Playing Russian Roulette

 

Playing Russian Roulette

Nottingham 1983

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

The Hunt for Dessie McGuigan

 

The Hunt for Dessie McGuigan

Glasgow 1967

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Dreams and songs to sing

 

Dreams and songs to sing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We need our dreams and our songs to sing.

Over to you Celtic.

 

 

 

A marriage made in heaven

 

A marriage made in heaven

The dulcet tones of Karen Carpenter echoed around the Hydro in Glasgow this week as Celtic Manager, Ange Postecoglou took to the stage. The 13,000 Celtic fans present took up tune with gusto and belted out their own version of ‘Top of the world,’ with a slightly amended lyric… ‘We’re on the top of the league looking down on the Rangers and the only explanation I can find, is the form we have found since Ange has been around, Ange has put us on the top of the league.’ The big man smiled as they serenaded him and embraced him with their passion and affection. It was a moment few Celtic Managers have experienced and is testament to the job Ange has done at Celtic Park over the past two seasons.

The Hydro, that symbol of modern Glasgow with its luminous outer cushions of shimmering light, sits on the banks of the river Clyde just a few hundred metres from the Broomielaw dock where many of the forebears of those attending the event at the Hydro poured off cattle boats from Ireland in the dark years of the mid-nineteenth century. They often had little more than the clothes they wore and a determination to make a new life for themselves. One of them was a teenage boy called Andrew Kerins, who arrived in Glasgow over 170 years earlier. In time he’d train as a Marist brother and teacher, and come to realise the potential of football to help those with little or nothing. Not only did it give them the opportunity to raise money to help a very poor community, it also gave them a sense of pride and a vehicle to help begin the slow process of assimilating into Scottish society.

Perhaps that son of Greek immigrants to Australia taking the applause at the Hydro gets Celtic so well because he knows the struggles his father endured to make a better life for  his family in a new land. He said on Australian TV a few months ago…

‘This club was formed to feed poor Irish immigrants. There was a purpose to this club which stayed with it to this day. For me that resonates strongly being an immigrant in our own country. South Melbourne, Hellas Melbourne, Melbourne Croatia, Sydney Croatia, all of these clubs were set for similar reasons. They weren’t set up solely to be football clubs, they were set up to help people to adjust to life in their new land.’

Ange Postecoglou has huge admiration for his father, Jim (Dimitri) who could speak no English when he arrived in Australia after spending thirty days on a boat from Greece. He recalls one incident which illustrates the things his father endured to make a start in Australia…

‘There is the story of my dad being alerted by a neighbour that there was a mattress out the front of this house for whoever wanted it. They picked it up and were lugging it on their shoulders put forgot where home was and were literally walking the streets for hours because they could not even ask for directions. (He spoke no English) My dad used to tell that story and get a lot of laughs but I am sure when he was lugging that mattress on his shoulders it wasn’t funny.’

Those hard times formed strong characters and the no nonsense man in the Celtic hot seat was formed in those years. Watching the genuine pleasure he gets from the adulation of the fans, it’s easy to see that this is more than just a job for him. When his mother and father were working all the hours God sent to make a life in Australia for their children, Ange was beginning his football journey. His father gifted him the love of the game he enjoys to this day. His father pushed him to improve all the time and never to settle. That has rubbed off on Ange’s approach to management and his players know that to stand still is to go backwards. The constant push to be better, to improve, to keep evolving as players and a team comes from those early lessons his father taught him.

There is footage of Ange after winning the Australian Grand Final as a player in 1990. His father, who was in his 50s then, actually scaled the fence with other fans to celebrate on the pitch with his son. It meant that much to him to see his son succeed. It meant much to Ange that his father was proud of him, even if his old man didn’t say it in so many words. He recalled travelling home from Japan when his father was nearing the end of his life. They talked together and his father finally told him how proud he was of him. Ange knew it, of course, but it was nice to hear it.

In some ways, Ange Postecoglou and Celtic, is a marriage made in heaven. He understands the journey Celtic have been on and the tradition of fast, attractive football they became famous for. He has patience with fans who all want a minute of his time and deals with the snares our sporting media lays for him with ease. Like Jock Stein, Billy McNeill and other managers before, Ange gets Celtic. Stein famously said, ‘unlike many other Celts, I cannot say that Celtic were  my first love, but they will be my last.’ Gordon Strachan said, ‘when I came here, I wasn’t a Celtic fan, but I was when I left.’ I think Ange will have a similar feeling when the time comes. His footballing philosophy was summed up when he said…

‘I have never seen it as a job, something where I can make a living. It has always meant something more to me. We are in a ruthless business but for me it is never just about results, just about winning, it is about putting smiles on people's faces, doing things that are memorable.’

The big guy is sure putting smiles onto the faces of Celtic fans. His brand of football is exciting and good to watch. You get the feeling that whatever challenges lie ahead, he’ll meet them head on with his usual confidence and that determination to succeed instilled into his as a young immigrant in Australia.

As the crowds drifted out of the Hydro after a joyous night, strains of ‘top of the league’ were still to be heard echoing around the huge hall. Some were doubtless thinking of that other hit of the Carpenters and hoping it pertains to Ange Postecoglou and Celtic. It’s called; We’ve only just begun.

 

No Pope of Rome

 

No Pope of Rome

Watching Rangers deservedly win the latest derby was an odd experience in some ways. Not because Celtic didn’t turn up and were duly turned over, rather it was the complete lack of away fans in the ground. The traditional gladiatorial challenge off the field was lacking as in days past when both sets of fans tried to win the battle of the songs. Instead, we were treated to an entire stadium filled with home fans who had a chance to show people watching in over 100 countries that they could create an atmosphere to rival that of the past.

In truth, I’d estimate that barely a quarter of the songs sung had anything to do with football. Most worryingly the worst of the bigoted dirges aired seem to be sung by thousands of voices. It’s 2023 and still they persist with songs containing lyrics such as…

‘The only thing that I could say, was f*ck the Pope and the IRA’

‘Oh, no pope of Rome, no chapels to sadden my eyes. No nuns and no priests, no rosary beads, every day is the 12^th of July.’

‘We’re up to our knees in Fenian blood…’

I could go on, but you get the picture. It sounded more like a Klan gathering than a top flight football match. These nakedly sectarian songs were joined in turn by the depressingly familiar chants of ‘paedos’ and ‘big Jock knew’ from large sections of a support with seemingly no self-awareness. One has to wonder why the police present at the stadium do nothing as this goes on and why the voices in the media, so shrill about Celtic fans’ chanting about the coronation, remain silent?

Of course, raising such issues often leads to being accused of sour grapes, being a bad loser or being submerged in a tsunami of ‘whataboutery,’ but this goes deeper than footballing rivalry.  This is poisonous stuff our society seems to tolerate. My old man used to say, ‘do you think for a moment if those chants were about Jews or Muslims they’d be tolerated?’ He had a point.

The decent fans  need to put heads above the parapet when required and make the hotter heads consider the damage they inflict on the club the claim to love. It was encouraging to read a thread on a Rangers chat room asking why the FTP, Paedo, Bobby Sands stuff needs to go on in this day and age. One contributor said…

‘You can’t tell me though that the most recognisable Rangers’ anthem (Follow Follow) being sung with ‘f*ck the pope and the Vatican’ in it is in any way a normal situation? The Famine Song- what an utterly needless and spectacular own goal. As if we didn’t f*cking know it would cause bother! The paedo stuff is cringeworthy and embarrassing. People’s lives were wrecked, it’s not a point scoring football chant.’

It’s encouraging to see fans  raising these issues as it is not a pleasant experience when the less enlightened get on your case as some did to the person above. It can be hard to stand up for what you believe but at the end of the day, the only way change will happen is if enough people call out the poison in our midst.

In the grand scheme of things, it is fair to say that Rangers have a bigger problem with this sort of prejudiced chanting than any other club in Scotland. For some, the singing of Irish nationalist songs by Celtic fans is viewed as ‘sectarian.’ Whether you think they are appropriate at a football match or not, they are not sectarian in the any definition of the word. In Scotland though, there has always been a tendency for the media to spin the ‘both as bad as each other’ narrative. We have also recently seen ridiculous headlines about poor behaviour by Rangers fans reported as ‘football fans’ or ‘old firm fans.’

If anything is to be done about the sort of bile we heard at Ibrox on Saturday then it needs a concerted effort by all the interested parties to get together and thrash out what is acceptable and what is not and what sanctions should be used.  The politicians, clubs, police and supporters  need clarity on this as the biggest flaw in the iniquitous ‘Offensive behaviour at Football Act’ was the complete lack of a clear definition of what constitutes a sectarian song. The now repealed Act collapsed under the weight of its own confusing definitions. UEFA closed part of a stand at Ibrox for such nonsense in a European tie but you'd have to wonder if the Scottish football authorities would have the spine or will to do that.

Increasingly ultras groups are leading the singing at games and have added immensely to the atmosphere in the era of all seater stadiums. Groups like the Union Bears may claim they have the right to sing what they want, but freedom of speech has never been unlimited. Hate speech is against the law although it seems it is routinely ignored in the context of Scottish football. Imagine, if you will, thousands of people gathering in any other social context and chanting ‘f*ck the Pope?’ It would be unacceptable and lead to calls for the police to enforce the law. So why is it ignored in a football stadium?

Well done to those Rangers fans who are at last starting the debate on this nonsense among a large section of their support. They will be challenging a deeply ingrained culture amongst many of their fellow supporters and there is such vitriolic feelings among some that they will never voluntarily stop this stuff. The younger fans though need to know that they can support their team, dislike their rivals and create a good atmosphere without resorting to the gutter for their songs. I fear some of their elders may be beyond redemption but the status quo surely isn’t an option. This can’t be ignored forever.

I’ve been watching football in Scotland all of my life and still enjoy its raw passion, petty rivalries and clannish nature, but it’s 2023 and time to put the hate songs where they belong; into the dustbin of history.

Coronation time was here

 

Coronation time was here

Scotland was a very different country back in 1953 when the last coronation of a UK monarch took place. It was a stuffy, conservative and staunchly unionist land where everybody was expected to know their place. For those of the Irish diaspora in Scotland, their ‘place’ was often the poorer parts of our towns and cities. They endured lives of poor housing, bad health, lack of aspiration and long hard hours of unrelenting work. Their greatest pride was in the football club they had created and in knowing that every success it had, got up the noses of those in society who despised them. The coronation of the late Queen came only a couple years after a bigoted faction in Scottish football had ordered Celtic to remove the Irish flag from their stadium or face expulsion from the league. Celtic had faced them down and had been vindicated.

For Celtic football club, the team founded and sustained by Glasgow’s Irish community and their progeny, the coronation was another opportunity to let them know that their place was on the outside looking in. Not that the majority of supporters of Celtic cared much for royalty, there has always been a hard core of Republicanism among their fanbase, but after finishing eighth in the league in 1952-53, with just 29 points from 30 games, it looked as if Celtic might not be invited to join in the festival of football being planned to mark the coronation.

Rangers had bizarrely won the league using a mathematical equation called ‘goal ratio’ after they and Hibs had both finished on 43 points. The Ibrox club scored 80 goals and conceded 39, whilst Hibs had scored 93 and conceded 51. Had goal difference been used, Hibs would have had a goal difference of  42 to Rangers 41 and been crowned champions. Hibs were a fine side then and they, Rangers and oddly, Aberdeen, who finished 11^th in the league, were invited to play in the Coronation cup against the 4 best sides in England. Celtic, it was argued, as holders of the Empire Exhibition cup from 15 years earlier, should be allowed to compete, much to the annoyance of sides like Hearts, St Mirren and even East Fife, who all finished above the hoops in the league. However, with the tournament matches pencilled in for Glasgow, it was felt that Celtic’s presence would enhance crowds at the matches.

It is of course a matter of Celtic folklore that the least royalist club in the tournament carried off the trophy after defeating Arsenal, Manchester United and Hibernian. The crowds for Celtic’s three matches seemed to justify their inclusion in the tournament with 59,500 watching them defeat Arsenal, 73,000 watching them despatch Manchester United and a whopping 117,000 attending the final with Hibs. It was a supreme irony that the final of a competition celebrating the coronation of a British queen was contested by two sides born in the squalor of Irish ghettos. Almost a quarter of a million fans watching Celtic’s three matches,  gives an indication of the support the club could draw on then.

The victory, unexpected but certainly deserved, demonstrated that the Celtic of 1953 was a sleeping giant. Their fans were hungry for success and were rewarded when the side completed a league and cup double the following season. It was their first title since 1938 and they wouldn’t be champions again till 1966. That is to say, Celtic won just one championship in 24 years. The coronation cup victory  was celebrated in song with the opening line of the ‘Coronation cup song’ known to most Celts of a certain vintage… ‘Said Lizzie to Phil as they sat down to dine, I’ve just had a letter from an old friend of mine…’ The song goes on to chart how Celtic stepped in and denied Rangers the trophy their fans may have though was bound for Ibrox.

70 years have passed since Celtic FC’s unlikely victory in the coronation cup and the trophy still resides in the trophy room at a much-changed Celtic Park. A few metres away from it, a much bigger trophy testifies that Celtic did eventually emerge from their post-war slump to become the best side in Europe. The fervour of their supporters remains undiminished and they continue to back their team with noise and passion.

As a new monarch ascends the throne, it will be largely ignored by many in Scotland who no longer feel they owe deference to an unelected head of state who was born into the job and into fabulous wealth and privilege. As many struggle to put food on the table or pay their bills, the idea of hundreds of millions being spent to ‘anoint’ a man as our sovereign and lord, seems absurd to the point of perversity. We are invited to swear an oath of allegiance using the words; “I swear that I will pay true allegiance to your majesty, and to your heirs and successors, according to law, so help me God.” The word ‘allegiance’ is described in the dictionary as ‘loyalty or commitment to a superior or to a group or cause.’ The people of Scotland know that they need only read a recent history of the ‘royal’ family to know that they in no way our superiors. That is the mythology they create to fool the gullible. My allegiance will always be to the people of Scotland.

I wish no harm on the Windsors nor any other human beings, but when I was growing up in slum tenement buildings which were cold, damp and unhealthy, I had no connection to them or that world of privilege they inhabited and I doubt they could even imagine how some of their ‘subjects’ lived. My family’s story would see us agree in principle with Seamus Heaney who wrote…

Be advised my passport’s green

No glass of ours was ever raised

To toast the queen  

So tomorrow we will be swamped by this event in our media and castigated by some for choosing to ignore it. To my mind we are on the right side of history, 70 years ago deference was almost total, today more and more people see the absurdity of royalty for what it is.

In 1953 the team of the Irish immigrants won a cup few expected them to. In 2023 that same club will soon be celebrating another championship. That makes me happy and reminds me of that old song from long ago, which said at the end… ‘To beat Glasgow Celtic, you’ll have to deport the whole Fenian army that gives them support.’

Days of Glory

 

There was only one show in town in Scottish football last weekend and it took place at a Celtic Park where the latest derby match was played out to a capacity crowd. Like a soap opera we’re all addicted to, 60,000 Celtic fans trooped along to watch the next instalment of a grudge that has now spanned three different centuries and, according to many has involved three different clubs. Celtic’s grip on the Scottish Premiership trophy has shown no signs of slackening under the astute guidance of a man they said would be ‘gone by Christmas’ in his first season.

The remarkable high standards Ange Postecoglou has set for Celtic has seen his fast-evolving side move from losing 3 of their first 6 league matches, to losing only 1 of the subsequent 63 SPFL games played since. Celtic’s surprise loss at St Mirren in September 2022 remains the side’s only league defeat since September 2021 when they lost at Livingston. Postecoglou’s side sat in 6^th position with 9 points from 6 matches after that match and the amiable Aussie was clear about what needed to change when he said…

"Our front third play was poor, it was probably the poorest it's been all year. We've obviously had some issues defensively, but I just thought today in the front half we were terrible. That was everybody, not just the strikers or the attacking players, we lacked a real conviction in going forward to be positive. That falls on me to get it right."

Postecoglou’s team line up that day makes interesting reading: Hart, Welsh, Bolingoli, Carter Vickers, Juranovic, Turnbull, McCarthy, Rogic, Jota, Abada and Ajeti. Only three of that starting eleven would begin the derby match last Saturday as Postecoglou’s rebuild of Celtic has kicked in. His side at Livingston 18 months ago couldn’t score despite having 80% possession of the ball and this is in marked contrast to his side scoring three goals with 55% possession against the country’s second-best side at the weekend. That cutting edge is what makes all the difference in tough matches. In Kyogo Furuhashi  they have a naturally gifted striker who uses pace and movement to harass defenders and to get into goal scoring positions. Weighing in at under ten stones, Kyogo isn’t interested in arm wrestling the muscular defenders of Scottish football, preferring to use his brains and pace to find space in the box. His 5 goals in his last 3 matches with Rangers suggest he remains Celtic’s main threat in games against them this season.

In truth it was an odd match on Saturday with a below par Celtic struggling to land the killer punch against opponents who knew they were drinking in the last chance saloon. Rangers were typically ungracious in defeat and lashed out at officiating, demanding an explanation from the SFA as to why Alfredo Morelos had a goal chopped off in the match. It seems clear that the corpulent Columbian pushed Celtic defender Alistair Johnston in the lead up to the ‘goal.’ He got away with a similar offence in this season’s League Cup Final when he pushed Aaron Mooy, but this time his luck was out.

The referee did not have his finest match but decisions went against both sides, a fact which seems lost on fans of the losing side. No action was taken against Ben Davis for a dangerous off the ball assault on Kyogo which VAR inexplicably ignored. Rangers players threw themselves to the ground repeatedly looking for free kicks or cards against Celtic players. Any fair reflection on the match would find that Celtic just edged it on chances and that the away side didn’t do enough to win. It must be a worry that they can play well against a below par Celtic and still end up on the losing side.

A tiny, but infinitely more sinister, element among the Rangers fan base proceeded to send threats and abuse to the referee, to the extent of publishing his contact details online. Much as we carp and moan about the standard of officiating, there is no justification for such behaviour. Without referees we have no game. It is up to the police to deal with the brain donors responsible. Our media, of course, played the old both sides as bad as each other card by declaring ‘Police probe Old Firm Ref abuse.’ Let’s be clear, this abuse came from one side; a side which has long had issues dealing with defeat.

Michael Stewart, former player and now TV Pundit said on social media, ‘Rangers sense of entitlement is incredible. Writing letters demanding explanations and apologies for one perceived mistake. I must have missed the other clubs’ numerous letters this season. St Johnstone must surely have done it after the game at Ibrox?’ It is precisely that sense of entitlement which will cause a major meltdown should Celtic defeat Rangers in the cup semi-final at the end of the month and end their season.

With three wins and a draw in four matches with the Ibrox club this season already and a striker with more derby goals in the past 4 months than the much-lauded Morelos has managed in six years, there is every chance that could happen. I for one, would be delighted if it does but it will need to be earned. We are entitled to nothing and must earn our days of glory. Others, it seems, have still to learn that lesson.