Familiarity breeds contempt

 

Familiarity breeds contempt

The coming week will see the resumption of the Champions League Group Stages and all Celtic supporters will be hoping for a positive result against Lazio. The Italian club have had an indifferent start in the league, winning two of their first six matches and currently lying eleventh in the table. They have a tough match on Sunday away to high flying AC Milan and hopefully that takes a bit out of their legs before the trip to Glasgow. They lost 2-1 home and away to Celtic in the Europa League in 2019 so will know to expect a tough match at Celtic Park.

The ties between the two clubs were competitive on and of the park. Lazio’s ultra groups have a reputation for extreme right-wing leanings, whilst those of Celtic are diametrically opposed to such a world view. Indeed, at Celtic Park in 2019, a banner depicting the death of Italian wartime leader, Benito Mussolini, was flaunted in the stadium along with the words ‘Go the way of your leader.’ It was a predictable occurrence, as were the attempts of Lazio ultras to attack Celtic fans in Rome at the return leg.

Lazio, as a club have tried hard in recent years to shed the reputation its ultra groups have gained for it as a fascist and antisemitic club. The main Lazio ultras group over the past thirty years, the ‘Irriducibili,’ disbanded or rebranded (take your choice) after arrests, banning orders and a storm of condemnation of some of their more demonstrably racist actions. The group released a rather pompous and self-aggrandising statement which read…

“As with all things in life, there is a beginning and, inevitably, an end. There is a time for everything, even for those fantastic, glorious stories; sooner or later, the curtain falls. The important thing is to have lived these stories, as protagonists or even lions. Experiencing it dangerously, without regrets, and without remorse. There have been exciting and difficult moments, happy and sad days. It all started on 18 October 1987, when, in a quiet match between Lazio and Padova, a banner with ‘Irriducibili’ appeared on the steps of the Stadio Olimpico. 10 meters of fabric, white writing, and a light blue background. Little would have thought that this name would soon become our symbol; our gauntlet to the whole world. But too much blood, too many banning orders, and too many arrests have occurred. So, after 33 years, we have decided to disband the group. From today, there will be a new dawn for the Curva Nord. For the first time, only one banner will be present in the stands, behind which all the Lazio supporters will be gathered: Ultras Lazio. We have the same desire as ever, the same enthusiasm and adrenaline.”

Fascism in Italian society has deep roots and much as Lazio are the most easily identifiable fan base with a problem with far-right racism, they are by no means alone. To their credit, the club, Italian FA and authorities are targeting the more strident racists on the terraces. Earlier this year a Lazio fan attended a game with a shirt bearing the name ‘Hitlerson’ and the number 88. (symbolising the eighth letter of alphabet: HH-Heil Hitler.’) The fan and two others who were performing the ‘Hitler salute’ were identified and banned for life. Europe seems to have been more plagued with this sort of idiocy in recent years as the refugee crisis intensified. We know about the more obvious displays of far-right iconography in Italy but it goes on in Russia, Serbia, Israel, Poland and in other places.

Are we in Scotland free from this scourge? We have seen a growth in the ‘ultra’ movement in Scotland over the past 15 or 20 years to the degree that even smaller clubs down the leagues can boast ultra groups. Ultras here though are for the most part about supporting their team and winding up the opposition fans. Few are involved in any overtly political activities. The exception being of course those who follow Celtic and Rangers.

Celtic’s domination of Scottish football in the early 20^th century saw some among the footballing public looking for a team to dethrone the ‘Irishmen.’ Rangers developed their identity in direct opposition to Celtic and grew big on the back of it. It could be said that had Rangers not existed, Celtic would be pretty much the same club they are. Had Celtic not existed, Rangers would have been a very different animal. The seemingly symbiotic relationship of the ‘old firm’ was never all it seemed. Celtic certainly needed rivals but it could just as easily have been Queen’s Park or Partick Thistle who developed into the ‘big’ club to challenge Celtic in those early years. The Rangers’ support grew partly on the back of migration from Ulster to the shipyards of the Clyde. Their more strident attitudes grew too in those years between the wars and  they morphed into an exclusivist champion of Protestantism and unionism.

A century later the same attitudes and opinions are still occasionally aired at Ibrox despite the world having moved on considerably. Much of it is empty rhetoric spouted by folk who never really took the time to read up on the history they bang on about. But can we say in all honesty that the Union Bears are a far-right ultras group in the manner of the now defunct Irriducibili? It’s an interesting question. Some feel they simply exist to oppose everything the Celtic ultras support and support everything they oppose. Thus, the Palestinian flags flown by some Celtic ultras are matched against the odd Israeli flag at Ibrox. The fondness among Celtic fans for left-wing German club, St Pauli, is matched by some Rangers fans infatuation with their city rivals HSV Hamburg. It seems as if so much that Rangers’ ultras do is in knee jerk reaction to Celtic.  

Some of the iconography on their tifo displays and indeed in graffiti around Glasgow apes some of the right-wing stuff we see from more seasoned racists abroad. The ‘Bill the Butcher’ tifo recently brought much opprobrium their way and went down like a lead balloon. Maybe familiarity breeds contempt, but you get inured to this sort of tosh and start to see it as a wind up rather than seriously racist. Maybe though we should take a step back and think about what is acceptable in 2023. Freedom of speech is well and good; hate speech is not.

At the end of the day, I want Celtic to succeed at home and in Europe. I don’t want Celtic’s success to be measured against anyone else. The nature of Scottish football means that should there be no entity playing out of Ibrox, as almost happened in 2012, then Celtic would be far too big for the league and would stroll it every year. We’d all get bored with that and look for ways to change it. In terms of footballing rivalry in Scotland’s unique context, it’s not enough to succeed; someone else has to fail. That has been the way of it here for 135 years. Unless the European dimension of football expands to encompass the big clubs in smaller leagues, it will doubtless remain that way.

As Lazio head for Glasgow, here's hoping the minority of fascists who follow them stay at home. Football is the people's game and means so much  to so many. It is far too important to allow it to be hijacked by racists. The good fans at every club need to ensure it isn't.

 

 

 

 

The last acceptable prejudice

 

The last acceptable prejudice

I wonder if there is a support in British football with less self-awareness than some of those who follow Rangers? Not content with singing songs which drag the tattered reputation of their club  through the gutter, they resort to a display in a UEFA Champions League qualifier which purports to depict a character from mid-nineteenth century America who was known for his hatred and violence towards Irish Catholics. Ironically enough, it actually depicts Daniel Day Lewis in the film Gangs of New York. An actor who loves Ireland so much that he has lived for years in County Wicklow, but such things don’t compute with the mindset which thought that such a banner was a good idea. Numbskulls need things to be black and white, as shades of grey and contradictions confuse them.

Below this banner the words ‘Surrender or you’ll die’ were stretched along the front of the Broomloan Stand. Few Scots football fans need reminding that this is a line from the ‘Billy Boys,’ a song about a sectarian razor gang from the inter-war years in Glasgow. That working class Scots sing in praise of a fascist and racist group from a century ago is passed off as ‘banter’ by some, but the truth is, it’s pernicious and corrodes common sense. We all know where these public displays of ritualised hatred can lead. Just pop your head into the A&E department of any Glasgow hospital on a day when Rangers play Celtic and you’ll see.

Bill ’the butcher’ Poole was a real man who lived and died in New York in the 19^th Century. His nativist (anti-immigrant) leanings led the 200lb pugilist into many violent confrontations. For years, his Bowery Boys gang had a deadly feud with the Irish and German Catholic immigrants in the five points district of New York. He was eventually shot dead by an Irish immigrant. Poole’s political leanings were towards the ‘Know Nothing’ Party, so called because members were encouraged to say, ‘I know nothing’ when questioned by others about the party’s darker side. Abraham Lincoln said of them in a letter…

“As a nation, we began by declaring that 'all men are created equal.' We now practically read it 'all men are created equal, except negroes.' When the Know-Nothings get control, it will read 'all men are created equal, except negroes, and foreigners, and Catholics.' When it comes to this, I should prefer emigrating to some country where they make no pretence of loving liberty – to Russia, for instance, where despotism can be taken pure, and without the base alloy of hypocrisy.’

The Know-Nothings eventually merged into other political movements but that strain of anti-Catholic prejudice has deep roots in America and has only in recent decades begun to fade away.

On this side of the Atlantic, most European countries put religion into the private sphere where it could do little harm. In the UK, the monarch is head of the Church of England and the fact that no Catholic can ascend the throne is a grubby little left-over from England’s own anti-Catholic past and an insult to the 7 million Catholics living in the UK. Scotland’s own latent anti-Catholic fringe were reanimated by the arrival of Irish migrants in large numbers. Bear in mind that under the 1801 Act of Union, Ireland was a part of the UK. These migrants were not technically moving abroad but to another part of the same country.  Conditions on their own island had been made intolerable for them as the Irish colony, for that’s what it was, was run to enrich the landowning classes at the expense of the disenfranchised majority.

Competition for work and houses, rumours of wages being lowered because the Irish would work for less, all contributed to ill feeling. It seemed easier to blame the newcomers than to unite the workers and demand a fair deal for all. It was also convenient for the bosses to keep the workers divided as they were easier to control that way. The fact that Celtic Football Club was formed to help feed the children of this migrant community demonstrates the need must have been great indeed. Rangers initially were among the Celtic club’s warmest friends but things were soon to change.

The arrival of Harland and Wolff’s shipyard on the Clyde brought more strident types to Glasgow from Belfast. Celtic’s domination of Scottish football in the years before World War One was hard for some to swallow. With Rangers fast becoming the main competition for the ‘Irishmen’ Rangers took a more exclusive turn under the guidance of Chairman John Ure Primrose. He led the club until 1923 and saw them become a bastion of ‘Protestants only.’ As absurd as this sounds a century later, it was reflective of the society of the time.

It's equally absurd that the SFA, Scottish League and media said nothing as Rangers practiced this petty apartheid for a lifetime. It was boasted in those days that the three pillars of Scottish society were the church, the law and Glasgow Rangers. Such exceptionalism breeds arrogance and much as Rangers were Scotland’s most successful team until the mid-sixties, the arrival of Jock Stein at Celtic changed it in a manner they have never fully recovered from. For the self-proclaimed ‘people’ to play second fiddle as Celtic swept all before them in the Stein era, was hard to swallow. The sectarian policy Rangers operated then gave tacit approval to the bigots among their support and set the club back decades.  As they desperately strove to emulate Celtic’s European cup win, they accrued a mountain of debt which crushed them in the end.

The new century saw them collapse into liquidation and the formation of a ‘phoenix club’ was a golden opportunity to break with the poison of the past but as Charles Green pandered to the baser elements by saying ‘no surrender’ in a TV interview, we knew it was going to be business as usual. They climbed through the lower leagues like a men’s team in a school league and reached the SPFL in 2016 with the slogan ‘going for 55’ to the fore. Celtic duly won four successive trebles to further dent their superiority complex.

All through this period, graffiti, banners and a variety of unsavoury incidents reminded us that they still had a serious problem with bigotry among their support. It was telling that week in-week out we hear the tired old dirges of the ‘bygone days of yore’ as the SFA, Police and media did nothing. UEFA closing part of a stand for ‘discriminatory chanting’ reminded us that footballing authorities can act. So why don’t they?

It's almost as if anti-Catholic bigotry is the last acceptable prejudice. We saw Church of Scotland minister Stuart McQuarrie, at one time leader of the inter-faith chaplaincy at Glasgow University, stated that Catholics should stop ‘wallowing in their victim status.’ He also described ‘The Fields of Athenry’ as ‘vile, vicious and racist’, absolutely comparable to the unashamedly hate-filled sectarian ‘Famine Song’ Mr McQuarrie is not representative of anyone but himself, but that an educated man can verbalise such absurd views is telling.

The media in Scotland tend to follow the ‘unwritten rule’ when writing about this subject and portray both sides as bad as each other. They and many politicians demonstrate a moral cowardice in the face of bigotry and refuse to call it out in clear language. Their obfuscation and false equivalences cloud the issue and we get nowhere.

As for the ‘Know nothings’ and their stupid banner, they may snigger about a ‘Timplosion’ or ‘meltdown’ or other such juvenile nonsense, but the truth is, they damage their own club with these idiotic displays. I really wish they’d join the rest of us in the 21^st century.

What is to be done?

 

What is to be done?

Watching the two Edinburgh clubs advance in Europe this week should have pleased all who follow Scottish football. I must confess to a quiet, ‘yes!’ when Hearts hit a late winner, partly because it meant extra time was unlikely on a work night and partly because it added to Scotland’s co-efficient. The SPFL is currently ranked 9^th among Europe’s 55 leagues and it is this ranking which helped Celtic into the Champions League this season without the need for perilous qualifiers. Hibs did well too although they now face a daunting qualifier with Aston Villa. Whatever happens, they’ll make a few quid and hopefully put up a decent fight.

One thing I noticed about the Hearts match was the fact that the home sections of the stadium were sold out for the game. Indeed, it is said that Hearts have several thousand fans on the waiting list for season tickets although the lack of room for expanding Tynecastle means they may have a long wait. Hibs are averaging around 17,000 at home matches and Aberdeen had a big home support for the visit of Celtic last week and that was encouraging to see.

These three clubs could and should be making the big two work harder in the SPFL. We are now approaching 40 years since a side out-with the Glasgow duopoly won the title here (Aberdeen in 1985) and with each passing season it looks less and less likely that will emulate them. 

It is said that unfettered capitalism leads to power and wealth falling into the hands of fewer and fewer people. We are seeing this at every level of football. In the champions league, the same faces pop up in the last 8 every season and as technically brilliant as some of the teams are, it is getting boring. Now we see clubs from Saudi Arabia spending hundreds of millions of pounds to recruit talent from even the wealthier leagues of Europe. Rumours abound that they will be asking UEFA to admit their teams to competitions like the champions league and given the amount of money they have to spend, who is to say it won’t ever happen?

There is no little irony in English fans bleating about cheque book Saudi clubs when they have plundered the world’s footballing talent using their TV billions for decades. Currently around 64% of the players in the EPL are foreigners, lured there by the big paycheques. The current TV deal for the English Premiership is £1,632,000,000 (£1.632b)  per season. Scottish football will earn £30m for live matches shown in the 2023-24 season. The BBC pays the SPFL £2.8m to show highlights on Sportscene. The same BBC pays the EPL £68m per year to show highlights on match of the day. Indeed, Gary Lineker earns £1.35m for presenting the show. Thus, the vicious circle of the rich getting richer and the poor falling further behind goes on.

Fans out-with the big two in Scotland will say with some truth that the same thing is happening here, albeit on a smaller scale. They troop along to matches each season with no realistic hope of winning the title and only the prospect of a cup run to give them a glimmer of silver. Celtic has won 5 trebles in the past 7 seasons and much as I’ve enjoyed that success, I really do want to see our league return to the days when four or five clubs started the season with hopes of giving winning the title a real go.

It’s no fluke that our clubs did best in Europe when our league was more competitive. In the 25 years from 1960-1985 Scotland had 7 different champions (Hearts, Rangers, Dundee, Celtic, Dundee United, Aberdeen and Kilmarnock) and our clubs regularly did well in Europe. In the past 25 years we have had 2 champions, (though some argue 3 following Rangers’ demise & the new club arriving) with Celtic winning 18 of those titles. Despite a couple of creditable runs in the UEFA cup, Scottish clubs have failed to make any real impression in the Champions League for years now. Indeed, last season, Rangers were officially the worst UCL side of all time.

Of course, football has changed hugely since Scottish clubs were feared in Europe. Clubs no longer split gate receipts 50-50 as was the case back then. The Bosman ruling in 1995 meant that players could run down their contracts and leave a club. In days past clubs like Dundee United and Aberdeen could retain players for years and build a decent side. Those days are gone forever, as are the times when it was said there was a good footballer up every close in Glasgow.

So, what is to be done to make Scottish football more competitive? I have heard suggestions such as splitting TV money evenly among all the clubs in the top division. Some even suggest pooling all money paid by UEFA to Scottish clubs each season and sharing it evenly among all top flight clubs for the good of the game. Reducing the senior game to two leagues of around 16 clubs and depositing the rest in the pyramid system below this has been mooted. All of this is highly unlikely to happen as the member clubs would need to vote for it and Turkeys do not vote for Christmas. The single biggest thing which might bring true competition back to the Scottish Premiership is for Celtic and Rangers to leave.

The Champions League is evolving into a more recognisable league format in the years ahead and it remains possible that a European League may emerge with several divisions within it. That seems to be the most likely scenario in the next couple of decades. The rumblings about a breakaway league some years back, has spurred UEFA to act. At the end of the day, they want to keep control on this money-making machine.

In leagues all over Europe the wealth is accruing in the hands of a few big clubs and competition is suffering. The ‘Scottish disease’ of the big boys monopolising the trophies is spreading. We see Bayern Munich on ten in a row in Germany, Juventus did nine in a row in Italy, Manchester City have won five of the last 6 EPL titles and the Barca/Madrid duopoly in Spain have won 19 of the past 23 titles. Although football can be an unpredictable and passionate game, the reality is that the gap between the haves and have nots has never been wider. Unless there is some form of redistribution of wealth, this gap will only grow.

Just as Scottish football’s smaller sides look to the league cup draw this coming week and hope to avoid the big two, so too our two biggest clubs will (should Rangers make it) await the Champions league draw with some trepidation. At both national and international level, football’s food chain is marked and obvious. The big fish come from the leagues with the huge TV deals. Money is the deciding factor in the modern game.

I love Scottish football. It has a rawness that many money bloated leagues have lost. I wish I had the answer to making it more competitive, but the honest truth is I don’t. It’s now 39 years since Alex Ferguson led Aberdeen to the title. It could be another 39 till they do it again if nothing changes.

I’m open to suggestions.

 

 

Larsson and Bloody Mary

 

Larsson and Bloody Mary

Joe closed the laptop and looked his brother Eddie, ‘that’s it done. Two tickets for the match at fifty euros a pop aff the UEFA site and two return flights to Spain at sixty bar.’ Eddie Doyle looked him, ‘beating Stuttgart at home disnae mean we’re making the final. We’re not even in the quarters and you’re gambling on Celtic going all the way? We’ve no’ been in a European final for 33 years.’ Joe smiled at his brother, ‘Oh ye of little faith! I feel it in my blood, Eddie, we’re going all the way this year.’ Eddie shrugged, ‘I’ll go halfs wi ye. I guess we can flog the tickets if we get papped oot.’ Joe nodded, ‘we’ll call it a ton, bro. Best hundred quid you’ve ever spent.’

Joe and Eddie joined 10,000 other Celtic fans in the Gottlieb Daimler Stadium on a chilly February night and watched Celtic race into a 2-0 lead in 15 minutes. Alan Thompson and Chris Sutton were on target as Didier Agathe terrorised the German defence with his pace. With the tie at 5-1 on aggregate, Celtic were not going to blow it now. The away fans were ecstatic and bounced and sang till they were hoarse. The Hoops gave their fans some anxious moments but saw it over the line. Celtic were in the last 8!

The Hoffbrau Bierkeller was full of Celtic fans celebrating their victory in the tie and the Erdinger was flowing like water. Eddie and Joe were in the company of some German Celts from Hamburg. ‘Did you know that stadium we played in tonight,’ one of them began in excellent English, ‘was once called the Adolf Hitler Kampfbahn?’ Joe looked at him incredulously, ‘really? And what does ‘kampfbahn’ mean?’ The big German replied with a serious face, ‘it means battlefield.’ He then smiled as the band started playing an Irish song, ‘anyway, fuck Hitler and fuck the nazis!’ Eddie raised his beer, ‘I’ll drink to that pal.’ They sang and drank till 1am, when their taxi arrived to take them to the airport for the dawn flight back to Scotland.

Joe Doyle watched the UEFA delegate draw the teams for the quarter finals of the UEFA Cup. ‘Give us the Turks or Panathinaikos!’ he muttered as the draw began. The first ball came out of the large fishbowl they used on such occasions… ‘Celtic!’ ‘Come on said Joe, Turkey or Greece!’ The next kinder egg was drawn from the bowl…. ‘will play… Liverpool.’  His face didn’t know where to laugh or cry. This was a tough assignment but then Martin O’Neill’s side had already dumped some tough teams out of Europe. His phone lit up as Eddie called, ‘did ye see the draw, Fannybaws? We’ll get two good nights out anyway but the odds ain’t good.’  Joe remained an optimist though, ‘they’re not the team they used to be. We can roll them if we get a lead in the first leg.’  Eddie looked at him, ‘heart ruling the head, Joe, but we’ll see.’

Celtic Park hummed with anticipation on a dark March night as 60,000 fans crammed in to watch the ‘battle of Britain.’ Gerry Marsden led the crowd in a booming rendition of you’ll never walk alone and then it was show-time. John Hartson and Henrik Larsson terrorised the Liverpool defence in the opening period. First Larsson kneed home a goal in under two minutes, then Hartson hit the bar with a dipping shot, before fizzing a thunderbolt just over. Liverpool were rocking as the huge Celtic support were worked into a frenzy. Then, just as the game settled, the Celtic defence slept as Heskey raced through to arrow a low shot past Douglas. The game ebbed and flowed from then on in but there were no more goals. Celtic trooped off to applause from their fans who knew the team had given their all.

As Joe and Eddie trooped along the Gallowgate they were realistic about their chances at Anfield. ‘We played well tonight, showed we can get behind them, but we’ll need to be good to win down there,’ Joe said. Eddie for once was the more optimistic of the two, ‘we could have been two or three up in the first ten minutes. We can beat them if the defence disnae dae anything daft.’ They both knew Celtic were the underdogs now but this Celtic team had cojones, they’d give it 100% at Anfield.

A week later the brothers squeezed into the Tollbooth Bar to watch the match from Merseyside. The mood was confident among the fans, especially after the first few minutes when it was clear Celtic were up for the fight. They gave as good as they got as Liverpool seemed content to sit on 0-0 having the away goal from Glasgow. Just before half time, Celtic won a free kick 25 yards from goal. ‘Leave it Thompson, let Larsson hit it,’ Eddie shouted at the TV screen. Three seconds later he was locked in a wild embrace with a total stranger as Alan Thompson smashed the ball home. The pub exploded with joy! Celtic were in the lead.

‘Just hang in there, Celtic!’ Joe shouted as the second half began, but Celtic continued to press and harry Liverpool. As the game entered the final ten minutes, the tension was unbearable. One slip would mean extra-time. Then in happened. Joe watched it unfold as if in slow motion, John Hartson picked up a pass outside the penalty box and sidestepped a feeble looking tackle. As the brothers watched, he unleashed a thunderbolt of a shot which flashed past Dudek in the Liverpool goal and almost burst the net. ‘Yaaassssssssss!’ Joe roared, ‘ya big, beautiful, sexy, Welsh bastard ye!’ The brothers hugged and fell to the floor of the pub as fans jumped and danced all around them. It was mayhem, it was epic, it was chaotic, it was victory!

Joe glanced at the TV, ‘I’d rather avoid Lazio and Porto. I think Boavista are the best bet?’ His brother nodded, ‘we’re so close to this final, Joe. I’m starting to believe you were right, this year is a special one.’ As the draw came through, Joe smiled. Lazio v Porto and Celtic v Boavista. ‘Bring it on,’ he smiled.

Boavista Oporto were without a doubt the most cynical, time-wasting, play acting bunch of charlatans either brother had seen at Celtic Park in their time watching Celtic. They fell over at every opportunity, took an eternity with kick outs and throw ins and to cap it all took the lead from a freaky own goal. The tension seemed to be getting to Celtic as their support got increasingly tetchy. Larsson gave Celtic a massive boost by equalising but 15 minutes from time he missed a penalty. It was a hugely frustrating night for Celtic who had squandered chances and now faced a trip to Portugal with their hopes hanging by a thread.

The two brothers were mentally and physically drained by the match but that was nothing compared to what was to come in Porto a fortnight later. Celtic were stifled by the Portuguese side who seemed happy to sit on their away goal and slow the game down at every opportunity. It was a turgid and frustrating game to watch. As Joe and Eddie sat on the living room floor, their family crowded on the couches behind them, it looked as if the team had finally run out of steam. ‘Come on Celtic! Wan goal, wan fecking goal!’ Eddie roared in frustration. His granny Maggie approached the tv from behind him with something in her hand. ‘Ott the road, I cannae see the game. What ye doin’ granny?’ Joe asked, ‘I got this in Portugal ten years back, Noo’s the time tae use it.’ As they watched, she unscrewed the lid of a plastic statue of the Virgin Mary she had got on a trip to Fatima and splashed holy water on the tv. Eddie looked at Joe , who shrugged. ‘It cannae hurt?’ Joe shook his head, ‘it can if she fuses the feckin telly!’

As the grey-haired matriarch sat down again, all eyes focussed on the TV in time to see a Boavista defender tackle John Hartson. The ball spun towards Henrik Larsson who scuffed his shot somewhat but the ball spun over the despairing gloves of goalkeeper Ricardo and into the net. The modest house in Glasgow, like so many around the country and indeed the world, exploded with joy!  Eddie embraced his wee granny, ‘ye did Maggie, you and bloody Mary!’ His granny had tears in her eyes, ‘I telt ye tae trust me. Noo, no more of yer blaspheming or ye’ll get a bat on the jaw!’

The game dragged agonisingly on for a further fifteen minutes before the referee whistled for the end. Celtic had done it! They had made it to their first European final in 33 years. The Doyle’s drank and sang long into the night and Joe passed the tickets around the family as if they were precious works of art. ‘We’re going to Seville!’ he smiled at his brother. Eddie nodded, ‘I never believed it would happen but fair play to you, bro. Those tickets will be worth a fortune now.’ Joe sipped his beer, ‘aye, but they’re not for sale. Not at any price.

No one could guess what the final would bring, they were happy just to enjoy the night. Their magical football club and its amazing support were off for another adventure.

Carnations and Clovers

 

                                                 Carnations and Clovers

The Estadio Nacional in Lisbon will always hold a place in the hearts of Celtic fans. It is here that Celtic’s greatest triumph was played out underneath the azure skies of a Portuguese summer day. Today it remains a place of pilgrimage for Celtic supporters and some estimate that more Celtic fans have visited the stadium in the years since that legendary match that actually attended the final. Such is the stadium’s hold on the collective memory and psyche of Celtic supporters that a trip there is on the bucket list of many of them. This was the scene of their greatest achievement, the vindication of the hard years struggling through poverty and discrimination to greatness. It was here that Glasgow Celtic arrived before the eyes of the footballing world and dazzled them with a display of footballing brilliance.

Many supporters who attended the final in Lisbon were surprised that a stadium with such an unusual design was chosen to host such a prestigious match. Architect, Miguel Jacobetty Rosa’s design was based loosely on the Olympic stadium in Berlin but in having one side of the stadium open, it mimicked the ancient Greek stadia of antiquity. This pleased the dictator of the time who envisaged people of the distant future looking at the stadium in the manner people today look at ancient Greek or Roman ruins. The stadium was designed to be part of a much larger sporting and cultural complex which encouraged the people of Portugal to be active and healthy.

Completed in June 1944, the opening ceremony may have looked fascist on the surface, with thousands of athletes marching past the presidential box and giving the ‘Roman salute’ to dictator Salazar. However, despite the fascist overtones, Portuguese politics under the dictator, Antonio de Oliveira Salazar claimed, rightly or wrongly, to be neither of the left or right, but a one-party state built on the foundations of conservative, Catholic social teaching and nationalism. Thus, the stadium in Jamor, on the western edge of Lisbon, had none of the fascist insignia built into it which were a feature of Hitler’s and Mussolini’s architecture. Indeed, in Italy today, it is not unusual to see fascist symbols surviving from Mussolini’s time on buildings or even drain covers.

The stadium has hosted many international matches and most Portuguese Cup finals since it’s opening in 1944. Some of the games played there have grown into  legendary status in Portuguese society. The great Torino side of the late 1940s played a testimonial match there before flying back to Italy and meeting with the awful plane crash which wiped out the entire team. Among the victims of the crash was Valentino Mazzola, father of Sandro Mazzola, who scored the penalty for Inter Milan against Celtic in 1967.  There was an embarrassing 10-0  defeat for Portugal at the hands of  England in 1947 when Tommy Lawton and Stan Mortenson scored four goals each. In Portuguese popular culture though, it is the cup final of 1969 which lives in the collective memory.

Football has on occasion provided the context for political dissention and expression. As the stuffy far-right dictatorship of Salazar drifted on into the 1960s, change was in the air. Salazar was a traditional dictator who suppressed civil and political rights, censored the media, used his secret police to arrest and torture opposition figures and engaged in brutal colonial wars which saw hundreds of thousands killed in Portuguese colonies. His apologists say he kept Portugal out of the second world war, modernised the country and gave it a sense of itself, but at what cost? When he fell into a coma in 1968, it seemed a moment had come where the people would have yet another dictator to lead them or decide to fight for real change.

As so often happens, that struggle for change would be led by the young. Portuguese students had been vocal in their opposition to the dictatorship and this came with many risks.  The students who were leading the demands for freedom centred on the university town of Coimbra. The Government was becoming increasingly dismayed at their demonstrations and things came to a head when the towns football team, Académica de Coimbra, reached the cup semi-final in 1969. The players took to the field wearing black armbands to mark the ‘death of liberty’ and their fans chanted for freedom. Salazar and his regime doubtless hoped they’d lose the ties with Sporting CP, as they did not want Académica fans using the Portuguese cup final as a focal point for demonstrations against the dictatorship.

As it transpired, they won both legs of the semi final to reach the final and set up a tie with the wonderful Benfica side of that era. Benfica, if you recall,  had lost an epic European cup tie with Stein’s Celtic on the toss of a coin that season after a 3-3 aggregate score. They didn’t want to slip up in the cup final against their unfancied opponents from Coimbra.

The Benfica players and many of their fans were solidly behind the Académica fans demonstrations and indeed many joined in. For their part, the regime stopped the game going out live on TV in order that the Portuguese public wouldn’t see the demonstrations. The President and his ministers broke with tradition and refused to attend the game. The police looked on nervously as the fans chanted their songs of freedom and held up banners with phrases such as ‘More teachers-less Police’ and  ‘Less shooting, less barracks, less repression.’ 

When the teams took the field, the Académica players wore teachers gowns over their strips in solidarity with the professors at the university who were with the students in their protests. For Portugal it was a dangerous moment. The authorities could easily unleash more repression if the demonstrations continued.

On the field, Académica led the great Benfica 1-0 until the last few minutes when Simoes equalised to take the match to extra time.  In extra time the great Eusebio scored the deciding goal. Given his personal support for the protests, he described it as, ‘the saddest goal I ever scored.’ Benfica took the cup but the fans of both sides let the government know that the demands for freedom and democracy were only getting louder. The students and football fans who attended the 1969 cup final in the Estadio Nacional, turned the cup final into a political event and in doing so turned the rhetorical power of the stadium itself against the regime, who built it and tried to impose their own set of meanings onto it. This supposed imposing symbol of nationalism and authority was now ringing with songs of freedom.

It took five more years of protest and repression before elements of the army finally had enough and overthrew the regime in a bloodless coup. The population poured onto the streets to convince the army not to replace one dictator with another. At the flower market, a restaurant worker put carnations in the barrels of the soldiers’ guns. Others followed suit and the ‘carnation revolution’ was born. The army didn’t fire a shot as the people embraced them on the streets. Portugal then began its painful transition to democracy.

The Estadio Nacional has seen its share of great sporting moments. Sporting CP fans will tell you of how their ten men came from two goals behind to equalise with the last move of the game in 2015, before winning the cup on penalties. Porto fans will remind you that they won the cup there in 2003 to complete a domestic treble, to which they added the UEFA cup.

Of all the matches played at the quaint stadium on the western outskirts of Lisbon though, one stands alone for those who know their footballing history.  The defensive strategy of Inter Milan had won them the European Cup in 1964 and 1965 and saw then narrowly lose in the semi-final in 1966 to eventual winners, Real Madrid. Against this experienced and formidable side came eleven pale Scottish lads playing in the European cup for the first time. They were led by a coach who wanted the game to be played in a different manner. Jock Stein would tell his side to be true to their history and their traditions. They would attack Inter Milan from the start with pace, verve and style. His team would not rely on histrionics, simulation or time wasting; they would play the Celtic way.

The effect of this relentless Celtic attacking was mentioned by seasoned international defender Tascisco Burgnich. He was a man who had made 467 appearances for Inter and appeared in the 1970 World Cup Final for Italy, and yet, as he recalls in the book ‘Inverting the Pyramid’ the Inter players came to the realization that the team was ‘destroyed’ and that Celtic would not be denied their date with destiny. He said…

"I remember at one-point Picchi turned to the goalkeeper Sarti and said 'Giuliano, let it go, just let it go. Sooner or later, they'll get the winner'. I never thought I would hear those words. I never imagined my captain would tell our keeper to throw in the towel. But that shows how destroyed we were at that point.”

Two years after Celtic’s shining moment, the students of Coimbra started their own revolution, but in a very real sense, Celtic had started a revolution of their own on that sunny day long ago in the Estadio Nacional.  European clubs saw the way Celtic had played and attacking football was back in vogue. The great Ajax team of the early 70s is often quoted as starting 'total football' but watch that match from Lisbon in 1967 and tell me that isn't total football!

And so, they still come to the Estadio National. Some were there in 1967 and wanted to see it again. Most were too young to remember the Lions mauling of Inter, but have been raised on those tales of glory from childhood.

The old stadium means different things to different people, but it lives long in the hearts of many. For those who wore the carnation, it is a place where freedom once more found its’ voice.

For those sporting the four-leafed clover, it was their field of dreams where the human spirit triumphed against the odds yet again and Walfrid’s wildest dreams for his club were exceeded.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Playing Russian Roulette

 

Playing Russian Roulette

Nottingham 1983

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

 

The Hunt for Dessie McGuigan

 

The Hunt for Dessie McGuigan

Glasgow 1967

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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