Ordinary Angels

Ordinary angels

When I was a boy my mum moved us into a long gone and extremely run down tenement building in Edmund Street in Glasgow’s east end. It sat beside Tennents brewery and the smell of fermenting beer pervaded the area. As a woman on her own with six children she couldn’t afford to be choosy about where to live and I recall walking around this musty, dingy old flat thinking even then that it was pretty much the bottom of the heap. We helped move our meagre possessions into the flat before heading over to my Granny’s house for our usual Sunday lunch with her. Sadly on that day she was out and we trooped back to Edmund Street in the drizzle to spend a long and to be honest, hungry Sunday. There was no food in the house and no money until the following day to buy any.

That evening as we sat around the old coal fire the door was knocked and I answered it. A man stood there holding a large box and handed it to me saying, ‘Could you give this to your mother?’ before he turned and headed down the dark stairs. I could barely hold the box as it was so heavy in my young arms. I staggered into the living room and bumped it down onto the floor as my mystified mother and curious siblings looked on. My Mother opened it and to our delight it was full of food; from tins of fruit to cakes, from chicken to tuna and how we feasted on that dark, rainy night long ago. It was as if an angel had arrived at our hour of need. My Mother used to tell me about those good folk she called ‘ordinary angels’ who do good things and restore our faith in humanity. This ordinary angel was from the St Vincent de Paul Society and to this day if I see them collecting I always make a donation. That good deed all those years ago made a huge impression on my young mind.

Flash forward to last night’s sleep-out organised by the Celtic Charity Foundation. I got into conversation with one of the members of the Foundation who told me that while he was delivering envelopes containing some money to families struggling in one of our poorer areas, he knocked on a door and it was opened by a burly man dressed in a Rangers top. As per instruction he said quietly and simply, ‘This is from the Celtic charity Foundation.’ The man looked mystified and opened the envelope and realising what was happening, his face softened and tears filled his eyes. It was, my friend told me, a very emotional moment as the man realised that in a harsh world some people still cared.

Those two examples of the good that our ‘ordinary angels’ do in life are separated by four decades but both have made lasting impressions. The work of the Celtic FC Foundation in supporting community based projects in the areas of Health, Equality, Learning and Poverty (HELP) is impressive and has seen over £10m raised over the years to help those less fortunate. Much of this has been raised by ordinary Celtic supporters, many of them far from wealthy, who see clearly that their club was founded on decent principles and wish to stay true to them.

Last night’s sleep-out demonstrated to all who were there some of the harsh realities of homelessness. Of course we all had warm beds to return home to when it was over but even the hardiest there could feel the bitter cold and imagine the reality of facing that each night. It was suggested that those at the event might consider leaving their sleeping bags so that they might be utilised by the Invisibles charity which works hard with the homeless in Glasgow. As I left Celtic Park I put mine on the huge pile which was testimony to the decency of those at the event. One friend left hers despite only buying it the day before for the sleep-out.

A better man than me once said, ‘The poor will always be with you,’ and perhaps there is some truth in that. However, that doesn’t mean they should be ignored and become invisible. We live in a wealthy country and the inequalities we see around us are man-made and as such can be rectified if we choose. Those less fortunate deserve justice not charity but while we await a more just society many do what they can to help others.

129 years after Celtic Football Club was founded to help alleviate poverty and hunger in the east end of Glasgow we are still struggling to eradicate it. There is food bank a few hundred yards from Celtic Park and any walk around the area will demonstrate that the poor are indeed still with us but so too is the spirit of the founding fathers (and mothers) of Celtic. As long as there are ordinary angels who care enough to act there will always be hope.

A long time ago a good man wrote… ‘A football club will be formed for the maintenance of dinner tables for the children and the unemployed.’ As we left Celtic Park in the dark of a Scottish winter morning we passed his statue. I’m sure he would have smiled and nodded approvingly knowing that his people haven’t forgotten his values and still keep faith with the past.

Well done and thank you to all who took part in the sleep out and to all who supported them.   You are the ordinary angels this old world needs so badly.

Come on the Dubs

Come on the Dubs

Monday 23^rd October 1916 had been yet another brutal and bloody for the Dublin Fusiliers as they assaulted the German positions at the village of Les Boeufs in northern France. Bloody bayonet charges towards the German held positions had seen hundreds of the Regiment cut down. Entrenched enemy machine guns and gun pits raked the attackers with withering fire every time they attempted to storm the position causing huge casualties. Any gains were immediately subject to ferocious German counter attacks. With all of the officers dead, the attack began to falter.  Springburn man Robert Downie could see the desperate situation he and his comrades were in. He decided that he would act and stood in full view of the enemy and roared to the mostly Irish soldiers around him, ‘Come on the Dubs!’ and charged towards the enemy position. The exhausted soldiers rallied to him and followed him into a hail of fire. This time they succeeded in overwhelming the German defences and although wounded, Downie took one of the machine guns which had caused such misery to his comrades. The brutality of the war on the western front is demonstrated in a report by one of Downie’s senior officers of what went on during that bloody day…

‘We had one big battle and simply went for the Hun. The Fusiliers saw red and simply got at him with the bayonet. The Germans fought like beasts at bay, actual hand to hand fighting.  I gave orders that no prisoners were to be taken ... in case of a counter attack and it takes too many men away to send escorts to the rear with them ... so you can imagine what happened with the bayonet.'

Despite being awarded a Victoria Cross for his courage by the King himself, Robert Downie never spoke of the events of that bloody day again. When asked what he received his medals for this modest man would reply with a smile, ‘I shot the cook.’  Upon his return to Glasgow, hundreds were waiting at Central Station and carried him from the station shoulder high but there was no 'land fit for heroes for many returning from the war. His street in the poor working class surroundings of Springburn in north Glasgow was covered in flags and bunting and he was welcome home in grand manner but like many he had to pick up the threads of life after the war. His courage was celebrated by all who knew him but at heart Robert was a modest man who disliked the fuss made about his war record. He had over the course of World War one been wounded on five occasions and suffered the effects of gas on another.  As well as winning his country’s highest award for valour, the V.C, he was also awarded the Military Medal, the Russian Order of St George and was mentioned in despatches on two occasions. Whatever our modern eyes make of the slaughter or World War One, there is no doubting that Robert Downie, the modest man from Springburn, was a man of upmost courage.

Robert was given a civic reception in Springburn hall as well as being presented with a gold watch from his former school, St Aloysius. The Glasgow branch of the United Irish League also held a reception for him to mark his bravery. In those complicated times the struggle for Irish independence did not stop those of a nationalist outlook recognising the courage of so many of their countrymen in the killing fields of France. The Glasgow-Irish community provided tens of thousands of young men who fought in the war. This was the case all over the UK as regiments such as the Tyneside Irish, Manchester Irish and London Irish testify. Indeed men like James Connolly and Tom Barry first learned to hold a gun in the British Army. For Robert Downie, the Dublin Fusiliers was his chosen regiment, no doubt in honour of his father’s Irish roots.

One of thirteen children, Robert knew well the harshness of life in the industrial heart of early twentieth century Glasgow. Springburn produced locomotives which were exported all over the world at the famous Caledonian Railway works provided employment for many. The war called upon many of those workers to head off to France and many did. Two of Downie’s brothers were to perish in the mud and blood of Flanders. Indeed Carleston Street in Springburn, where he lived, had seen 16 men killed in the war and five return home minus limbs. This was a sad statistic repeated in towns and villages all over Scotland. In those days the psychological damage caused by war was seldom mentioned let alone treated.

By 1919 there was a downturn in the labour market as demand for munitions and other war supplies dried up. Many were thrown out of work and the more socialist minded men of the 'Red Clydeside' era called for better conditions and more work to be created. At one huge gathering in George Square the Police baton charged protesters some of whom responded with a barrage of bottles. It was an ugly day in Glasgow as the batons flailed and the bottles flew. Scottish Secretary, Robert Munro, panicked fearing a full scale 'Bolshevik uprising' and called on London to send in troops. Glasgow was flooded with truck loads of soldiers and tanks rumbled through the streets. London was showing that it would be utterly ruthless if there was any sign of revolt. Returning soldiers like Robert Downie must have wondered if this was the land they had fought for.

Life after the war was not easy for Robert but he settled to raising his family and following the fortunes of his favourite football team. Robert loved Celtic and would have seen good times and bad as Maley’s side took on the emerging Rangers of Bill Struth in the 1920s and 30s. He would have seen men like John Thomson, Patsy Gallagher and Jimmy McGrory play. He would have also watched Stein, Tully and Evans play in the 1950s and then watch the emergence of the Lisbon Lions. He was a groundsman at Celtic Park and for many years a turnstile operator at the Stadium. Few of the countless thousands who paid their money and clicked into the ground would have guessed that the quiet spoken man taking their cash held a Victoria Cross.

Robert lived long enough to see Jock Stein revitalise Celtic and lead them to European glory. He passed away in April 1968 in the week Bobby Lennox scored with the last kick of the game to defeat Morton at Celtic Park and all but seal the 1968 league championship. He would have liked that.

Robert was a man who combined great courage with great modesty and his life-long love of Celtic gave him enormous pleasure. His Victoria Cross was gifted by him to Celtic Football Club and remains in the club’s possession.

A time of smiles

A Time of Smiles

Glasgow 2016

Andy McGee sat in silence in the back of the sleek funeral car as it inched its way up the small road which led to the two small chapels in Daldowie crematorium. He glanced at a wooden notice board by the roadside on his left and saw there the familiar name of his father. It read; ‘East Chapel 10.30 Thomas McGee.’ A slow drizzle was falling, even the brooding Glasgow sky seemed to be weeping for old Tommy who had reached the end of his journey. As family and friends trooped into the chapel, Andy waited with his sons and nephews to do their duty for old Tommy. The Undertaker spoke quietly as he instructed them on what to do. They lifted the coffin onto their shoulders and walked slowly towards the chapel. As they carefully negotiated the steps at the front doors a familiar song drifted out the door to meet them. Andy felt tears well as the words of the song seemed to caress them, tell them it was alright, old Tommy was fine, he was beyond pain now. They entered the chapel and the song seemed to fill the air….

When you walk through a storm, hold your head up high
And don't be afraid of the dark
At the end of the storm, there's a golden sky
And the sweet, silver song of a lark

Walk on through the wind
Walk on through the rain
Though your dreams be tossed and blown…

They placed Tommy on the plinth as instructed and took their seats as the song continued. The song was fitting, not only in its uplifting lyric but also because old Tommy had sung it a million times as he followed his beloved Celtic all over. Andy’s mind travelled back many years to a time he and his father had shared in those magical days when time was long and all things seemed possible….

Glasgow May 1967

Twelve year old Andy McGee held tightly to his Father’s strong hand as the big propellers of the plane began to rotate noisily outside the window. Tommy McGee smiled encouragingly at him, ‘Don’t worry son, these things are safer than a trip in yer grandad’s car,’ As the plane thundered and vibrated before beginning to taxi along the runway, Andy closed his eyes and in his head mumbled the words his teacher had taught him at school: “Oh my good angel, whom God has appointed to be my guardian, enlighten and protect, direct and govern me, who have been entrusted to you by the Divine Mercy. Amen.” He had been excited about the prospect of flying for the first time but that had given way to trepidation as the date approached. For Andy like so many other people on the flight, this was their first trip on a plane and as it accelerated along the runway more than a few were wearing anxious frowns. As the wheels lifted off the tarmac there was a muted roar of relief. Somewhere behind Andy a lone voice started a soft chant which a few others took up… ‘We’re on our way to Lisbon, we shall not be moved-We’re on our way to Lisbon, we shall not be moved.’ So they were.

As the plane climbed into the azure sky and left Glasgow behind Andy breathed more easily and glanced out of the small window at the fields of Scotland spread out beneath him like a patchwork quilt. Lisbon! He had dreamed of it since the night they beat Dukla at Celtic Park! Now it was a reality, he was really going! He smiled up at his father, ‘Thanks Da,’ His old man smiled back at him his eyes a little moist, ‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world son.’ The plane banked left and climbed higher into white clouds obscuring the view of the land of their birth. It then swung south and headed for Portugal and Celtic’s date with destiny.

They had come so far in this last couple of years. Jock had taken a team of perennial losers and in the space of two years had won two titles, two league cups and a Scottish cup and now as thousands of their supporters headed for Lisbon, they were close to becoming the Champions of Europe. It was an incredible and exhilarating time to be a Celtic fan. Tommy McGee looked at his excited son’s face as he peered out the small plane window at the clouds. Celtic meant so much to him, that much was clear. He remembered taking Andy to his first game when he was seven years old and Celtic had demonstrated that day all the inconsistencies which plagued Mr McGrory’s team in those days. It had been a cup tie against Third Lanark at a packed Celtic Park. The attack had been magnificent and scored 4 goals while defensive lapses had cost the side 4 goals as the game ended in an exciting but frustrating draw. Andy had talked excitedly about the game all the way home. He was hooked just as his old man had been when he had gone with his Dad to see Celtic win the Empire Exhibition cup. That was the way it was; Celtic was introduced to each new generation and most fell in love with those hooped shirts. Most felt that magical attraction which withstood good times and bad and became lifelong Celts.

Less than 3 hours later the plane banked and descended in brilliant sunshine over the shimmering sea off the Portuguese coast and headed for Lisbon which sprawled along the shore, the spires of a hundred churches visible from the plane window. Andy watched transfixed, ‘Look, Da! Look, we’re here.’  Tommy McGee nodded, ‘We are indeed son, let’s hope Jock and the boys make the trip worthwhile.’ His smiling son glanced at him, ‘They will Da, they will. I’ve been saying my prayers every night.’ Tommy McGee smiled, if only life were that simple. The plane landed with a bump a few minutes later and the excited passengers stepped through the open door onto the steep steps feeling a blast of heat hit them from the warm Portuguese sun. This was it, the supporters would do all they could to drive Celtic on but it was up to Jock and the team to write the most glorious page in Celtic’s history or be remembered as a very good side but not a great one.  Tommy McGee held Andy’s hand as they walked across the tarmac to the terminal building. He looked at the excited face of his son and thought to himself, ‘please Celtic, don’t let him down, don’t let any of us down…’

He needn’t have worried. Celtic’s date with destiny was written in the stars. They would rise to the challenge as they had to so many over the decades. This was their time, their shining moment of glory and they would not fail.

Glasgow 2016

After old Tommy’s funeral they family and friends had gathered to drink, laugh, cry and remember.  They told stories and anecdotes of old Tommy and a life well lived. Often the tales revolved around his trip to Lisbon with Andy 49 years earlier when they had watched the Lions maul Inter Milan. Tommy knew how important family was and instilled that in Andy. He saw the wisdom of his father’s outlook when he felt the support and love family could give each other in difficult times like today. It was a bittersweet time, a time of smiles, a time of sorrow but also a time of pride. As the laughter and songs filled the room Andy got into conversation with his friend Phil, a good guy even if he and Andy were on different sides of the Glasgow football fence, ‘Ye going tae the game tonight, Andy?’ Andy nodded, ‘Aye Phil, this Group is the hardest ever but we’ll give it a go.’ Phil smiled, ‘Still think Celtic can match a team that cost £500 million tae put together?’  Andy nodded, ‘Better teams than Manchester City have been beat at Celtic Park. Celtic will do OK.’ Phil remained sceptical and smiled, ‘I think you’ll be lucky to escape with a 3-0 gubbing.’ Andy looked at his friend, ‘Oh Ye of little faith.’

Later that night as Celtic Park hummed and seethed with noise and passion, Andy took his seat in the Jock Stein stand with his two sons. The roar greeting the Champions League anthem was utterly deafening. He glanced around the stadium at these incredible supporters who had made this club and continued to infuse it with energy. He hoped in some way his old man could watch what was happening. As the game got underway it was clear that Manchester City were a little spooked by the racket. A couple of minutes into the game a free kick to Celtic was glided wide right to James Forrest who hit it back across goal. Erik Sviatchenko met it with his head and it glanced of the body of Moussa Dembele and into the net! Celtic Park erupted like a volcano; a huge roar split the dark, damp Glasgow sky. Celtic were ahead and the wealthy aristocrats of Manchester City were learning an old lesson. You write Celtic off at your peril.

In the Jock Stein Stand, Andy was hugging his sons, feeling somehow that his old man was there too, savouring it all as he had done countless times over his lifetime. ‘That one’s for you Da!’ he thought as he wiped a tear from his eye. ‘Come on Celtic!’ he roared, ‘Let’s do it!’

The Rhythm of Time

The Rhythm of Time

As the leaves fall and October turns to November we are treated to the now fairly boring storm in a tea cup over who does and doesn’t wear a poppy. James McClean, the West Brom footballer and a son of Derry is trotted out annually to be castigated by the right wing media and the more moronic elements on social media because of his perfectly understandable and legitimate choice not to wear a poppy on his shirt. Any middle aged person from Derry could recite a litany of abuses the nationalist population endured there during the troubles from the uniformed representatives of the British state. From internment without trial, the ‘Battle of the Bogside’ which left over 1000 injured and ‘Operation Motorman’ when the army mobilised thousands of troops to end the ‘no go’ zones in nationalist areas, the use of force by the military was often lethal. Most people will know about the slaughter of Bloody Sunday when the Parachute Regiment killed 14 and seriously injured 15 other Derry citizens. Most were hit by gunfire although at least 2 of the injured were run over by army armoured personnel carriers. Any reasonable person would understand why James McClean would baulk at the idea of wearing a poppy to commemorate that same army which did such things to his people.

That is not to say that the British military were the only offenders during the sad years of the troubles as the Para-militaries bear their share of responsibility too as do the politicians but James McClean is perfectly entitled to make his choice and no one has a right to castigate him for it.

Attempts to enforce conformity onto the peoples of the UK have been ramped up in recent years and anyone who finds the jingoism and sheer poor taste of many of the events around newly invented ‘armed forces day’ troubling, is in danger of being labelled as ‘unpatriotic.’  It is hardly likely to inspire confidence in the military among those of an Irish extraction to watch the annual circus at Ibrox stadium when military personnel abseil from stands, some join in sectarian songs and others are photographed with loyalist paraphernalia. The British Army represents ALL the people of the British state; that is all creeds, colours and political hues. Senior officers should ensure they are seen to be acting in such a manner.

On a similar note I went to the Glasgow Film Theatre to see Brendan Byrne’s movie ‘Bobby Sands; 66 Days.’ The film charted Sands life from his family being intimidated into leaving Rathcoole on the outskirts of Belfast through to his political awakening and eventual decision to join the IRA. One biographical piece gives a flavour of the times when it speaks of his alienation with the northern state…

‘He left school in 1969 at age 15, and enrolled in Newtownabbey Technical College, beginning an apprenticeship as a coach builder at Alexander's Coach Works in 1970. He worked there for less than a year, enduring constant harassment from his Protestant co-workers, which according to several co-workers he ignored completely, as he wished to learn a meaningful trade. He was eventually confronted after leaving his shift in January 1971 by a number of his colleagues wearing the armbands of the local Ulster loyalist tartan gang. He was held at gunpoint and told that Alexander's was off-limits to "Fenian scum" and to never come back if he valued his life. This event, by Sands' own admission, proved to be the point at which he decided that militancy was the only solution.’

I leave people to judge his subsequent actions for themselves as one’s perspectives are shaped by many things. Sands was a man of his times and who among us can say how we’d react to the pressures and myriad forces which were tearing the north of Ireland apart in those days? I’m sure men and women on both sides of the conflict would claim their actions as being in defence of their people and that in a sense was the crux of the problem. Some within the two communities in the north of Ireland often see themselves as two distinct peoples. The vagaries of history have led to this situation and perhaps ironically the violence of those troubled years reinforced this attitude and made the unity Sands and his colleague’s sought harder to create?

 What was interesting though was the power Sands’ life and death still hold today. There was spontaneous applause in the cinema at one point in the movie and that is rare indeed. There were also some folk around me clearly becoming emotional as the movie reached its sad and inevitable climax. The full house at the GFT demonstrated that there is still an appetite for such films and that the life and death of Bobby Sands remains an emotive issue for some.

 The nations which share these islands on the north-west coast of Europe never have been and probably never will be a homogenous mass. We are all products of our history and need to learn the lessons it teaches and not repeat the same mistakes which led us to conflict in the past. Respect for each other and the opinions and views we hold is the starting point for relationships between individuals or indeed between peoples.  There can be no forced conformity, people must be free to exercise their conscience as they see fit. Far from resolving conflicts, pressuring people to conform to modes of behaviour usually leads to more problems.

We’ll know we’ve grown up and matured on these islands when an individual isn’t singled out in the media and online for merely exercising the right beholden to all free men; to follow his conscience.

James McClean has every right to follow his own mind and all decent people should support him in this. He may well recall the words written by a countryman of his long before he was born.

There’s an inner thing in every man,
Do you know this thing my friend?
It has withstood the blows of a million years,
And will do so to the end.

It lights the dark of this prison cell,
It thunders forth its might,
It is ‘the undauntable thought’, my friend,
That thought that says… ‘I’m right!’

                                                           (From the Rhythm of Time by Bobby Sands)

Being Bertie

Being Bertie

Watching the unveiling of Billy McNeil’s statue on the Celtic Way last season was one of those poignant moments which makes you reflect on what Celtic and the men who have been our heroes in the hoops mean to us. Billy, looking a little fragile, had his old comrade Bertie Auld at his side as he walked down the Celtic Way. The thousands of watching supporters could see the bonds of affection which still bound these two fine players together. They have both been involved with Celtic for longer than most of us have been alive. When it was over and the modern players had gone inside to prepare for the game and Billy had joined his family in the stadium, wee Bertie was still there posing for pictures with fans, shaking hands and laughing with the ordinary folk of the Celtic support. I shook his hand and thanked him for his efforts for Celtic and the many things he has done for the supporters.  As I headed to the game he was still there smiling, joking with the fans and just being Bertie. More than 50 years earlier this Celtic legend was far from Celtic Park having been sold to Birmingham City but plans were afoot to bring him home.

Fulham and England Striker, Johnny Haynes was the first professional footballer to earn £100 per week in Britain. Always immaculately dressed and idolised by his fans, he was the David Beckham of the 1950s and 60s. Early sponsorship with a hair cream company meant Fulham were often called the ‘Brylcreem boys’ in those days. Haynes once took part in a heated game against Birmingham City on a frosty night at St Andrew’s park and got into a verbal spat with a cheeky Scottish midfielder who had the gall to nutmeg him. ‘You little Scottish Bastard,’ he called after the dark haired Scot as he chased him back towards the midfield area. The verbal spat went on until the little Scot had had enough. In his own words he recalled…

‘As we trotted back Haynes was giving as good as he got, ‘I’ll get you the next time you little Scottish bastard.’ I snapped as we reached the centre circle and thought it would be a good idea to give him a dull one. I whacked him. Our pitch was hard as flint and he went down like a sack of spuds. His head thudded off the surface and he just lay there.’

So it was that Maryhill boy, Bertie Auld, laid out 56 times capped England striker Johnny Haynes. As the inevitable ordering off came Auld heard Fulham’s centre half Maurice Cooke thundering after him with revenge in mind. The little Scot wheeled around and delivered a pre-emptive uppercut to Cooke’s chin which laid him out too. St Andrew’s went wild as the crowd began to chant ‘One, two, who’s next?’  Such indiscipline was one reason Celtic had allowed Auld to leave in 1961 and the four years he spent in England saw him develop as a player even if it never fully quelled his fiery nature. Bertie won the League cup with Birmingham as well as playing in the Final of the Fairs Cities Cup (the forerunner to the UEFA Cup) but greater prizes awaited him as a revolution was about to begin at his old club in Glasgow’s east end.

In early 1965 he was transferred back to Celtic for £12,000 and it is very likely that the soon to be Manager, Jock Stein, had requested his return. The Scottish Cup Final that year saw Celtic pitted against the fine Dunfermline team of the era and even the most optimistic Celtic fan knew it’d be a battle. 108,800 supporters, the vast majority of them Celtic fans, filled the vast bowl of Hampden to see if Stein’s Celtic could succeed where McGrory’s teams had so often faltered.  It had been 8 long years since Celtic had won a major trophy but how they roared and sang as Celtic twice fought back from a goal down to balance the match at 2-2 in the final stages. Auld had scored both of Celtic’s goals and had slotted seamlessly into a midfield in which he and Bobby Murdoch pulled all the strings for Celtic. His first goal in front of a packed Celtic end was a breathless piece of action. A Charlie Gallagher shot had smashed the bar and spun high into the air with the goalkeeper stranded. Auld raced forward and outjumped the Dunfermline defender to head the ball home. The massed ranks in the Celtic end exploded in joy. He scored Celtic’s second goal after another fine move and the match entered its final phase with the cup still up for grabs. With just 9 minutes left the huge Celtic support watched a corner glide into the Dunfermline penalty box. Lennox looked certain to leap for it but a call behind him from McNeil saw the winger duck allowing the Celtic skipper to meet the ball imperiously with his head. It exploded into the Dunfermline net and Hampden erupted in sheer joy as Celtic finally broke through to take the lead. The cup was won on that bright day in April 1965 and Celtic looked to the future with renewed confidence. The following season they would be champions and set off on a remarkable period of success.

The next few years saw Celtic gorge themselves on success. The hungry years of defeat and disappointment melted away as Stein’s side took Celtic to an unprecedented level of success at home and in Europe. Not only were Celtic winning regularly, they were playing attacking, entertaining football which won them admirers among those who love the game. The engine room of that fine side was Auld and Murdoch who would ping passes to a speedy and very effective forward line. Bertie had found his spiritual home. He was a Celt at heart and found in those exhilarating years the perfect team mates to help him shine.  Yes there were still flashes of his temper to be seen and he occasionally took retribution on the odd opposition player who overdid the rough stuff with him or his team mates. He was especially protective of Jimmy Johnstone who took some dire punishment in the more physical environment of 1960s football. Most famously he punched a Racing Club player who had spent the game kicking and spitting on Celtic players. Bertie then simply refused to leave the field when the very weak Referee sent him off. In the Alfredo Di Stefano Testimonial match against Real Madrid, Bertie and Amancio of Madrid went for a 50-50 ball. The Spaniard got a little upset at Bertie’s tough tackling and threw a punch. The Maryhill man answered that in the only way possible by returning the punch with interest. Both players were sent off.   But for most of that golden era he prowled the midfield and helped Celtic to glory using his footballing skills rather than his fists.

He recounts in his biography Celtic’s date with destiny in Lisbon in 1967 and the period when both teams waited nervously in the tunnel before the game. Celtic’s pale Scottish lads glanced nervously at the tanned Italians standing beside them. Bertie decided then to instigate a song and get the Italians thinking about what they were up against.  He started to sing… ‘Hail, Hail, the Celts are here…’ and it spread along the line of Celtic players until they were all belting it out in unison. Suddenly it was Inter who were glancing nervously at the Scots who sang with such defiance. They knew then they’d be in for a game.

It could be argued that Jock Stein broke up the Lisbon Lions team two or three years earlier than was necessary. Bertie was freed in 1971 and joined Hibs. His final appearance in the Hoops saw him carried from the field on the shoulders of his team mates. They knew his value as a player, as a team mate and as a man.  His career took him into management with Hibs and Partick Thistle and it was during his time at Easter Road he bumped into his old sparring partner, Johnny Hayes, who had retired and moved to Edinburgh. The two old pros shook hands and laughed about their punch up of decades before. ‘I hope you could hit a ball as hard as you hit me,’ Haynes joked.

Bertie Auld wasn’t just a great Celtic player he was a great Celtic fan. He always took time to go to supporters functions, to sign autographs or have his picture taken with the ordinary punters who idolised him. Few players in the history of the club have been such great ambassadors for Celtic. His one liners and anecdotes are legendary as were his antics on the pitch. He once said…

“Every time I walk in the front door at Celtic Park, I still feel an immense pride, and at the same time an immense humility because of the way the fans respond to all of the Lisbon Lions.” 

The fans treat Bertie and the Lions so well not just for the success they brought the club on the field but also for the fact they were so obviously committed to the club, so obviously Celtic fans on the pitch. The term ‘Legend’ is banded about too often in the modern era but it can be used to describe Bertie Auld, the Maryhill boy who wore the hoops with distinction. It is now almost 60 years since he first played for Celtic and his affection and enthusiasm for the club has never waned, nor has the affection the Celtic support has for him.

As I watched him smile and joke with supporters of all ages on the Celtic Way last year it was obvious to see that he loves being a Celt. He put people at ease and even at 78 years of age knelt for one picture with a man in a wheelchair. He had time for them all, those who had seen him play and those who only heard the legends from fathers or grandfathers.

Bertie Auld: Celtic Legend. 

For we only know

For we only know

Wednesday’s sobering defeat to Borussia Mönchengladbach was a timely reminder of the road which Celtic still has to travel in order to become competitive in what is the world’s toughest club competition. The Germans are not among the elite of European football by any means but demonstrated the sort of tactical and technical skills which are developed playing in the ultra-competitive world of the Bundesliga. The speed, closing down of space and ruthlessness in taking chances they exhibited was in stark contrast to a Celtic side which never really got going in the game. Celtic are seldom stretched and challenged domestically the way sides like Borussia are on a weekly basis and it showed.

Competition drives up standards and that is one of the reasons Scottish sides performed well in Europe in the years 1960-1985. Our sides reached 7 European finals and numerous semi-finals in that era and we saw some impressive victories for Scottish sides over some of the big guns of Europe. Not just from Celtic and Rangers; Dunfermline knocked Everton out of Europe, St Johnstone disposed of Hamburg, Dundee beat AC Milan at Dens Park and both Fergie’s Aberdeen and Jim McLean’s Dundee United took some notable scalps. In that 25 year period Scotland saw 7 different domestic champions (Hearts, Dundee, Rangers, Kilmarnock, Aberdeen, Dundee United & Celtic) and a real struggle for the title every season. In the last 30 years no side outside the big two in Glasgow had won the title and the adage about monopoly (or duopoly) being good for no one rings true.

However the lack of a truly competitive and high quality league in Scotland isn’t the only factor affecting our clubs chances in Europe. As television popularised the sport in recent years and sold it so well to a global audience, the revenues available to the big leagues have grown at a huge rate. The billions flowing through La Liga, the Bundesliga, Serie A and of course the Premiership in England have seen the construction of wonderful stadiums and excellent coaching facilities. Add to this the investment in coaches to develop young players and the progress on the field begins to make sense. The number of coaches holding a UEFA A, B or Pro- Licence in the big European leagues is very telling. Germany has more than 35,000 and there is a coherent strategy in place to ensure young players receive a proper footballing education ranging from skills, fitness and tactics through to lifestyle choices and media training. This added to the free availability of good quality pitches across the country helps enormously. The down side for a country like England is that the TV billions has drawn in mercenaries from across the world and on any given weekend less than 35% of players playing in the English Premiership are actually English. Among the top 4 or 5 clubs the percentage is far lower.

Scotland isn’t alone in feeling that the financial clout of the big leagues is leading to a two tier game in Europe. One idea being touted again is that of an Atlantic League involving the best clubs from countries such as Holland, Belgium, Portugal, Scotland and Denmark  banding together to form a new footballing ‘country’ to compete with the big leagues. Henrik Larsson’s former Agent, Rob Jansen stated recently that in 1999 it almost happened…

‘In 1999, I worked with Celtic to prepare a plan that was so revolutionary, everything would have changed in football. In secret I spoke with Rangers , Ajax, PSV Eindhoven, Feyenoord, Porto, Benfica, Sporting Lisbon, Anderlecht, FC Copenhagen, the top clubs from Switzerland and Celtic too obviously. They would all have left their national leagues. We created a giant fictitious country of more than 60 million people by combining these teams. We had multinational companies ready to sponsor us, we knew how we would sell the TV rights, how the payments would run, the arbitration was settled, the infrastructure. Unfortunately, some people opened their mouths, UEFA was furious and it collapsed. Now clubs from Holland and elsewhere will never be able to challenge again. The chance has gone.”

One wonders if Celtic supporters would have turned out in their droves to see games against Benfica, Basle, Porto, Ajax, Copenhagen and Anderlecht? It would of course have been more competitive and raised revenues to new heights as well as offering in theory 3 or 4 places in the Champions League were UEFA ever sanction it. The frustrations felt by clubs like Celtic, trapped as they are in a low revenue league must be balanced against the duty they have to Scottish football. Would it be morally correct to dump the rest of the game here and chase the money?  Some argue Scottish football would wither away others that it might flourish in the absence of the two giants who have won 101 of 120 league titles played since 1890.

All of this is of course speculation but it is symptomatic of feelings in the smaller footballing nations of Europe. With Champions League spaces being guaranteed in bigger numbers to clubs from the big five football leagues (Spain, Germany, Italy, England & France) it will become even tougher for teams such as Celtic, Ajax or Legia Warsaw to reach the group stages and if they do they will face sides with infinitely more financial clout. A look at some of the hammerings teams from out-with the big leagues take in the Group stages speaks volumes about the increasing gap between the haves and have nots of European football. UEFA show little sympathy as they dance to the tune of the rich and powerful clubs.

Of course the smaller clubs in Scottish football may argue that Celtic does exactly the same here as the big clubs do in the Champions League; buying up talented players and generally dominating the scene. Indeed they welcome Celtic’s money as much as Celtic welcomes the fat cheques from the English Premiership for their stars. It’s a conundrum with no easy answer as few would be up for the sort of change which might make Scottish football more competitive; smaller number of clubs in the league, amalgamations if necessary, bigger clubs spreading the money more and  pushing the Scottish Government to invest more in the grass roots of the national sport.

It may well be that Celtic continue to function as a big fish in a small pond and that no real change in the structures of the game at domestic or European level will happen. It may be hard for fans to accept that even if Celtic build a good side they may well be asset stripped by the cash rich clubs in England or elsewhere. No one likes watching the better players being sold but financial realities dictate that men like Wanyama and Van Diijk can make life changing amounts of money elsewhere and the club needs the huge cash injection such transactions brings.

One thing is for certain though; Celtic is a club with a huge support and fine European history. To maintain our profile requires fairly regular participation in the Champions League group stages. All of Europe watches these games and will not fail to be impressed by the noise and passion of Celtic Park. It may be more difficult to build a team to compete at the very highest level but it isn’t impossible and in Brendan Rodgers we have just the man to help us progress at that level.

Lisbon is now half a century in the past and a return to those glory days seems unlikely given the prevailing conditions in European football. That doesn’t mean we give up our dreams of enjoying those great European nights under the lights. It does mean though that we approach those nights with a sense of realism about what is possible. On any given night we can give anyone at game at home as some of the very best teams in Europe have found to their cost. There’s still a magic and a romance about those big games under the lights at Celtic Park and the ghosts of the past would be happy that the Celts are still at the party.

Whatever direction football takes in the future you can be sure Celtic and their faithful band of supporters will be there giving their all. This club has become a part of the lives of so many people and they’ll ensure it survives and thrives wherever the road leads it. As the song says…

‘For we only know that there’s going to be a show and the Glasgow Celtic will be there.’

Worth Fighting For

Worth fighting for

Sunday mornings are one of my favourite times of the week. As an early riser I have the house to myself for a few quiet hours to write, read or watch a bit of TV. Today I watched a programme on one of the history channels about the struggle for civil rights in the USA in the 1960s. To modern eyes the naked hatred and institutional discrimination which occurred in America in those days is simply appalling. There is a case for arguing that the USA still has a long way to go to live out its creed as a free and equal nation but the changes brought about by the sacrifice and courage of people back then were real enough. They faced brutality, violence and murder and much of it meted out by the forces of law and order which should have been protecting them. The long march to freedom of the African American people is not yet complete and what Lyndon Johnson called the, ‘crippling legacy of bigotry and injustice’ lingers on today.

Human beings seem at times unable to escape the tribalism which so often rears its head in history. We are in truth sometimes most comfortable in company of like-minded people and I can recall my old man talking about enjoying being with his ‘ain folk’ at Celtic Park on a Saturday. He wasn’t an exclusivist or bigoted man but here he could express his opinions, sing his songs freely and feel comfortable among people from a similar background. That group identity and loyalty is still strong among Celtic supporters and Archie McPherson once said that ‘it’s hard to think of a club so embedded in its community.’ That community realised at the inception of the club that if Celtic was to become a force in Scottish football it couldn’t limit itself to the Victorian ghetto of the Glasgow Irish community. Willie Maley, who was there at the birth of Celtic and played in the club’s first game in 1888 said…

"Much has been made in certain quarters about our religion, but for forty-eight years we have played a mixed team, and some of the greatest Celts we have had did not agree with us in our religious beliefs, although we have never at any time hidden what these are. Men of the type of McNair, Hay, Lyon, Buchan, Cringan, the Thomspons, or Paterson soon found out that broadmindedness which is the real stamp of the good Christian existed to its fullest at Celtic Park, where a man was judged by his football alone."

Maley knew Celtic needed to be inclusive to thrive but also knew the hard hearts of those in Scotland who despised the club would be difficult to soften. Having said that, Scotland as a whole absorbed more than half a million Irish migrants in a single lifetime without serious civil unrest and that says much about the common decency of most Scots. Yes there were bigots and racists who didn’t appreciate the newcomers but they exist in all lands at all times.  It may not seem like it sometimes in an age where one moronic comment can be shared with thousands on social media but the real bigots are a minority.  Of course to view the experiences of the Irish in Scotland through the lens of the African American experience demonstrates clearly that while hatred has similarities everywhere, the black experience of prejudice in the USA was infinitely more brutal, pernicious and deep rooted.

The founding generation of Celts would be happy that their offspring have assimilated into Scottish society so well and now rightly take their place in every trade, profession and position in the land. Those early Celts would also be delighted to see so many people from all walks of life, all faiths and none and all ethnicities proudly calling themselves Celts. That inclusiveness is the Celtic ideal and if on occasion some of our fellow fans fall short in word or deed it doesn’t change the fact that Celtic is for all and that is the foundation the club is built upon. Walfrid’s club was forged in adversity and demonstrated that despite experiencing poor treatment at times it was best not to become insular and inward looking. The people who founded Celtic built a stadium for 60,000 when the biggest average crowds in football were scarcely 10,000. That forward thinking is the mark of an institution going places.

Watching the struggles of the African American people on TV this morning was a sober reminder of the power of hatred. It was noticeable though that among the thousands who marched on Montgomery, Alabama or to Washington to hear Dr King speaking of his ‘dream’ there were many white faces. Moral issues such as racism or segregation led to good people joining the struggle from all racial groups. In some ways this teaches us that such struggles are seldom a simple battle between black and white, Catholic and Protestant or in current terms between Islam and the west; the struggle is usually between the decent people in all communities and those who, for whatever reason, revert to hate or violence.

I once wrote of the only time in my life I was seriously contemplating giving up going to watch Celtic. The realisation that some of our own could behave so despicably towards an opposition player because of his race appalled me. What kept me on board though was the reaction of the bulk of the Celtic support who called out the morons who abused Mark Walters in 1988 for what they were. One Fanzine described them as ‘racist arseholes’ and told them in uncompromising language that this was not what Celtic was about. Someone once said, ‘evil thrives when good people do nothing,’ in that sense I’m glad the good people among the Celtic support refused to allow those few individuals to act as they did with impunity.

Whenever I raise issues of bigotry among supporters of Rangers I get the odd message telling me that my opinions are based on hatred of the Ibrox club. I bear hatred towards no one but feel it right to point out the behaviour of a minority at Ibrox who seemingly intimidate the decent supporters there into silence when it comes to their less cerebral songs. At Inverness this week we had the incongruous sight of players holding up cards saying ‘Show racism the red card’ whilst at the same match their supporters sang songs about being up to their knees in Fenian blood. They surely see the irony? For many who sing such songs it’s all posturing and empty gestures but in joining in these songs they embolden the more dangerous types into thinking their warped world view is acceptable.

The point of what I’m saying this morning is that decent people, no matter what club they follow, must continue to fight for a healthier more tolerant society. No group or community in any society holds all the virtue or wisdom.  

I’m glad the Celtic support was quick to challenge a few foolish young men in 1988. It would have been greatly disturbing if they hadn’t. Martin Luther King once said…

‘In the end we remember not the words of our enemies but the silence of our friends.’

Thankfully our friends among the Celtic support were not silent in the wake of idiotic intolerance. Celtic means a lot to a lot of people and some things are worth fighting for. 

We must always guard that we never become that which we claim to despise.