legion of fans in the second half, they’d soon see at close quarters whether the team would rise to the occasion and keep their title hopes alive.

The second half, much like the first, saw a full-blooded battle with neither team giving an inch. In the fifty-eighth minute Celtic’s Nygren picked up the ball twenty yards from goal and unexpectedly curled a magnificent shot high to the keeper’s left and into the net. The Celtic fans behind the goal were in raptures. They had the lead now all they had to do was see the game out and it’d set up a winner takes all match with Hearts at the weekend. Celtic, being Celtic though, lost an eminently preventable goal in the eighty-fourth minute. ‘Jesus Christ,’ Barry said. ‘Five more minutes to go and they slip back to schoolboy defending!’ He was not the only exasperated fan behind the goal but this had been a season of dramatic twists and while there was time, there was hope. ‘Five minutes plus added time,’ Barry said as he watched the jubilant Motherwell fans goading the Celtic support. ‘Still time for one last chance.’ As the minutes ticked past, Celtic laid siege to the Motherwell goal. When four and a half of the added five minutes had elapsed, Celtic had a throw in on their right wing. Every Celtic player was up for this last throw of the dice. The ball was thrown towards Trusty who was being tightly marked. The big American went down holding his face and the play was stopped. Sniper looked at Mick, ‘he’s caught an elbow there but I doubt VAR will do anything about that.’ Barry though thought otherwise. ‘I thought the defender’s arm was high. If that baw touched his hand they should review it.’ There was a minute of confusion as Trusty was treated by the physio before the screen at Fir Park announced that VAR were reviewing a potential penalty. Barry looked at his friends. ‘Fuck me, he’s no giving this is he? I’m gonnae have a heart attack this season.’ As the referee trotted back onto the field and pointed at the penalty spot, the fans behind the goal exploded with joy. There were just 30 seconds left to play and Celtic had a penalty!

The calmest man in a fevered Fir Park was Kelechi Iheanacho. The Nigerian striker waited for the usual gamesmanship from the Motherwell players to stop before calmly placing the ball on the penalty spot. Sniper slipped his arms across the shoulders of his two friends as they watched this astonishing drama unfold. The stadium held its breath as the referee blew his whistle and Iheanacho stepped forward. As the ball nestled in the corner of the net, a visceral roar emitted from thousands of Celtic fans behind the goal. As Iheanacho and other Celtic players raced towards the fans they were met by a tsunami of joy. Sniper, Mick and Barry were over the wall with scores of other Celtic fans, embracing the players and totally lost in the joy of the moment. They had done it! Now all that remained was to defeat Hearts and the title would be theirs again.

 

16^th May 2026

‘We have to decide this now,’ said Barry as his two anxious looking mates looked at him expectantly. ‘Never in a million years did I think I would win this competition. I just fired off my entry to see what would happen. Now I’ve got a shirt signed by Liam Scales and two tickets for the main stand.’ Sniper regarded him, ‘you’re wan lucky wee bar-steward. I mind ye won the sweep on the bus three weeks running. I thought ye were cheating but turns oot ye were just born lucky.’ ‘So how do we do it?’ Mick cut in. Bary exhaled, ‘we cut the cards. Two highest cards go intae the main stand. The other takes the three season tickets and heads to our normal seats. Stopping along the way to make two ticketless fans very happy.’ They agreed and Barry carefully shuffled the new looking deck of cards. He cut them first and flashed a number eight at his friends. Mick cut second and showed the other two a Jack. He handed the cards to Sniper. ‘Good luck big man.’ Sniper cut the cards and was rewarded with a number two. ‘So, I head tae our usual seats and pick oot two fans wi nae tickets tae join me, and you two go sit wi the prawn sandwich brigade? Fair enough.’ Mick looked at him. ‘You’re taking this well, Sniper.’ The big man smiled. ‘As long as we win, I’m no given a monkey’s where I sit. Besides we’ll met up after the game for a few pints.’ It was agreed. All they needed now was for Celtic to win the game and they’d pull of one of their most unlikely title wins.

They said their farewells by the statue of Brother Walfrid. It was strangely emotional, almost as if they were going off to war. ‘We’ll get you here after the game, Sniper,’ Mick said. ‘Remember, give two decent folk our seats and get the season tickets back.’ Sniper nodded before roaring out, ‘Ok Boys, let’s go do these muppets!’ As he walked away towards the north stand, he could see people here and there, holding bank notes in the air, hoping to tempt someone into selling their ticket for this game of games. As he approached the corner of the north stand at Janefield Street, a gentle Irish accent spoke to him. ‘Would you have a spare ticket on you, son?’  Sniper turned to see a man of about forty standing with a girl of about twelve, who surely had to be his daughter. The man continued, ‘I promised Niamh I’d at least try and get her in. She’s never seen Celtic in the flesh. I could go up to £200 for a ticket.’ Sniper looked at the man, then the hopeful, freckled face of the girl. ‘Put yer money away, pal and follow me. It’s your lucky day.’ The man looked at him disbelievingly and then smiled at the wide-eyed girl.

Mick and Barry entered the front door of Celtic Park where the smartly attired doorman guided them up a stairway towards their section of the stand. They pushed through a set of double doors only to see Rod Stewart and his exceedingly tall son walking towards them. ‘All right, Rod? Are we doing this today?’ Mick blurted out. The old rocker smiled, ‘we sure are boys. Enjoy the game.’ As they passed, Barry smiled at Mick. ‘All right mate? Are you an old pal of Rod’s or something?’ Mick laughed, ‘it was nerves. My mouth was ahead of my brain.’ They soon found their seats and could sense the electricity in the air around the stadium. This could be one of the great Celtic days or it could be the biggest damp squib of all time. Mick gazed over at the huge north stand. ‘I wonder who Sniper gave our seats tae?’ Barry shrugged, ‘he’ll do the right thing. He won’t be ripping anyone off.’ Mick nodded, ‘aye, he’s not a bad lad.’

As the game kicked of at a raucous Celtic Park, there was a sense of hope, but also a nervousness. The Hearts manager had said that everyone was against his team, but the truth was the whole country outside of Celtic and perhaps Hibs fans wanted the Hearts fairy tale to come true. They had done well and in truth, if they could get the point they needed in the cauldron of Celtic Park, then they’d deserve the crown. But they were coming for the King and they’d best not miss.

In a tight and niggly first half in which a defensive Hearts side wasted time and slowed down play at every opportunity, Celtic never quite clicked into gear. When Shankland headed Hearts into the lead a couple of minutes before half time, it looked as if Celtic might be toiling. Then, crucially on the stroke of half time, Tierney’s cross was handled in the box and a clear-cut penalty was awarded. Arne Engels slammed home the equaliser. The noise around Celtic Park was equal to anything heard at the old place for years. Celtic now had to find a way to score again and the title would be theirs.

The second half produced more of the same, as an increasingly desperate Celtic side pinned Hearts back. They needed a goal from anywhere and threw caution to the wind with Iheanacho and Osmand joining Maeda in attack. Saracchi was brought on to add drive and legs to the side as they went three at the back in the dying minutes of the game. Iheanacho hit the post, Nygren missed sitter and the goalkeeper made a fine stop from another shot from the Swede. The clock ticked towards 87 minutes when Saracchi raced forward. He spotted Osmand making a run into the box and slipped a deft pass to him. The youngster fired the ball across goal where Maeda met it a fraction of a second before the goalkeeper and the ball spun into the net. Celtic Park erupted but the outpouring of joy was halted by the lone figure of the linesman at the north stand who stood with his flag raised. ‘This is going to be a tight one,’ Barry mumbled to Mick as every eye in the stadium was fixed on the referee. After a few agonising moments he made the shape of a tv screen in the air and pointed towards the centre circle. It was a goal! Celtic Park exploded with joy!

The last minutes of the game limped past like old soldiers as thousands of whistles pierced the air, trying to hasten full time. McGregor was booked for fouling a Hearts player in midfield and every Hearts player including the goalkeeper headed up for one final assault on the Celtic goal. The stadium held its breath as Blair Spittal lined up the free kick. This was the moment of decision. Did this astonishing season have one more twist to offer? Spittal committed the cardinal sin of free kick takers by hitting the first defender. The ball spun to Devlin who tried to unleash a shot but found it blocked by Iheanacho. Callum McGregor saw the situation in an instant a slid the loose ball forward towards the galloping Callum Osmand.

Time appeared to hesitate as one of the most extraordinary scenes ever witnessed in the old stadium unfolded before them. Three Celtic players surged towards the unguarded Hearts goal while 59,000 voices rose as one, not merely anticipating a goal but sensing the arrival of something greater: the championship itself. They had endured the uncertainty, the poor spells of form, the moments when the season seemed to be slipping beyond their grasp. And now, when the odds had once again gathered against them, they were standing on the threshold of history.

Here, in their famous old home, where so many great teams had come and been made to suffer, Celtic were about to write another chapter in its mythology. Osmand caressed the ball into the net. For a moment the sheer magnitude of it seemed almost too much to absorb. Then Celtic Park erupted. The joy was unconfined, spilling from the stands and pouring onto the pitch as supporters rushed towards the players, desperate to share in a moment they had waited and suffered for in what had been a torturous season at times. Barry seized Mick and hugged him with everything he had. 'I love this fuckin’ team, mate. I truly do!' Mick's eyes were moist with tears. He pointed towards the pitch. 'Looks like Sniper is enjoying this as much as we are.' Barry followed his gaze and saw Sniper in the penalty area, dancing a wild little jig of happiness, utterly oblivious to everything except the wonder of the moment. For a while, there was nothing left to say. They had known this feeling before: when Celtic had beaten Barcelona, when they had won the title in memory of Tommy Burns, when Nakamura had buried Manchester United with that glorious, impossible free-kick. Each occasion had left them struggling for words because some experiences refuse to be properly contained by language. This was another of them.

It was magical.

It was wonderful.

It was Celtic.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

If you know your history

 

If you know your history

Back in the year 1830, an Irish bare-knuckle boxer by the name of Simon Byrne fought a Glasgow man called Alexander McKay. The bout took place in England and was, even by the standards of the time, a brutal affair. The two fighters slugged it out for 47 bloody rounds until McKay was felled by a punch to the throat. Alas, the poor man died from his injuries the following day. When news of McKay’s death reached Scotland, there was a simmering anger in some circles which found release in attacks on the Irish community there. In Dundee a bar room brawl caused by a dispute over the fight led to widespread rioting. Thousands stormed into the Irish part of town and brutally assaulted any Irish person they could find. The Catholic chapel was destroyed and three people were killed and over 200 injured. A contemporary account of the disorder stated…

‘After putting any Irishman they could find to rout, the mob then proceeded into town and proceeded into the houses of all of those they knew to be natives of the sister kingdom (Ireland)  dragging them out of their beds and beating them mercilessly, smashing all their windows and even carrying away and burning the very wooden stairs that led to their habitation. Tuesday night was most alarming, the mob parading the streets and no Irishman durst be seen, if recognised they were instantly knocked down and maltreated, the Police not daring to interfere with so numerous a mob. On Wednesday 18,000 rioters gathered at the cross when the rioters proceeded to the Roman Catholic Chapel which was partially destroyed, breaking all the windows and other articles in the interior. The people assembled again on Thursday, seeking out the poor Irish and chasing them from the town from which many were glad to escape with their lives.’

Similar scenes took place in Glasgow, though the much larger Irish community there was better able to defend itself. After two days of street battles, the military were called out to quell the disorder although they merely added fuel to the fire by behaving in a less than impartial manner. One newspaper report of the stime stated…

The disturbances in the High Street and Saltmarket were attended with very fatal results, with the death of no less than four men, one of them a foot soldier, having lost their lives. When the dead body of the soldier was carried to the Barracks, the whole of his Regiment turned out into the street, adding frightfully to the previous disorder. The Dragoons, on the requisition of the Lord Provost, were now employed to quell the riot of the citizens and the tumult of the foot soldiers, and to apprehend the persons composing the mobs, and the murderers. A great number of persons were in consequence taken into custody, and lodged in the jail and other places of security. Before the tumult was effectually quelled, however, and while the exasperation continued, the mob had repaired to Great Clyde Street, and there broke the windows of the Roman Catholic Chapel, and otherwise destroyed that building.’

All of this came back to me as I watched the relatively small-scale disturbances in Glasgow caused by a mob claiming to be concerned citizens out to defend our women and children from migrants. As with the attacks on the Irish community almost 200 years earlier, there was that classic piece of mental gymnastics all racists demonstrate, when they blame an entire community for the actions of the few. So it was that random people of colour were insulted and assaulted by a mob chanting ‘send them home.’

One great irony of this was seen in Glasgow Green, where one of the mob attacking anti-racist demonstrators was wearing a Celtic shirt. This took place in the same park were an anti-Irish mob engaged in serious rioting as they tried to break into the Irish district in 1830. The same park where the Billy Boys clashed with the Irish gangs between the wars. If the rage filled man in the Celtic shirt knew his history, he’d perhaps have more empathy for the migrant community in Glasgow. The newspaper report of the 1830 riots could have been speaking about the 2026 disturbances when it said…

‘Early in the morning there were many regular pugilistic contests in the Green, and notwithstanding the difficulty of apprehending delinquents in such as situation, the officers succeeded in securing a number of the ringleaders.’

The trouble with less intelligent people is that they try to make you fit into the stereotypes they already have in their ill-informed minds. Anti-racists are labelled as ‘antifa’ and those with more enlightened approaches to interacting with people coming to our country are described as traitors.  Of course, every sensible democracy should have debates about immigration but the naked racism we saw in Glasgow is unacceptable. The attacks on people based on their skin colour, are a stain on our country and need to stop. We who live in the city can see plainly who is behind much of it. They’ve merely switched their target for the time being.

As for the man in the Celtic shirt who was standing with the worst elements of our society, I’d start by reading a history of Celtic. Maybe then you’ll realise that your actions go against everything this football club stands for. You don’t get to be a Celtic fan and a racist.  As Indiana Jones said to a Nazi character in one of his films, ‘maybe you should stop burning books and try reading some.’

Brass money and wooden shoes

 

Brass money and wooden shoes

A good friend of mine took a trip to Donegal a week or so back and found the place retained that windswept beauty which makes it a popular destination for tourists as well as those with family connections there. The trip home on the ferry wasn’t quite as relaxing though as many of the passengers were orange folk making their way to Scotland for the annual parade in Glasgow. We’re often told that the order is a fraternal organisation which celebrates the religious and civil freedoms brought about by the Williamite victories in a war 336 years ago. With a total lack of self-awareness, they treated their fellow passengers to such folk classics as ‘no Pope of Rome’ and the ‘Famine song.’ It seems those religious freedoms and liberties don’t extend to their Catholic neighbours.

As with many facets of history, the mythology created by the propagandists of the day are believed more readily by some than the hard historical facts of what actually occurred. When William of Orange, a very capable battlefield general, took to the field in that far off war, he was facing his father-in-law James II, having married James’ daughter, Mary in 1677. James was allied to the French King Louis XV, known as the ‘Sun King’ and the man who built the magnificent palace at Versailles. Louis was an absolutist monarch who was trying to control the power of the Catholic church in France and expand French influence in Europe. This led to a power struggle in Europe which became known as the ‘Nine years war.’  Pope Innocent XI sought an alliance with, among others, William of Orange, in order to hinder Louis’ ambitions. Indeed, the pope came from a banking family which actually helped fund William’s war with James II. So it was that when news of William’s victory at the Boyne reached Rome, Pope Innocent ordered a mass of thanksgiving. It was more important to him that the French King’s ambitions be curbed that James should win back his throne.

When James’ army was decisively defeated at the battle of Aughrim in 1691; a bloodbath that left 7000 dead, his cause in Ireland was lost. He fled to the continent leaving the Irish who supported him to their fate. This earned him the nickname among the Irish of ‘Séamus an cac.’ (James the shit.) Once William’s position of King of England, Scotland and Ireland had been secured, his supporters controlled the narrative and the tales of his glorious victory were spun. He never did ride into battle on a white horse- that made any commander a conspicuous target for the enemy. He was a brave and able commander, far more so than James but the white horse legend was a theatrical device to portray him as a Christian saviour. In a recent TV programme presented by Lucy Worsley, she said, ‘A white horse heralded the arrival of a divine conqueror or even Christ himself.’

You may recall a few years ago that some young folk in Bristol toppled the statue of a slave trader named Edward Colston and pushed it into the river. During Colston's involvement with the Royal African Company from 1680 to 1692, it is estimated that the company transported over 84,000 African men, women and children to the West Indies and the Americas, of whom as many as 19,000 may have died on the journey. Colston was a fabulously wealthy man who gifted King William £1000 worth of shares in the Royal Africa Company. (about £200,000 today) It should be said that monarchs from Elizabeth I to George IV were involved in this sordid trade. Modern research suggests that by 1807 the British crown was the biggest buyer of enslaved people on Earth. As the company prospered, the king received a healthy income from this iniquitous trade.  Of course, we tend to judge people from the past through modern eyes but it is still disconcerting that the King of England was making money from the slave trade. When the trade was finally outlawed in the British empire in the 1830s, the government paid out £20 million in compensation (about £17 billion today) not to the freed slaves, but to the ‘owners’ who lost their ‘property.’  This was 40% of the UK budget in 1837.

This article isn’t a clumsy attempt to discredit William but merely to show that myth and history merge into each other until some can’t discern the difference. There is an Orange toast which goes; ‘to the glorious, pious and immortal memory of the great and good King William, who saved us from popery, slavery, knavery, brass money and wooden shoes.’ In reality he didn’t save hundreds of thousands of Africans from slavery but they’d rather forget that part. So too his alliance with Pope Innocent, but then mythology has always been more important than reality to some. William is the good guy riding on the white horse coming to save us, isn’t he?  

Like him or not he exerts great influence on British and Irish history, his colour is even on the flag of the Irish nation and his image adorns the walls of more than a few homes in north-east Ireland. I wonder what he’d make of it all today? He might echo the words of Voltaire who said, ‘History is nothing more than a pack of tricks we play on the dead.’

The Dominant Underdog

 

The Dominant Underdog

The first Celtic history conference was held at Celtic Park this weekend and it was both educational and enjoyable. A full house turned up to listen to diverse and interesting speakers give their take on different aspects of Celtic’s history and how that history was shaped by the social, cultural and political context of the times. Dr Joe Bradley, academic, author and editor of the ‘Celtic Minded’ series of books gave the keynote speech and emphasised the pivotal role of An Gorta Mor in the Celtic story. The influx of tens of thousands of Irish refugees to Scotland, fleeing the horrors of a man-made starvation brought about by imperial mismanagement and cruelty at home, was a key factor in the birth of Celtic. Joe emphasised that the revival of the Catholic church in Scotland, a church most of these immigrants adhered to, was another strand in Celtic’s DNA as it brought teaching orders and other religious bodies to the country. It is from the charitable work of the Marists that the idea of football as a vehicle for community pride, fitness and fund raising was born.

Joe was clear that there is nothing to be ashamed of in the Catholic roots of Celtic FC. The society Celtic was born into was deeply anti-Catholic and there was a time when the city of Glasgow had more anti-Catholic societies than it had actual Catholics. Celtic, as the identifiable symbol of the Irish-Catholic community in the west of Scotland did not escape this prejudice. Cartoons in sports papers like the ‘Apes and Aryans’ image which appeared in 1905 showed a Celtic and Rangers player involved in a game of snooker. The Rangers man is handsome and intelligent looking. The Celt is portrayed as ape like. Those overtly racist images are gone now but there are those still uncomfortable with this club and what it represents. You only have to look at the reaction in some quarters to Celtic’s league win in May to see that. The phrase ‘the dominant underdog’ was used and in some ways it fits the recent history of Celtic.

Dr Joe was followed by Dr Michael Connolly. Michael is known to Celtic fans for his pioneering work in uncovering a fuller picture of the life of Brother Walfrid. His PhD Thesis ‘Walfrid: A life of faith community and football was published in book form and I can highly recommend it. His work uncovered previously unknown photographs of Walfrid and details of his life before and after his time at Celtic. Before being given his Marist name, Walfrid had been part of the post An Gorta Mor Irish diaspora arriving in Scotland as a teenager in the 1850s. Walfrid’s chief motivations were discerned as his Catholic faith, a commitment to community-based charity and his lifelong association with Celtic FC. From his years in London, to his time in Kent and retirement in St Joseph’s, Dumfries, Walfrid would receive telegrams keeping him up to date with Celtic’s latest results.

Dr Margot McCuaig is best known to Celtic fans for her films on the lives of Jock Stein, Jimmy Johnstone and Tommy Burns, though her work in film and story is far more extensive than that. Her input to the conference examined the gendered authorship of Celtic’s history and asked why so little of the printed and online material about Celtic is created by women. Her stated goal was to ‘challenge assumptions about who possesses the authority to write the club’s football history and why women remain marginalised in documenting Celtic’s past.’ She asked at one point about women having ‘permission’ to write about Celtic and I thought immediately that they don’t need permission. Nobody gave me permission to write about Celtic. I just decided I wanted to do it. I understand the deeper meaning in her question though. Society has historically wanted to keep women ‘in their place’ and that patriarchal outlook hasn’t died out completely. Would some men take women writing about Celtic as seriously as they do male authors? I think most judge the quality and content of the writing rather than the gender of the author, but Margot’s input was well received and thought provoking.

Matthew Marr, known to many of you for his excellent guided walking tours of Celtic related sites around Glasgow, spoke next on ‘Celtic's story around Glasgow' His knowledge of Celtic’s early days and the sites around the city where many of the club’s early dramas unfolded is first class. He delivered his input with clarity and humour, illustrating his points with maps and photographs. His knowledge of Celtic’s first finals and trophies was built on detective work which uncovered many interesting facts that may otherwise have been lost to us. Matthew is the author of ‘The Bould Bhoys! "Glory to their name,’ a book detailing Celtic first league winning season in 1892-93 season. He is working on a book about the trophies Celtic has won over the years and the interesting stories about them. Matthew’s enthusiasm and affection for the club came across in all he said.

Stephen Murray will be known to many of you from his excellent ‘St Anthony’ account on twitter, though he recently had to start from scratch as Mr Musk’s faceless bots shut his account down. Stephen spoke of his ‘labour of love,’ the Celtic Wiki and the countless hours he and others put into creating and maintaining this encyclopaedic bank of information and photographs on Celtic. Stephen has more Celtic photographs on his computer than there are seats in Celtic Park which gives you an idea of the scale of what he has achieved with the wiki. Like the other speakers, his love for Celtic shone through his input and we owe a debt of gratitude to folk like Stephen who provide us with accessible information and photographs on the history of our club.

The speakers encouraged the audience to ask questions about what they’d heard and give their opinions on the topics raised. One recurring theme was the need for Celtic to invest in a proper museum in keeping with the status of the club. There are so many artefacts, stories and images illustrating Celtic’s history which go unseen and unheard. I love the Celtic Park tours and have been on them several times, but when one looks at the museums of other major European clubs, Celtic is way behind.

The first Celtic history conference was a huge success and the numbers in attendance suggested that there is an appetite for this to become an annual event. There is so much Celtic history which could be explored in future conferences and I hope and believe that this is just the start of something which will grow in the future and become a date in the calendar we all look forward to.

On a personal note, I did allow myself a wee smile when one of the speakers used a quotation I had written myself. It read…

‘We handed on our stories of Celtic to the next generation as if it were the most valuable thing we had to give our children. In some ways it was. It was the green thread which ran through the fabric of our lives. It was and is, part of us, part of who we are, and we should thank those dad’s, mothers and uncles who taught us to love Celtic. It was a fine gift they bequeathed to us.’

In some ways that is the essence of what the conference was all about. Well done to all involved.

The burden of proof

 

The burden of proof

The furore over Celtic winning the SPFL again tells you much about prevailing attitudes towards the dominant club in Scottish football. I get it that most folk outside the Celtic support and maybe Hibs, wanted Hearts to win the title but some of the narratives being spun about the match at Celtic Park were so blatantly fictious they could have been written by JK Rowling. There were claims of ‘assaults’ on Hearts players which TV pictures and thousands of video phones failed to capture. The burden of proof is on the accuser, as yet I see none. There were even dark mutterings about a ‘missing’ minute and claims the game had never officially ended. This was blown out of the water by the SFA releasing the end of game audio which clearly states the game had been ended by the referee on 98 minutes and 7 seconds and that Hearts coach Derek McInnes was happy with that. Hearts leaving the stadium still in their kit was painted as if they were the beleaguered survivors of Rourke’s Drift escaping the Zulu hoards. In reality, they had no stomach for listening to the celebrations at Celtic Park and likely beat the traffic by heading for the M8 while the Celtic support was still in the stadium.

We were then treated to ludicrous claims that Celtic somehow cheated because certain VAR calls didn’t go Hearts way. Do Celtic pick the referees? Do Celtic make the VAR calls?  Of course not. Plenty of VAR calls this season were to the detriment of Celtic and when that happened, they were told to get on with it and stop moaning. Just a fortnight earlier, Hibs scored a goal against Celtic after their player clearly contacted the ball with his arm. The late penalty decision at Fir Park which saw Celtic snatch a late winner also came under the spotlight. There were some ludicrous statements made by pundits suggesting that if the ball hit his hand, it would have dropped in front of the offending player. That the ball hit his hand and his head didn’t seem to occur to folk more interested in stirring up a fuss and gaining clicks for their failing newspapers. Even the SFA’s ‘Key match incident’ (KMI) panel which reviewed the decision was split on what occurred. As Kris Boyd said at Easter Road after Hibs scored against Celtic despite the video showing the ball contacting the player’s arm; ‘we’ve got to trust the officials.’

The disputes over VAR suggest that Scotland needs to invest in the top-range system with more cameras in key positions. We could also look to fund full time referees in this country in order to help the standard of officiating improve.  FIFA has appointed 52 referees, 88 assistant referees, and 30 video match officials for the2026 World Cup and none of them are Scottish. Players don’t help officials with their theatrics on the field. The Hearts penalty claim at Fir Park when a defender seemed to contact the foot of a Hearts player in the box wasn’t helped by the player rolling over and over as if he’d been shot. Don’t get me wrong, I’d have been shouting for a penalty if that was my team, but it makes the referee’s job harder when players go down and over react to the slightest contact.

It is totally understandable that most of the footballing world wanted Hearts to win this title. I get that, but you can’t use their failure to do so as an excuse to jettison reason and look for some grand conspiracy against them. The league wasn’t lost by referees, VAR calls or missing seconds at the end of the last game. It was lost when Hearts drew with Livingston and lost to Aberdeen, Hibs, St Mirren and Kilmarnock. They more than held their own with the big Glasgow clubs but one win in their final seven away games was what cost them their chance of glory. I hope they come back for more next season, as Scottish football needs more teams pushing for the honours. Competition drives up standards and the likes of Hearts, Aberdeen and Hibs have failed miserably for too long. I genuinely hope that changes.

All the obfuscation and the tsunami of unfounded ‘facts’ has somehow sought to cast Celtic as the bad guys in all of this end of season hysteria. Yes, fans should stay in the stands and behave, but the selective horror at Celtic fans celebrating on the field doesn’t convince if other field invasions are described as ‘glorious scenes’ or a ‘spontaneous outpouring of joy.’ Scotland has changed a lot in the last few decades but there are still those who gnash their teeth at the sight of the bad old ‘Tims’ celebrating.

Amid it all, Martin O’Neill has pulled of one of his greatest managerial achievements in guiding this Celtic side to the title and Scottish cup. If the begrudgers and haters refuse to recognise that then that’s tough.

You’d think they’d be used to it by now.

Fight it out till the end

 

Fight it out till the end

Watching Celtic this season has been a fairly traumatic experience for their supporters. The free-flowing football of the Postecoglou years and the ruthless efficiency of Rodgers time in charge gave way to stuttering and unconvincing performances at times this season. The decline in goals scored by the club in the SPFL from 112 last season to 70 this season (with one game to go) represents a 38% reduction. Goals conceded climbed from 26 to 40- a 35% rise. Few teams will challenge for major honours with declining stats like that, and yet Celtic now sit just one win from being crowned champions again. How has that come about?

Celtic have won 15 SPFL matches this season by one goal and that fact demonstrates their inability to kill teams off in the manner they did in previous years. In 2024-25 season they won by one goal in the SPFL on just 3 occasions. Last season they were averaging 3 goals a game. This season it’s a shade under 2. Despite this and the self-inflicted wounds of the 33 days under Wilfred Nancy, Celtic found the spirit to fight right to the end in games and have scored goals in the dying moments of games on 10 occasions. The most memorable being the likes of Araujo at Kilmarnock (90+5 mins), Hatate at Ibrox, (90+1 minutes) and of course Iheanacho at Motherwell this week. (90+9 minutes) The relentless drive they have demonstrated in Martin O’Neill’s time in charge has seen the team win 7 matches on the bounce since losing at Tannadice in March. That surge in the spring has brought them into contention. They may not be the most flowing Celtic side of recent times and injuries played a part in that, but those lads have fought like wounded tigers right to the end and deserve their shot at glory.

The penalty decision at Fir Park led to an outpouring of hysterical hyperbole that demonstrated than many don’t want the fairy tale bubble of Hearts winning the league to be burst. The Hearts manager described the decision as ‘disgusting’ and was trying to build up a siege mentality with his ‘everyone is against us’ comment. It’s an old psychological ploy much used by the likes of Alex Ferguson in his day. I wonder if Mr McInnes was ‘disgusted’ when Lawrence Shankland scored at Ibrox after handling the ball in the build up? I wonder if they were ‘all against him’ when St Mirren had a perfectly good goal goal chalked off against Hearts in Paisley? Was he ‘disgusted’ when Austin Trusty was sent off at Tynecastle as the ‘last man’ forty yards from goal with the attacker going wide? When Celtic fans carp about Hibs scoring after the ball struck the scorer’s arm, or no penalty being awarded when a Hibs defender clearly pushes a Celtic attacker into touch in the same game, they’re told to move on these things will even themselves out over the season.

Hearts have had a terrific season and have doubled their points tally from last year. It has been good for Scottish football to see a third force emerge in the top league and should they get the result they need at Celtic Park this weekend then I’ll be the first to congratulate them. Should Hearts fail and Celtic make it five championships on the bounce then it won’t be because of that VAR decision at Motherwell, it’ll be because they drew with Livingston, lost to Hibs, St Mirren, Aberdeen and Kilmarnock. It will also be because Celtic never gave up and hunted them down to the very last day of the season.

Let’s see how things play out on the final day of the 2025-26 SPFL season and recognise that the table never lies; whoever finishes in top spot will deservedly wear the crown. Pressure brings out the best in some and the worst in others. Let’s hope that whoever wins, the manager of Hearts shows a bit more class than he has this week. One thing is for sure, Celtic will be in there swinging till the very last whistle sounds. They’ve been over the course and know what it takes. If Hearts can enter that cauldron and emerge with the point they need then there should be no complaints. If not, then Celtic will have pulled off one of the more memorable title triumphs. One that demonstrates that if you just keep going there is always a chance. I’d be far from disgusted if that happened.  

Roar Back

 

Roar Back

Our cousins in Canada have an adage to help you know what to do in the event of running into a bear. It goes; ‘If it’s black- roar back, if it’s brown- sit down, but if it’s white- good night.’ That thought came to me as I considered Celtic’s demand that Rangers don’t sell any of their allocation of tickets to the final derby of the season to their own particular band of unruly bears. When you consider the long and fairly serious list of misdemeanours the Union Bears have involved themselves in, it seems that Rangers FC are somewhat wary of taking them on. Consider the ban imposed by Celtic on the Green Brigade which saw them miss over thirty games this season. Now consider the lack of action at Ibrox after a long series of incidents involving their ultras.

Following the scenes at the end of the Scottish Cup tie at Ibrox, which Celtic won on penalties, many expected Rangers to come down heavily on fans who invaded the field, assaulted Celtic staff, threw a flare into a crowded stand, assaulted a police woman, punched a steward in the face and were only prevented from engaging in serious violence by the thin yellow line of police and stewards. Why did Rangers’ post-match statement lambast Celtic fans for the dumb vandalising of the Broomloan stand and completely ignore the far more sinister behaviour of their own ultras? Could it be they are afraid to take them on?

Celtic are 100% right to ask Rangers not to issue tickets to the mask wearing element that causes many of these problems. They are responsible for the health and safety of everyone coming to Celtic Park for the derby game and point to the record of this group as a risk factor should they be allowed in. The SPFL deliberated on the matter and said in a statement issued today…

‘The Sub-Committee determined that, based on the evidence presented, it would not overrule a risk assessment carried out by the party legally responsible for the safety and security of the event, (Celtic FC) or interfere with the mitigation measures it considered to be necessary to comply with SPFL Rule H36.‘

Rule H36 states that a reasonable allocation of 5% of a stadium’s capacity should be offered to away fans. To be clear, Celtic are willing to give Rangers the stipulated tickets provided they don’t pass any on to the Union Bears. The ball is now in Rangers court. Their fans’ forums have been full of predictable ‘Tarriers seeking unfair advantage’ and ‘Celtic run Scottish football’ type of tosh. I perused a few and not one comment said, ‘you know, the Union Bears have been out of order.’ How easily they slip on the coat of victimhood they once said Celtic wore. They need to own the bad behaviour of a section of their fans and look to change the culture of toxic masculinity that hangs around Ibrox like the smell from a bust sewage pipe. No problem can be solved until you admit it exists.

So, we enter the final act of a season that has been as unpredictable as any in many a long year. Not since 1983 have we seen three teams in with a realistic chance of winning the title so late in the day. The relatively poor season by both of the big Glasgow clubs has allowed Hearts a once in a generation shot at the title. Last season they finished seventh with just 40 points. This season they already have 73 points and could conceivably double their points tally of last year. So, praise where it is due. They’ve improved massively.

Celtic hit 112 SPFL goals last season and have currently scored 62 with just 4 games left. That lack of scoring power has greatly impacted on their season. The inability of the board to sign a proven, reliable goal-scorer is negligent and their decision to employ Wilfried Nancy was a gamble that failed spectacularly. His 25% win rate is the worst in Celtic’s managerial history and those 33 days did huge damage to Celtic’s hopes this season.  

Whatever happens in the final weeks of the season, we all know Celtic will need a major rebuilding job in the summer. That can wait for now though as the team faces five games that will define their season. Rangers need to decide if they’ll bow to Celtic’s demands and not allocate tickets to the Union Bears ultras group. If they agree, I have no doubt some will slip in and the rest of their fans will show solidarity by dressing in black and ignoring the rightness of Celtic’s case. If they refuse, we’ll see two thousand empty seats and may well see the allocation for Ibrox affected next season.

Perhaps we should paraphrase that Canadian adage about dealing with bears; if they’re black- roar back. If they’re brown- sit down. If they’re white- good night. But if they’re louts- keep them out.

Setting afloat the Celtic

 

 

Setting afloat the Celtic

He crossed the empty hall with deliberate purpose, each measured footfall striking the boards and returning to him in a hollow echo. For now, it was a cavern of stillness, a place suspended between intent and uproar; but he knew well that within the hour it would swell with bodies and cigarette smoke, with persuasion sharpened into argument, with the restless friction of men convinced they were right. Hibernian and Dundee Harp had demonstrated that they could attract a good crowd to watch their charity games. The Sacred Heart School had already served over 50,000 meals to children and in doing so had boosted attendance considerably. He knew if his people were to climb out of poverty then education had a vital role to play. The time had come for the Irish of Glasgow to have their own football club.

The name was chosen. The course laid. Yet certainty, he knew, was a private luxury. Tonight it would be tested against the will of others—against those who would come pressing for a Glasgow Hibernians, a shadow cast in imitation of Edinburgh’s pride. They would speak of loyalty, of tradition, of the comfort of a borrowed identity. But he wanted none of it. If a club were to be born here, it would stand on its own feet, answer to its own name, and grow from the soil beneath it rather than cling to another city’s roots. At the back of the hall, along East Rose Street, he reached the small room set aside for him. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, shutting out the echo of the passage. Here, at least, there would be order.

He drew up a chair and set pen to paper, the scratch of the nib breaking the silence. Line by line, he began to shape the club’s purpose—not merely a name, but a declaration, something that could be spoken aloud and carry weight enough to steady a room divided. When he read it that night, he would not be arguing; he would be offering something whole, something certain. Outside, the hall waited. Soon it would be filled with voices. But for now, there was only ink, and intention, and the quiet conviction of a man determined to begin something that belonged, unmistakably, to itself.

As he moved towards his desk, he caught a glimpse of himself in the dusty, wooden-framed mirror by the window. He looked old and tired. The years of toil in Glasgow’s east end had taken their toll. He allowed himself a small smile and sat at his desk. He picked up his pen and continued to write the circular he had started earlier that day…

‘The above club was formed in November 1887 by a number of the Catholics of the East End of the City. The main objective of the club is to supply the East End conferences of the St. Vincent De Paul Society with funds for the maintenance of the Dinner Tables of our needy children in the Missions of St Mary’s, Sacred Heart, and St. Michael’s. Many cases of sheer poverty are left unaided through lack of means. It is therefore with this principle object that we have set afloat the Celtic, and we invite you as one of our ever-ready friends to assist in putting our new Park in proper working order for the coming football season.’

As he sat at his desk and thought of the words he would write, a spider caught his eye as it scurried for cover behind some books. Something about it stirred a memory from long ago and his childhood in County Sligo, he stared into space, his mind lost somewhere in a past long gone…

The glistening web of a wolf spider, heavy with dew clung to the reeds. The light of a new dawn shone through the strands of the web casting a shimmering kaleidoscope of colours. It was as if the spider had set out to snare a rainbow. The child, barely 7 years old lay on the damp grass watching it intently, mesmerised by its beauty. A gentle breeze caused the web to sway gently before his young eyes. He felt as much a part of this land as the spider or the birds greeting the new day with their chorus. All of his short life his grandmother had whispered or sung to him in the old tongue, the folk tales of their ancient land. She has passed them onto him as they sat by the turf fire on wild winter’s days when the trees bent in the westerly wind. She had poured them into his drowsy head as she rocked him to sleep at night. She had sung to him the ancient tale of the Children of Lir who had been changed into swans by their father’s jealous second wife and destined to remain that way until the sound of a Christian bell was heard in the land. She had told him of Dagda’s Harp which had the power to make men weep, laugh or even sleep at its sound. She had also taught him respect for the land and all the creatures which drew life from it. ‘Listen to me sweet child,’ she’d say, ‘everything has a spirit. The rocks, the pools, the hills and trees, all are woven into the very pattern of life. When men forget this truth disaster usually follows.’ 

Even as a small child he understood something of her wisdom. A slight movement of the web made the child tilt his head slightly, a smile of anticipation crossing his lips as he saw the spider emerge from its hiding place. A small fly was struggling on the lower part of the web and in its vain attempts to free itself had merely hastened its demise. A voice broke into his silent world, ‘Andrew, where are you?’ He raised himself onto his knees and glanced back towards his family’s small cottage. He could see his mother’s familiar form glancing to her left and right looking for him with a worried look on her face. ‘Andrew!’ she called again, this time louder. He stood and faced her, seeing her relief as she realised he was safe. She strode towards him and knelt by him pulling him close, ‘You need to stop leaving the cottage before we’re awake. The bog can be a dangerous place for a child. Whatever are you thinking?’ She swept him up in her arms and headed back towards the house, ‘Come now, you’re father and brother are preparing breakfast.’ Andrew glanced over her shoulder and smiled at the spider’s web. He’d return to look at it again one day soon.

The following day, young Andrew had joined his father and brother Bernard on a journey to the small market in Ballymote. His mother waved them off before turning to the many chores a country woman had to attend to. Not least of which was caring for her old and increasingly frail mother who had lived with then in their cramped little cottage for the past year. Their small cart was loaded with the meagre produce his father had grown with much effort and they needed to sell it at the market so that the landlord could have his rent. So many had been turned out onto the road in recent times and some had even been forced to watch as their humble homes were destroyed by the landlord’s agents. Young Andrew sat in the back of the cart among the cabbages and carrots as it lurched along the rutted roads and tracks to the town. They had barely gone a mile when his father stopped the cart and stared in silence at a field to his left. Andrew followed his father’s gaze and saw a group of perhaps eight or nine haggard figures, dressed in rags scavenging like crows in the rutted field. At least four of the wraith-like figures were children but they were so painfully thin and their long, unkempt hair covered much of their faces as they dug in the muddy turnip field with their bare hands. One of the skeletal adults let out a guttural cry as he had managed to drag a turnip from the unforgiving ground. The others flocked to him as he beat the turnip on a rock and attempted to bite into the hard, raw surface. Andrew looked at his father and saw that he was greatly troubled by what he was witnessing.

At the edge of the field, barely 10 yards from their cart, something drew Andrew’s attention. He was surprised to see the emaciated figure of a small girl. She was a similar age to him, but painfully thin and pale. Her eyes, dark, emotionless pools regarded him. He clothing was little more than a piece of rough sackcloth wrapped around her and tied with a thin piece of rope. Her feet, bare and thick with dirt, stood in a gathering puddle as she continued to watch Andrew with dark, hungry eyes. Instinctively he reached in to one of sacks of carrots his father had loaded onto the cart and took out a bright orange carrot. He threw it towards the child and it landed in the mud at her feet but she didn’t move, she just continued to watch him. Andrew’s father turned to him and gently rebuked him… ‘Andrew, I know you mean well but no more. If we give all our food away, we will be joining those poor wretches. We need to sell the food to pay the rent. It breaks my heart son but these are dark times. They are in God’s hands now. For as sure as the sun rises those with means have abandoned them.’ He sat down again in the cart and with a flick of the reins set the donkey pulling it again along the road. ‘But Father, they’re hungry?’ he had intoned. His father stared grimly ahead, perhaps determined that his little family wouldn’t be joining the increasingly desperate groups of starving and dispossessed people who haunted the countryside in these cruel times. Andrew turned and watched the girl as she receded into the distance behind the cart. She had still not moved and stood like a barely living statue by the roadside. He knew that his conscience would imprint this sight onto his mind forever and was in his own childlike way as troubled as his father by what they had witnessed. He mumbled a soft ‘sorry,’ which she would never, could never hear.

Andrew Kerins exhaled and dragged his mind back from 1840s Sligo to the pressing business at hand. As he began to write he forced his mind to blank out for a few moments, other desperate images of the black years of the great hunger which crowded his consciousness. What he had witnessed on that day long ago on the road to Ballymote was just a foretaste of the horrors to come. Sometimes thoughts of those times could overwhelm him and he would weep in the darkness of the night as he thought of the emaciated children tumbled into mass graves with neither coffin nor shroud. Sometimes it was the wailing of mothers with nothing to feed their crying offspring with. God how that cry haunted him still… For now, though, he must put such thoughts out of his mind. Tonight’s meeting was of vital importance and he needed to find the right words for his audience. He had grasped quickly the potential for the new sport to raise much needed money to help the poor around him in Glasgow. Never again did he want to see children go hungry and he and the men he had gathered around him would do something about it. People were willing to pay to watch a good football side play and there was no denying that his flock needed a symbol, a source of identity and pride. Most of his close associates felt as he did that their new club shouldn’t go down the temperance or strictly Catholic route. In the longer term this was wise as was his choice of name.

‘Yes, that name had a ring to it,’ he thought to himself; ‘Celtic.’

 

Remembering Brother Walfrid who died on this day in 1915.

On the day of his passing, his beloved Celtic defeated Third Lanark 4-0 at Cathkin Park to win the league. They would go on to many more honours.

 

Be Worthy

 

Be Worthy

Only twice in my life have I felt in real danger at a football match. One was in Nottingham in the 1980s during Celtic’s UEFA cup tie with Nottingham Forest. The other was when I was leaving Hampden Park after a cup final at the old stadium. Things got so dangerous on the crumbling old stairway at the back of the Celtic end that I opted to slide down the muddy hill at the side of the stairway. I got home wet and muddy but it was worth it to get away from the crush on the stairway. On both of those occasions I felt the icy hand of fear gripping my heart and it wasn’t something I ever want to experience again in a football stadium.

The reason for beginning this article by stating the above is to remind that tiny minority of Celtic fans who think that mocking the Ibrox disaster is acceptable that they are out of order.  There but for the grace of God could have been any of us in those days, such were conditions in stadiums around the country.  Let others wallow in that sewer if they choose to but be worthy of the great tradition of solidarity and empathy Celtic fans are known for. Those 66 fans were working class folk going to watch their team. It’s unacceptable to mock their memory, it’s not funny, it’s not banter- it’s sinking to the gutter.

The events at Ibrox stadium last Sunday are still the subject of heated debate in the media and the usual and very predictable polarisation has a lot of people blaming the other side. From the outset, when the DJ played the full version of ‘simply the best’ and thousands of home fans blasted ‘F*ck the Pope and the IRA’ into the nation’s living rooms, it was obvious that tensions were running high. I’m sure the shorter version will be in use at the next Rangers home game after that exhibition of medieval tribalism.

Radio phone in shows, the press and general media are quite happy to use the ‘Old Firm’ label when describing the disorder at the end of the game. The reality was that a few dozen Celtic supporters invaded the field after their team won the penalty shoot-out. There was no intent towards violence although a few were goading the home supporters still in the stadium. Surely such an outcome was predictable and the whole phalanx of police and stewards on duty should have been proactive and stopped it occurring in the first place? Similarly, at the other end, there was no concerted effort to stop masked ultras invading the field and heading towards the celebrating Celtic fans, and they weren’t heading up the field to shake their hands and say ‘well played, lads,’ that’s for sure.

Let’s be clear here; I’m not a journalist. I’m just one guy giving what I think and hope is a balanced opinion. As I saw it, there was only one side attacking Celtic staff, (for the third time in recent seasons) only one side was attacking police and stewards and only one side on the field was intent on violence. The throwing of flares into a crowded stand was criminally dangerous. Yes, any Celtic fans who mocked the Ibrox disaster or damaged the stadium are completely out of order and any who contemplated running onto the field should have asked themselves; what is the likely response to this from those in the opposite end? The Union Bears seemed to act with utter impunity as little effort was made to keep them off the field and even less to arrest those guilty of violent behaviour.

There are various voices suggesting ways to make scenes like those we saw last Sunday less likely to occur in the future. Among them are banning away fans or making the wearing of face coverings and masks illegal in public places such as football stadiums. They are worn for one reason only; to make identifying individuals virtually impossible. Another suggestion was relocating the ultra-groups to the top tier of the stadium from where field invasions are virtually impossible. I’m sure many measures will be discussed behind closed door although Rangers’ statement on the trouble at the game omitted any mention of their fans’ violence, sectarian singing or field invasion. Their focus was on reminding us that there will be an enquiry in time and focusing on the stupid graffiti in the away end…

‘What we can say now is that issues of stadium safety and the legacy of the Ibrox Disaster are deeply personal to this club. We were appalled to discover graffiti within the stadium referencing that tragedy. The memory of the 66 supporters who lost their lives in January 1971 deserves dignity and respect. To desecrate their memory is vile. It is cowardly. It is shameful. This is not football rivalry and it is not banter. It is the abuse of a tragedy that claimed 66 lives. Finally, it is important that the reputation of Rangers supporters is treated fairly in this discussion. Tens of thousands of people attended Ibrox on Sunday simply to support their team with pride and to watch a football match. We will not accept a narrative that ignores the full context of what happened.’

Whilst wholeheartedly agreeing that abusing a tragedy is utterly abhorrent, they could perhaps offer the same courtesy to the thousands of Celtic fans who had nothing to do with the graffiti and would be heartily sickened by it. It was likely the action of one or two immature individuals who lack the mental acuity to see how hurtful it could be. Rangers might also want to have a word with the stadium DJ who played the full version of ‘Simply the Best’ surely knowing that many of those thousands who were there to ‘support their team with pride’ would belt out their nakedly sectarian ad-ons?

Scottish football took a step backwards last Sunday. The rise of the ultras culture is part of what is going on. The colour and noise they bring to stadiums is laudable, but for some football is a vehicle for poor behaviour and a photo opportunity for social media. The re-emergence of sectarian chanting on the scale we witnessed from home fans at Ibrox last weekend is unacceptable but those who indulge in it are emboldened by the lack of action by the club and the inaction of the police. We’ve tolerated the intolerable for too long but alas history teaches us that football's governing bodies in Scotland will release a report condemning the actions of the minority at Ibrox and recommending certain organisational changes but do they actually have the will to grasp this poisonous nettle and pull it out by the roots?  

All clubs have their share of less cerebral followers within their support but we should never lose sight of the fact that most football fans are decent people. The fact that this particular fixture brings out the worst in some should spur the police, stewards and clubs to be more proactive in their planning and not be so easily caught on the hop when fairly predictable events occur. Some fans need to get a grip too or they’ll face being locked out of the very fixture so many of them love best. They'll also deny the opportunity to enjoy the game to the vast majority who know how to behave.

 

 

Sectarian Trash

 

My old man told me once that in his youth he attended a Celtic v Rangers game that was among the most subdued ever. It took place in 1952 and came on the same day as the Celtic side and a good few of the Rangers team, attended the funeral of John ‘Jackie’ Millsopp. The young Celt was just 22 and breaking into the side when a burst appendix took his life. He was, by all accounts, a lovely young man and his death hit his team mates hard. Sean Fallon said in his biography;

“I had got to know him well because we’d shared a cabin on the boat over to America the summer before, when the club took us over for a tour after we had won the Scottish Cup. We became good friends and Jackie was a lovely lad. Everyone at Celtic liked him, and it affected us all for a long, long time.”

Before that Celtic v Rangers match on the day of Jackie’s funeral, a minute’s silence was held and was impeccably observed before a voice cut through the silence shouting an obscenity about the Pope. My old man, brought up in the Calton area, informed me that this incident led to the culprit receiving some rough justice from fellow Rangers fans. Some things, even in the rough and multi-layered Celtic–Rangers’ rivalry, were considered going too far. Celtic won the match all those years ago but goalscorers, Walsh and Rollo, barely raised a smile given that they’d attended their team mate’s funeral just hours before the game.

That incident came to mind when I watched the Rangers v Celtic match on Sunday. All clubs, Celtic included, have their share of idiots in their fan base but Rangers have a fan base that seems totally lacking in self-awareness. The club has had fines and parts of the ground closed for racist/sectarian chanting and were warned by UEFA that they will close the Copland Road stand if there is one more act of racism. Yet on Sunday, the old poisonous bile was pouring from thousands of throats as the SPFL and SFA look on and do nothing. One English based newspaper had the cajónes to print what it saw after Rangers took the lead…

‘At this point, Ibrox was raucous. Far too much of that racket involved the kind of sectarian trash Scotland’s football authorities and Rangers themselves have allowed to return due to pitiful inaction. Rangers, now under American ownership should be working hard to remove this archaic stain on the club’s reputation.’

The Scottish editions ignored the songs of hate which echoed around the stadium and focussed instead on a couple of idiotic Celtic fans who seemed to be mocking the Ibrox disaster. As long as the football authorities, the police and the media keep ignoring the poison at Ibrox, the longer it will continue. As a society we need to look with fresh eyes at this and say to ourselves, this isn’t normal behaviour, nor should it be acceptable in 2026.

Another aspect of the home support’s behaviour that went unremarked in the media was the banner mocking Jock Stein, a man who literally helped with dead and dying Rangers fans on that awful day in January 1971. Jock is one of the towering figures of Scottish football; a man who put our game on the European map. The success he brought to Celtic stuck in the throats of many with no love of the club. He led Scotland to the World Cup and literally died guiding them to another. What are Rangers’ directors going to do about these shameful banners and chants? The answer appears to be nothing.

Any time I write about these matters, we are deluged by a tsunami of whataboutery, but this is not about putting the boot into Rangers, it’s about asking their more reasonable fans to speak up on forums and to the club about this barnacle of intolerance and bigotry which sticks to the club like superglue and drags it through the gutter. There seems to be no sewer the lumpen element at Ibrox is unwilling to trawl in their quest to try and offend the ‘tarriers.’ From banners about Jock Stein and ‘Popery’ to songs about child abuse and Fenian blood. More worryingly though, is the fact they do it with such impunity and such a blinkered view of the damage it does their own club.

So, what can be done about such a deeply ingrained culture? It isn’t the fault of players so deducting points for such behaviour isn’t a fair or viable option. Imagine that scenario when the league is as tight as it is this year? UEFA deal with it by closing stands or even having matches behind closed doors if racism or bigoted chanting continues to be heard, but we all know the SPFL and SFA are a pretty spineless bunch and lack the leadership skills and courage to drain this swamp.

A decade ago, Legia Warsaw played one of the biggest games in their history when they met Real Madrid in the Champions League. Due to the behaviour of some Legia fans in a previous match with Borussia Dortmund, the Polish club were ordered to play the Real game behind closed doors. It stung the decent majority of Legia fans and their anger wasn’t only directed at UEFA, but also at the unruly fans who caused the ban. It needs fans themselves to see the damage certain behaviours inflict on their club before change occurs. Just as you can’t pass laws to stop people hating or behaving badly, it needs education and cultural change too. It is now half a century since Willie Waddell, stood on the Ibrox pitch and said…

‘It is to these tikes, hooligans, louts and drunkards that I pinpoint my message. It is because of your gutter-rat behaviour that we are being publicly tarred and feathered.’

We have made great changes to the football experience since then. The stadiums are safer, the alcohol culture lessened and the game is more of a family experience. It can still be the visceral and tribal occasion it always was, but there are, there must be, limits. Some though, seem unable to control their base instincts and still wallow in old hatreds and behaviour patterns. If they refuse to join the 21^st century then the game would be better without them.