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.

The Best

 

The Best

Celtic’s deserved victory in the League Cup Final over Rangers brought their trophy hall of major honours to an astonishing  114.  With 52 leagues, 40 cups, 21 league cups and of course the European cup on the board, The Hoops are on course to become the most decorated club in Scottish football history. There are some who claim that they already are given that they have now won higher percentage of tournaments entered than any other Scottish side; Rangers (1872-2012 edition) had a 15 year start on Celtic in the Scottish cup yet Celtic are well ahead in that competition.

If you look at the list of clubs with large tallies of domestic title wins, you’ll soon see that they mostly come from smaller countries where a small number of big clubs dominate. Linfield FC currently have 56 league titles, the most in the world. This would almost certainly have been less had their main rivals, Belfast Celtic, not left the league in the late 1940s after reprehensible violence against their players in a match with Linfield. At that point in their history, Belfast Celtic had 14 titles to their name (to Linfield’s 18) and were one of the biggest and best supported teams in the league. Today, Linfield’s average crowd is around 2700.

In Egypt, Al Ahly have won 42 of the 63 titles competed for; that is around 67% of all titles have been won by this one club. Their overall trophy haul in Egypt eclipses anything seen in Scotland but what does that say about the relative strength of the two leagues? Celtic brushed Al Ahly aside in the Wembley Tournament in 2009 with a comfortable 5-0 win. Celtic fans have known for a long time that the real test of their team is in European football and that arena is becoming more challenging as finances are increasingly accurate predictors of who will do well. The later stage of the Champions League is increasingly seeing the same old faces every year.

As a fan though, I look forward to Celtic smashing Scotland’s all time trophy records.  Apart from local bragging rights, it may then put an end to this nonsensical talk of a Scottish club being the ‘most successful in the world.’ Real Madrid have won 21 European trophies as well as 8 world club championships, how can winning trophies in a small European league like the SPFL be compared to that? Don’t get me wrong, I love it every time Celtic wins another honour and see the sweat and effort the team puts into winning. Like most Celtic supporters though, I do not want to see cringey banners with ‘going for 55’ or ‘most successful club ever’ scrawled on them. Of course, there will be wind ups of the opposition if and when Celtic win a few more trophies but in reality, we recognise that much of their hollow boasting about ‘55’ etc, was actually aimed at deflecting from the hard reality (for them) that their club went bust in 2012.

Football is going through an odd phase at the moment where even in the big leagues, the level of competition seems to be diminishing. Bayern are currently looking for their 11^th successive title in Germany, a feat unheard of before. Juventus completed 9 in a row in Italy in 2020 and in France, PSG have won the league in 8 of the past 10 seasons. Even the cash bloated English premiership can realistically only be won by 3 or 4 clubs.

Money is increasingly calling the tune and Europe’s bigger clubs are again rumbling about a super league. This time the suggestion is 80 teams in ten leagues of 8. Each team would be guaranteed 14 European matches. For a club like Celtic, their UEFA coefficient might drag them into the 6^th or 7^th division (they are 56th in the co-efficient table) of such a competition. Based on these current coefficients, they could face the likes of Zenit, Real Sociedad, Monaco and Galatasaray. It would guarantee a huge lift in revenue for Celtic but might interest wane in the domestic league? Or would they have a big enough squad to deal with both?

This is all speculation at the moment, but the idea won’t go away. If the Scottish league continues to be relatively uncompetitive, then Europe, with all its glamour and TV money looks an attractive option for a club like Celtic, constricted in a low revenue environment. One English fan said online recently, with typical arrogance, that winning the Scottish league is like being voted the best dressed man in the doss house. We’ve grown used to the almost pathological disdain for our game among some in England but it is clear that many there do see the SPFL as two bald men fighting over a comb.

We who avidly watch the game here see it differently. The raw passion and ancient rivalries make it better than many realise. The fans support the game with such passion and commitment and there are some decent players plying their trade in Scotland, but the Achilles’ heel of our game is the domination of the honours by two clubs who are, in essence, too big for the league they are in.

That being said, I’ll still enjoy my football and will still take great pleasure in every honour Celtic wins. I won’t be claiming any world records though or suggesting that my club is the world’s most successful team. I’ll leave that nonsense to those with more of an inferiority complex.

To me, my club will always be the best and I don’t need any hollow boasts about trophies won to feel that.

 

Piling on the agony

 

Piling on the agony

Maggie Rooney put the phone down on the kitchen table and looked at her sons. ‘Yer cousin Kevin fae America is coming o’er for a wee visit next month. Uncle Frank says you’ve tae show him aroon the old neighbourhood and try and get him a ticket for the game wi Rangers.’ Jim Rooney looked at his mother, ‘Whit? Tickets for that game are like gold dust!’ His bother Paul, a young man given to using rhyming slang at every available opportunity, chipped in, ‘he’s right, ma. Wilson Pickets are as rare as a handsome hun. Mer chance of getting him his Nat King than a ticket for that match.’ His mother gave him that withering look she saved when for she was seriously annoyed. ‘Just find Kevin a ticket or I’ll be giving him yours or yer brother’s. He’s flying in fae New York, no hopping a bus fae East Kilbride.’ The two brothers looked at each other. They had two weeks to sort out a ticket for a cousin they had never met. It was a tall order.

Jim and Paul sat in the Brazen Head mulling over their problem. Most ardent Celtic fans would never give up their ticket for such a game. They asked around the bar but were met by the same blank faces and shakes of the head. Their cousin was arriving the day before the match and they’d be picking him up from the airport. They had only seen pictures of a smiling 20-year-old in a baseball cap and New York Yankees T shirt, on their uncle’s Facebook page. Kevin Rooney had never set foot in Scotland and now Paul and Jim were set to babysit him through a derby weekend.

It looked as if Celtic could actually clinch the title if they won the derby match which made finding a ticket even harder. As the days slipped past and the game approached, they were becoming resigned to one of them giving up their season ticket for the day. On the Friday before the match, they met in a Celtic pub on the High Street. ‘We’ll roll the dice or play rock, paper, scissors to decide who gives their ticket to Kevin,’ Jim said, before taking a long sip of his pint. His brother shook his head, ‘naw, He can have mine. I’ll get behind him and double up.’ Jim looked at him doubtfully, ‘you know the stewards and cops are complete dicks in our section. I don’t want you huckled.’ Paul shook his head, ’I’ve talked tae big Andy. We’ve got a plan but it’ll take good timing.’ Jim shrugged, ‘right fill me in. How are we getting three guys in with two tickets, to the biggest game of the season?’

Paul and Jim stood at the international arrivals gate of Glasgow airport waiting for their cousin to disembark from his flight. They had exchanged a few messages on a WhatsApp group they’d set up and Kevin seemed genuinely excited about his flying visit to his father’s home city. ‘He’d better no be a Sherman tank,’ Paul said caustically, ‘some of these yanks are full of Lillian Gish.’ Jim shook his head, ‘you’d best drop that stupid rhyming slang or he’ll no have a clue whit yer oan aboot.’ Paul grinned, ‘shut yer Queen of the South afore I rattle yer RS McCalls!’ Jim laughed out loud and was about to respond, but before another word was said a trickle of people began to pass through arrivals. Sleepy looking kids in their parent’s arms, old folk with their garishly coloured American clothes and, near then end came Kevin Rooney.

He was around six feet tall, with neat crew-cut hair and was wearing a green t shirt with an image of Billy McNeill holding the European cup high above his head, on it. He carried a rucksack over his shoulder and He grinned at his cousins, showing the best set of teeth either of them had ever seen. ‘Paul! Jim! Great to finally meet you guys,’ he said in a thick American accent before hugging them both in turn. As they strolled to the car park, chatting and laughing together, it was clear they’d all get on very well.

On the drive back to Glasgow, Paul filled his cousin in on the plan they’d come up with to get all three of them into the game with only two tickets. Kevin smiled, ‘fuckin A,’ he said, ‘this is going to be a fun weekend.’ Jim smiled at his brother and gave him a wink which said that Kevin seemed a spot-on guy. The big match was just 24 hours away and after touching base at home and grabbing some food, they’d be heading for the pub and a good singalong.

Kevin Rooney looked up at the curved ceiling of the pub, gazing at the flags, shirts and scarves of various clubs, but mostly of Celtic. Jim handed him a beer, ‘there’s a band on later. I take it you know a few Celtic tunes?’ Kevin grinned, and replied in his New York accent, ‘my dad plays them all the time. Our neighbours are Greek and dad’s always bustin’ their balls with his Irish toons. They keep asking me what’s a Scottish guy doing in New York playing Irish songs?’ Jim nodded, ‘aye, uncle Frank always liked the rebs. He’s been in America for over 25 years noo and he’s no changed by the sounds of it.’ Before Kevin could respond, Paul showed up with his pal Andy Toner. Andy was as tall as Kevin and shook his hand vigorously, ‘nice tae meet ye, mate. Paul’s been tellin’ me yer a good cunt.’ Kevin looked at Paul, ‘that’s a compliment around here, cuz?’ Paul laughed, ‘aye, here in Glasgow it is.’ They discussed their plan for getting into Celtic Park the next day and each of them knew their part. Behind them the band started playing and the bar became more raucous. The beer flowed and the crowded pub sang along to a variety of Celtic songs.

Big Andy excused himself during the interval in the music and approached the lead singer of the band. ‘Here mate, Rooney’s cousin’s in fae America,’ he turned and nodded towards Kevin as he stood drinking with Paul and Jim, ‘the black-haired guy wi the teeth like Red Rum, could ye do a wee request for him? He returned to his friends’ side just as the band started up the second part of their set. The lead singer strummed his guitar and shouted into the mic, ‘are we ready to rock this place?’ There was a roar from the packed bar as he continued, ‘this one is for Kevin Rooney from New York City, here for the game tomorrow.’ With that the band picked up the tune and began to sing…

’A  Yankee came to Hampden Park a football match to see

Attracted by the magic of the old firm rivalry

Well, little did he know just what a treat he had in store

When watching Glasgow Celtic adding to the score…

 

The whole bar joined in in the chorus and Kevin, the worse for drink, had a grin like a Cheshire cat as he punched the air and roared out with the rest…

 

‘Piling on the agony – putting on the style

1-2-3-4-5-6-7 scoring all the while

There’s nothing in this whole wide world

That makes you want to smile

Like watching Glasgow Celtic putting on the style.’

 

The night passed in a blur of songs, drinks and carousing before they made their way home for some much-needed sleep. There was a big game coming and they needed to be ready for it.

The following morning, they ate a heart fry up made by the ever-vigilant Mrs Rooney, and drank cups of strong tea. ‘Did ye get a ticket for Kevin?’ she asked a bleary-eyed Jim. ‘Aye, ma. It’s all sorted so don’t you worry.’  She smiled, ‘oh I wisnae worried, he’s going no matter what, but I just want you two tae go as well so ye can look after him. It can get wild at those games.’ Kevin reached for the tea pot, ‘oh, my head. What a night that was.’ Paul smiled, ‘sure was cuz, you enjoyed yersel, ay?’ The young American nodded, ‘yeh, but a month of that and I’d be dead.’ Jim Rooney finished his tea, ‘quick pint in McChuills and then on to Paradise!’ The fresh air cleared their heads, their plans were laid and all roads led to Celtic Park.

At the turnstile big Andy was waiting. ‘Alright boys, we ready to do this?’ They lined up with Andy in front, Kevin behind him, clutching Paul’s season ticket. Paul was right behind him ready to double up, while Jim trailed up the rear in case anything went wrong. ‘Remember,’ Andy said, ‘timing is vital, When I distract the stewards you two double up.’ Andy clicked through the turnstile, smiling at the pair of dour faced stewards who stood watching the fans arrive, as he did so. Kevin hesitated as he’d been told to do, and watched as Andy went behind the stewards and dropped a batch of Chinese firecrackers. The noise sounded like an explosion of gunfire behind the stewards and they spun in fright to see what the hell was going on. As they did so, Kevin pushed the season card into the reader and he and Paul squeezed forward together. For a horrible second it seemed like they’d get stuck but Jim Rooney pushed Paul from behind and the turnstile clicked them through. Jim used his season card to join them, muttering to his brother, ‘your fat Khyber Pass nearly jammed the turnstile.’ Paul laughed, ‘you using rhyming slang noo, ya tadger?’ They grinned at each other and led Kevin to Block 111. Now it was time to see if Celtic could win the title against their derby rivals.

Kevin Rooney had never experienced anything like it. The noise of the crowd, the relentless drumming and bouncing up and down had him gasping at the spectacle of it all. When Odsonne Edouard opened the scoring on 14 minutes, he was swamped by limbs hugging him and delirious faces roaring out in primeval joy. It was sport at its crazy, visceral best and he was loving it. Forrest and Edouard scored again before half-time as Celtic swept Rangers aside. The noise and excitement in the stands were almost reaching hysterical levels. The second half began the same way with Rogic and McGregor slamming home and Rangers seemingly in for a record hiding. The Rooney boys sang their hearts out as their beloved Celtic stormed to another title win. As the final whistle sounded, Kevin looked up, smiling at the blue Glasgow sky, ‘wow! Dad, I know just what you were talking about now when you said this place rocked!’ The fans around him began to sing a song he recognised from the night before and he looped his arms over his two cousins’ shoulders and joined in…

‘Piling on the agony – putting on the style

1-2-3-4-5-6-7 scoring all the while

There’s nothing in this whole wide world

That makes you want to smile

Like watching Glasgow Celtic putting on the style.’

As he watched Celtic lift the trophy and fireworks exploded into the sky above the stadium, he glanced at his cousins. They were totally immersed in their club, totally committed to following its fortunes for life. He had the bug now and was so glad that he’d been here to watch Celtic piling on the agony.

 

Lost in Translation

 

Lost in Translation

Tony guided his bike carefully along the darkened street, weaving in and out of the puddles as he did so. You never could tell which pool of water was hiding a pot hole. He’d been thrown of his bike on more than one occasion by the dreadful roads in Glasgow. His shift was winding down although his miserable boss had insisted that he work on this cold February night. Delivering food on his bike with a huge insulated box strapped to his back was not how he had envisaged his life panning out but he needed to pay the bills. On this particular night though, he would much rather have been at Celtic Park watching his side take on Rangers but his boss had told him that should he choose the football over work then he needn’t bother coming back. Tony had shaken his head upon hearing this news but he shouldn’t have been surprised, Mr Weir’s nose was such an obvious shade of blue.

He had seen the streams of Celtic fans in cars, buses and on foot all heading for the game and had been given a cheer by some as he cycled past wearing his Celtic scarf. As the evening progressed, he’d stop to check the score on his phone and felt a mixture of elation that his team were delivering a long over due skelping to their city rivals, and disappointment that he was not there to see it. As he rode an empty life at the Ladywell flats with a delivery, his phone pinged to tell him it was half time at Celtic Park. He knew the team was 1-0 ahead five minutes before half-time, but as he opened his phone to see that it was now 3-0, he couldn’t help but roar, ‘yaasss!’ in the empty lift.

It was nearly 11pm when he checked the courier app on his phone for one last job before he cycled home to his weary bed. He liked doing the late deliveries as the restaurants he delivered from often gave him some of the food that was left over from the kitchen. He’d tasted food from a dozen cultures doing this job and hoped he’d get some tonight. He also liked surprising his other half with some unusual cuisine. He parked his bike outside the Nippon Kitchen, smiling at the just about audible sound of Celtic fans singing somewhere in the city centre. He knocked on the door and the familiar figure of Mr Sato was waiting for him. ‘Hello Tonee,’ he smiled, ‘big order tonight.’ Tony unzipped his insulated box and they began to load containers of delicious smelling food into it.

Once he had carefully packed all of the food containers and some Japanese beer into the side compartment of the box, he zipped it up and smiled at Mr Sato, ‘that the lot for tonight?’ The little man smiled and handed him a carrier bag. ‘For you, when you finish. The udon and okonomiyaki are good tonight,’ Tony smiled, ‘I’ll look forward to trying that, Mt Sato. See you next time.’ With that, he hoisted the box onto his back and headed out to unlock his bike. He checked the delivery address on his app and set off on what would be a fairly long cycle.

The house was on one of those streets that Tony could only dream of living on. The big Edwardian pile stood in its own grounds and as he cycled up the tree lined driveway; he noticed four expensive looking cars parked at one side of the house. ‘All right for some,’ he thought to himself as he dismounted his bike and swung the box from off of his back. He rang the doorbell and the door was quickly opened by a east Asian man wearing a Celtic sweatshirt. Tony smiled, a little surprised at seeing his club’s crest, ‘food delivery!’ The man nodded and said in surprisingly good English, ‘thank you, could you bring it in please?’  The man glanced at the Celtic scarf, visible beneath Tony’s heavy coat. ‘You are a Celtic fan?’ Tony nodded, ‘aye, boy and man. All my life. What about you?’ The man guided Tony into a kitchen which was bigger than his flat, ‘yes, I am now. I work with Celtic as a translator.’

 Tony smiled and was just about to reply when he heard the volume being turned up on a tv somewhere. The unmistakable sound of Celtic Park singing ‘you’ll never walk alone’ filled the house. ‘Your family watching the game?’ The man nodded, ‘you could say that, come through and say hello.’ Tony followed the man into the big hallway, noticing how ridiculously overdressed he seemed, as he glanced at himself in a big mirror which hung on the wall. The man opened the living room door where a group of people sat on a large L shaped couch watching Celtic on perhaps the biggest TV Tony had ever seen. The only light in the room was a lamp in the corner and the group seemed totally focused on the tv.

The man spoke in Japanese to the four or five people watching the football. The first to turn around was a young woman who smiled at Tony and said something in Japanese, ‘she says, why don’t you take your coat off? You look very warm.’ Tony smiled at the young woman and unzipped his coat, his Celtic scarf falling out loosely. She stood and pointed at his scarf, ‘Henrik Lar-ssoon!’ Tony nodded, ‘aye, my hero when I was a lad.’ The translator repeated his words in Japanese and she nodded before heading off to the kitchen, Tony guessed to get the food ready.

On the tv screen, Reo Hatate shot towards the Rangers goal and the ball slipped into the corner of the net. Tony watched with a huge smile on his face, at least he’d see the goals tonight. ‘That was great, wee Reo has been immense this season. That goal he scored at Tynecastle was a peach.’ The translator smiled, ‘why don’t you tell him?’ He spoke to one of the men on the couch and he stood and turned to face Tony. To Tony’s amazement, the unmistakable form of Reo Hatate was gazing at him and smiling. ‘Thank you,’ he said in reasonable English, with a small bow. ‘Reo, my man!’ Tony blurted out, ‘what a goal that was tonight!’ The young Japanese midfielder listened as the translator did his work. Hatate smiled said in halting English, which one?’ He then gestured towards the couch as the translator looked at Tony, ‘he says you should sit and watch the football.’ Tony was taken aback but soon had his jacket off and headed towards the couch.

He sat, a little tentatively beside the track suited footballer, just in time to see Him slam in another goal on the screen. ‘Yes, wee man! Get in there!’ he said instinctively as the amused translator quietly relayed his words in Japanese.  Before Hatate could respond, Abada latched onto a cross from Jota and slammed number three into the Rangers net. Tony found himself punching the air, ‘Yaaass!’ he called out, as the assembled Japanese people applauded, almost politely, ‘skelped them good tonight!’  The translator touched his shoulder, ‘what is ‘skelped?’ Tony grinned, ‘it means, eh, give them a good slap. Like yer ma would skelp yer butt if you were a bad yin.’ He gestured with his hand. The man explained this in Japanese to Reo Hatate and his family. They looked a little confused but smiled politely.

At that moment the young woman Tony had spoken to earlier came into the room with a tray loaded with food. She put it on the coffee table in front of the couch and went to fetch more. When she returned, she handed Tony a bottle of Sapporo. The translator looked at him, ‘you have no more deliveries? You will stay for some food?’ Tony was a little embarrassed, ‘eh, well, that’s kind of you. Thank you.’ As the football continued on the screen, Tony ate the most unusual and unexpected meal he could remember, but he enjoyed it nonetheless.

After half an hour or so of trying different foods and trying very hard to control his chop sticks, Tony looked at the translator, ‘I need to go home. My bird is expecting me and I’m already late.’ The translator looked at him, ‘you have a parrot or finches, perhaps?’ Tony grinned, ‘naw, a ‘bird’ is like an expression for a girlfriend.’ ‘Ah,’ the translator smiled, explaining it to the other people in the room. He nodded and turned to him, ‘in Japan we say ‘koibito.’  Tony repeated it, ‘koibito.’

As he stood and put his coat on, he tossed his Celtic scarf to Reo Hatate who sat watching him. ‘One day, you’ll be on my scarf.’ The translator explained what he said and Hatate bowed a little, ‘Thank you.’ As Tony was about to reply, the young woman came into the room with more food. Tony gestured towards her then, looking at Hatate said, ‘koibito?’ The whole room bust into laughter as Tony looked around trying to figure out if he’d made a gaff. The translator smiled. ‘No, not sweetheart, little sister.’ Tony grinned and shook hands with Hatate and the translator before heading for the door. As he did so, he turned and smiled at the Celtic midfielder, ‘keep skelping them, Reo!’

As he cycled off into the darkness, he mulled over the unexpected turn the evening had taken. ‘Tracy’s no gonnae believe this,’ he mumbled to himself, ‘koibito or no!’ He freewheeled down the hill, feeling a little exhilarated and called out to the darkness, ‘mon the Celtiiic!’