Celtic memories

 

by Andrew Else

“You can feel the hatred in the air”

 

I can’t say I had ever previously (or ever since) heard this phrase used as a selling point to a sporting event. Clearly I was venturing into unchartered territory.

 

The year was 2004 and I had just commenced the customary post-uni, pre-responsibilty sojourn to the UK. My first stop was Glasgow, Scotland, where I reconnected with folk that I hadn’t seen since a family holiday over 13 years previous. My Mum had left these shores over 30 years ago, and although many of her friends and family followed her to the sunny place, there were still plenty of relatives around to show me all that the European City of Culture (1990) could offer.

Being of the same age (give or take), my cousin Michael took it upon himself to show me these offerings. Firstly, he took me to the pub, next, he took me to the football.  As with most of my family, Michael is a Celtic fan. Actually, is fan the right word? Put it this way, at the time, he was 20 years old and had seen The Hoops live in London, Brussels and Seville, was a long-term season ticket holder…and the walls of his bedroom were painted green and white.

I had arrived in Glasgow just before Christmas, which meant I was instantly thrust into the world of family gatherings. You must remember that since it is single digit degrees outside, most of these events involve sitting around in the lounge room talking (loudly) and laughing (even louder). There are no games of backyard cricket, no kick-to-kick and no way you can be without a drink. As the hours roll on, talk turns to football. Now obviously this is more than common in our town, except in this instance, you don’t have the knockabout uncle that goes for Collingwood, the loveable aunty that goes for the Dees and the 8 year old cousin screeching ‘Buddy’ in a piercing, primal way that instantly takes you back to those running, bouncing goals. In this lounge room, everyone follows The Bhoys, and everyone has an opinion…a serious opinion. As I watched these opinions grow more fierce, I noticed a change in my cousin. Michael had gone from Jack-The-Lad to a wide eyed, fire breathing passion pit. I think he was lambasting the goalkeeper, but I’m not so sure.

 

Through my Uncle’s lending of his season ticket, I was able to attend a game in between Christmas and Hogmany. Celtic ‘gubbed’ Hibs (from Edinburgh) 6-0 and I was very satisfied with my day out. Since Michael’s seats were in the next bay (probably not a bad thing), I sat in my uncle’s seat , where I was immediately struck by the fact that the crowd around me was almost exclusively male. Not only that, the average age would’ve been 55 (including my 22 year old self).

 

In the days following the Hibs game, it became apparent to my uncle that I had appreciated my experience and that I was keen for more. At the dinner table the next night, Michael floated the idea of me using my uncle’s ticket again for the next home game….Celtic v Rangers. Now I knew that this was something altogether different, and I acted accordingly. I started to engage in a textbook display of the ‘oh no, I couldn’t possibly’ dance. Not once did I smile, I shook my head with purpose, I lifted my hands, pointed my palms to the table and moved them back and forth, back and forth..’I know how important it is Uncle Will’….’It’s live on TV anyway’…’You’ve been so generous already’. Fortunately, Uncle Will was agreeable and said I was free to use his ticket, with the disclaimer that I owe him ‘Big Time’. He didn’t smile when he said that. I know now where Michael gets ‘that’ look from.

 

Michael was nervous in the lead-up to the game. He says that he has trouble sleeping, trouble focusing on Uni and by all appearances, trouble putting together a coherent sentence. Finally, on January 2, the day arrived.

 

As we drove to the ground for the midday kick-off (the early start nominally lowers the level of ‘anti-social behaviour’), I am struck (as I was for the Hibs game) on the neighbourhood Celtic Park is located in. I will just say that Abbortsford in the 30’s couldn’t have been less appealing. Due to this, when you park your car in street, a kid aged between 6 and 9 will run up to you and say ‘watch yer motor mister?’ At this point (I learned), you hand over a pound coin or two. Apparently this ensures that your car will not be touched for the rest of day…

 

Walking up to any ground is always a wonderful experience for me. Whether it is trekking up Napier st with Dad and carrying my milk crate to stand on, ambling through Birrang Marr or bracing the icy wind outside Southern Cross, the feeling of excitement is always there. On this day in Parkhead it was no different. There was singing, flags waving and that buzz you get before a big game. There was one major difference though: not one opposition fan. Being a derby game, one whole side of the ground is sectioned off so the away fans can come in and out without incident. This side of the ground is guarded by mounted police and, once in the stadium, these fans have to wait until the area is clear before they leave.

 

Pre-game, the usual songs of ‘Fields of Athenry’ and ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ are played over the tannoy. I am impressed by the singing, the colour and the passion. To my right are the Rangers fans and as you can see in the photo, they are separated by police from the base to the top of the stand. While the Celtic fans sing, the Gers fans whistle, wave their flags and sing chants of their own. Both sets of fans have been brought to task over the years for sectarian singing, but I can’t really tell from where I’m sitting what the boys in blue are coming up with.

 

Having taken up the same seats as the Hibs game, I can instantly see that everyone is much more serious this time around. This feeling is instantly reinforced less than one minute into the game as an obvious (even for me) call of offside against the home team causes every one of the middle-aged men around me to leap out of their seat and direct language the colour of the opposition’s shirts towards the man in black. Soon though, the game settled into a rhythm and it became clear that Celtic (thankfully) were the better side.

 

By the 19^th minute, Celtic’s dominance was reflected on the scoreboard, with a goal by Petrov (the days of the team being filled of Glaswegians have clearly long gone). Cue bedlam. I would love to be able to describe the waves of green and white exploding before me, but in fact all I could see was a barrage of tweed and raincoats engulfing my vision as my new found cronies enveloped me in a tobacco and whisky-scented blanket of joy. The men around me, who had probably been to hundreds of these contests, were jubilant.

 

The second half was a procession. Varga and Thompson (an Englishman) scored to make it 3-0 and it was a happy day. I know that for a fact as the tannoy played the ‘Happy Days’ theme tune at the conclusion of the game. Needless to say everyone around me knew the words.

 

As we walked towards the car, Michael was pumped. One aspect of the walk out of the ground was, again, the absence of opposition fans. Obviously in this scenario it makes perfect sense to separate the fans, but I did miss that little buzz you get when you walk around the MCG and catch a glimpse of the opposition. This emotion can range from pity (Roos fans) to vengeance (Blues/Pies), and it certainly doesn’t require any words to be said, but I could now see it for the privilege that it is.

 

Once we got in the car (which obviously hadn’t been touched, given our 2 Pound investment), we engaged in what must be a worldwide tradition of flying the scarf out of the window. With the green and white colours piercing the freezing Caledonian winds and The Pogues blasting out the speakers, we set about planning our evening. Or at least I think that’s what we were doing. Most of Michael’s contributions ranged from ‘on ye go Big Man’ to ‘oh ho eeeeaasssaaaaay’ to ‘hoo aboot a few cheekys…mon the hoops!’

 

As we got closer to our destination, we set upon a red light. As we stopped, Michael realized that we’d pulled up to ‘The West End Inn’. With the front all decked in blue, it was clear that the strains of ‘Dirty Old Town’ would not be appreciated. Quick as a flash, the stereo was off, the scarf was reined in, and after a nervy ten seconds, we pulled away.

 

Quite an experience.