by Martin Greig
The day I arrived.
The world always looked different on the morning of an Old Firm game. I would wake up an hour before the alarm, get dressed and go out for a walk to clear my mind. It’s just another game, it’s only two points. I never believed that. Not for a second. The Celtic–Rangers rivalry ran deep, but for me it was personal. In the moments before the whistle blew I would look around the crowd. I’d see all of them, the men from the Cross, the ‘friends’ who shunned me, the family members who sneered at me.
Da. My own da. Before every Rangers game. Never a “good luck, son,” or a handshake. Nothing. Couldn’t bring himself. Couldn’t even fuckin’ look at me. Just a long, lingering, heartbreaking silence. Then, Ma kissing me sympathetically on the cheek as I left, feeling every ounce of the pain and disappointment written all over my face.
So I would take in the Rangers crowd. The contempt and hatred etched all over their thousands of faces.
I met them all with a steady gaze.
Fuck you. Fuck all of you.
Suddenly I would be able to feel the blood coursing through my veins, the hairs on my neck rise and my back straighten. I would gently readjust my socks, turn my collar upwards and prepare for battle.
“LET’S GET FUCKIN’ INTAE THEM!”
I played in my first Old Firm game on New Year’s Day 1952 and lost 4-1. Against 10 men. I did not even shower. Just grabbed my stuff and raced home where I placed my head in my hands and wept, humiliation crashing over me in waves. But success breeds confidence and victory in the Coronation Cup led to a turning of the tide. The 1-1 draw at Ibrox on September 19th 1953 was a sign of how far the team had come. Then, in the New Year’s Day fixture of 1954, Mochan scored with half an hour left for a 1-0 win. The team continued to grow in stature and a superb nine-game winning run left us requiring a draw at Easter Road on April 17th to win the league. Mochan delivered once more with two goals before John Higgins scored a third to secure our first title in 16 years. The significance of it was huge. We were no longer a decent cup team who could produce heroics on their day. We were consistent. We were courageous. We were Celtic. And we were back where we belonged.
~~~
Me and the boys chip in for a fish supper to thank our hosts for their hospitality. Nicky walks me, Mark and Eddie down to Camden High Street where the chippy is. Rocky, curiously, decides to stay behind at the last minute; says he’s too tired after all the driving and playing football. As we walk away from the house I feel a sudden dark wave of resentment towards him as I realise he has outmanoeuvred me. It was his bloody idea to get the suppers in. To get rid of me for a bit.
Suddenly the sick feeling in my stomach lifts as I hear a voice behind me.
“Nicky! Tim! Wait for me!”
We turn. She stops, takes off her shoes, and breaks into a run to catch up with us.
We amble onwards together, a merry band on the cusp of a golden age.
“Do you fellas realise that Camden is one of London’s auld Irish areas?” enquires Nicky.
“Naw, Nicky, I didn’t know that,” says Eddie.
“How about we drop into one of these boozers to mark the occasion?” I suggest.
“Sounds good to me!” declares Eddie.
The shop is pure rammed on account of it being a Saturday night. Smoke comes over the top of the snugs. A band jammed into the corner table. Sure enough the lion’s share of the punters are Irish, young and old. It’s a rare wee community atmosphere in the joint.
“You boys fram Glasgow?” says an old timer whose ears and National Health specs are too big for his face. He is propped upon a bar stool and sips from a pint of stout.
“We are indeed,” I declare.
“Are yez Celtic?”
“We’re too good-looking to be the other mob!” says Eddie.
“Good lads. Will yez be watchin’ da game on da television on T’ursday?”
“Television – we’re going to it!”
“Sweet Mother of Mercy! Yez are goin’ te Lisbon? Pat! Pat!”
He tries to get the attention of the hard-looking barman who has a map of Eire for a face. “PADDY!”
About a dozen faces turn to him.
“Dese fellas are only goin’ te Lisbon – te see the Celtic!”
We are feted like returning sons. Pints of stout, wee whiskies, pats on the shoulder. The band even dedicate a song to us.
As down the glen came McAlpine’s men
With their shovels slung behind them
It was in the pub that they drank their sub
Or down in the spike ye’ll find them
We sweated blood and we washed down mud
With quarts and pints of beer
But now we’re on the road again with McAlpine’s Fusiliers.
“This is fucking brilliant!”
“Pure magic!”
“The berries!”
Delphine just looks at me, smiles.
I chat with the old fella. He’s a nice old guy.
“Where are you from Barney?”
“County Meat’. What about yersels?”
“The Gorbals.”
“The Gorbals! Jeezus and His Holy Mother. Pat! Pat! PADDY!”
Again about a dozen faces turn to him, including that of the barman.
“Dese fellas are only fram da Gorbals! God bless ye Tim. Da Gorbals indeed!”
“It’s the holy ground, so it is.”
“It is dat right enough. I’ve been der.”
“Have you now?”
My blarney detector rises to full-alert status.
“Aye. Stayed der one winter . . . not long after da war, da first one. I’d fallen foul o’ the wrong people in Dublin – those were troubled times in Ireland. I went along te Celtic Park quite a few times. They had a smashin’ side then, so they did!”
“What players did you like?”
“Willie McStay, Alec McNair, Joe Cassidy, Jean McFarlane, Adam McLean . . .”
Christ, so much for Barney the Blarney!
“Tommy McInally was a great player, wonderfully gifted. He was fast as greased lightning, and had a fine pair o’ balls swingin’ between his legs. He hardly ever wasted a chance. He had scored t’irty-nine goals da season before, including a fookin’ hat-trick on his debut. But he was a loony. He’d showboat, ye know, show off his skills te da fans. Used to piss the manager off no end, an’ his team-mates. Maley couldn’t control ’im.”
“And last, but by no means least . . .”
“Patsy!”
“Patsy Gallacher.”
“Da greatest player who ever pulled on a pair o’ boots – and I mean dat son. Da Mighty Atom we called ’im, on account of ’im bein’ such a slip o’ a lad. The genius of da wing. A fookin’ Irish poet – ’cept he used a ball instead o’ a pencil.”
“Tell me, Blarney – I mean Barney, what was your favourite-ever Celtic match?”
“Oh, let me tink now . . . Rangers 0 Celtic 2, January 1st, 1921. Cassidy scored about five minutes before half-time. Den he scored again midway through da second half. Big Willie Cringan was magnificent at da back. He kept da Huns at bay. And McNair – the Icicle we used te call him, was steady as usual. He played more games for Celtic dan any other player, did Alec. But it was Joe Cassidy who stole da show. We went on te win da title dat season.”
He puts his roll-up between his lips and begins rummaging with both hands in his jacket pockets for something, cursing under his breath. He lets out a little exclamation of triumph then fixes me with his eyes, misty grey and glassy beneath the milk-bottle lenses.
“Der’s sometin’ here I want ye te have.”
He presses a little Saint Anthony medal into my palm.
“ ’Twas blessed by da Holy Father himsel’. Not his current Holiness, da prior incumbent, an’ one again.”
“I can’t take this Barney!”
“Yes ye can. Kiss it in Lisbon and offer up a prayer dat Celtic will prevail. Did ye know dat Saint Anthony was born in Lisbon?”
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“Thank you Barney.”
We head out and get the suppers.
“Delphine, I’m sorry if I neglected you in there.”
“Not at all. In fact I was impressed you took the time to talk to that old man. It really made his night.”
We watch the others walk ahead, Nicky enjoying the company.
“Nicky seems better. Now he’s met Margaret-Mary.”
“How do you mean?”
“He was always quite . . . brooding. Melancholic. It kind of runs in our family.”
“And you think she’s cured him? Cured his melancholy?”
“I don’t mean cured exactly. It’s just that he seems better, that’s all. I reckon he’s in love with her.”
“Love! Everyone thinks they’re in love.”
“Well, they’re obviously very happy together.”
“No they’re not, it’s all the same, nobody is.”
“Why not?” I ask, quite taken aback.
“It’s not natural.”
I decide to eat a few chips.
~~~
November 25th, 1953. The day the scales fell from my eyes. I peered through the murk and witnessed football in its purest form. The most thrilling expression of the game ever delivered. I was mesmerised, even before the first whistle blew. Ferenc Puskás, standing in the centre circle after the coin toss, casually juggling the ball with feet and knees, then back-heeling it to a team-mate. Who were these men? They were the Magical Magyars and they were about to rout an England team containing Stanley Matthews and Alf Ramsey, 6-3. The trip south had been organised by the chairman. Most of my Celtic team-mates treated it as a jolly. Not me. I stood there, amid the sea of humanity, and felt my life changing. I fished around in my pocket and found a pencil and a scrap of paper. I kept writing down the same word: ‘Attack’.
At the end of our victorious 1954 season, the chairman announced that he was sending the entire playing staff to the World Cup finals in Switzerland. My heart leapt. It meant another chance to see Hungary, who had just followed up their Wembley win with a 7-1 victory against England in Budapest. Just about every theory I ever had about football was taken to new extremes by the Magical Magyars. They were unashamedly, gloriously different. Puskás’ juggling summed them up: ‘We are Hungary and we do things our own way.’
Coached by Gusztav Sebes, they were the first team to take tactics seriously. At Wembley, it had taken me until 10 minutes into the second half to work out their formation. By the time I arrived in Switzerland it was clear in my mind. Three defenders, one sweeper and two full-backs that spent most of their time in the opposition’s half but were fit enough to get back and defend. A defensive midfielder added another layer of protection but, otherwise, the whole team was set up to attack. In Jozsef Bozsik they had a talented playmaker. Nandor Hidegkuti played as a deep-lying centre-forward and spent entire matches completely unmarked, wreaking merry havoc. Zoltan Czibor tore up and down the left wing like an Olympic sprinter. Then there were the front two: Sandor Kocsis and the legendary Puskás. Hungary ran over the top of teams, overwhelming them in attacking waves. It was so exhilarating it almost did not seem real. In their group games they destroyed South Korea 9-0 and West Germany 8-3. It was like watching a different sport. Their defeat to West Germany in the final robbed them of their destiny, but they had changed my life forever. Wherever I went in football, the image of the Magical Magyars and their brand of attacking football was my touchstone.
Preparation is not all about tactics. It is not all about training fields and magnetic boards and team-talks. It is about creating a spirit, getting inside the heads of players. Preparation is about being in the moment before it arrives.
We are in a small room at Seamill. The players are sitting on rows of plastic chairs. Usually, we would have a quiz, something light-hearted, but tonight I have chosen something different.
“Gentlemen, watch and marvel,” I tell them. “Neilly, stick the lights off,” I say to Neil Mochan, club legend and now trainer.
The room plunges into darkness and Neilly turns on the cine projector. Grainy footage flashes up on the white wall where I have been standing. The European Cup final, 1960. Real Madrid v Eintracht Frankfurt. Hampden Park. One of the greatest games ever. One of the greatest displays of attacking football ever witnessed on such a stage. A murmur of approval sweeps the room. The players are sitting upright in their seats now.
Goal after goal. Wave after wave of attack. Thrilling attacking football. Puskás, Gento, Di Stefano. Football raised to an art form. Every goal greeted with a cheer. I look at Sean and wink. Sean smiles.
The game finishes, the footage flickers out, the room goes dark. The players clap and cheer.
I stand up. “Gentlemen, it is not what you achieve, it is how you achieve it. Now, get to your beds you fuckin’ miserable bunch.”
~~~
We approach Nicky’s house, mellowed by the stout and the evening sunshine, the fragrance of fried cod whetting our appetites. I consider how differently I feel about this house now that it has gained some familiarity with me. Now it represents warmth and possibilities.
Inside there is little conversation amid the satisfied chomping and Rocky, to be fair to him, doesn’t take long to get over being pissed off at our being delayed by the boozer. Nonetheless I can tell he wants Delphine. But he’s not getting her. Not this time, buddy. Christ, he fancies himself. I don’t blame him. Got those dark-Irish looks and no shortage of patter. I think back to the only time I got a click he wanted. These recruiters were over from Ireland. One of them was a sexy colleen, Mairead. Very intelligent woman. Very feisty. I reckon my knowledge of international socialist struggle trumped Rocky’s Plaza dance-floor chat-up lines and I ended up pulling her. His face the next day! Anyway, it all turned a bit sour when next thing I hear they had got Iggy all set to take the IRA oath. There’s me running round the Gorbals like a blue-arsed fly, pulling in every favour I am owed – and quite a few others – to get him off the hook. Mairead wasn’t too keen on me after that. Said I didn’t have the stomach for the fight. She was probably right. I suggested to her that maybe it would be better if there wasn’t a fight.
“Would you like to come to a party? It’s quite nearby.”
“Sounds good, Albie.”
“Shall we get a few bottles of plonk out of the car?” Eddie winks at me when he says this and we get set, armed with some of the worst red wine available to humanity, Lanliq and Eldorado.
“At lease no-one else will half-inch it,” reasons Eddie.
The party is one helluva do. It’s in this grand, beautifully furnished house in Swiss Cottage.
We walk in, into another dimension. All of our senses are assaulted. The fug of hashish smoke, the hypnotic throb of psychedelic music. A huge white sheet is suspended from a balcony. Weird, abstract images are being cast onto it by a projector slide filled with coloured oils. Other striking images are being superimposed on top of this: a naked woman, her skin covered in tattoos, a bloom of jellyfish, an Easter Island statue, a close-up of a beehive, a Rothko, an iguana, Fred Astaire in a set piece from Top Hat, the Milky Way, Lenin, a mushroom cloud, a hundred shaven-headed Buddhist novices in brilliant orange robes, an orchid blossom, an extreme close-up of a gastropod shell, a scene from The Wizard of Oz, a troupe of dancing circus horses.
“Haud the bus!” exclaims Rocky.
“Beats the Blarney Stone,” I observe.
The revellers are a sight to behold. Men and women dressed in all manner of strange attire mill around chatting or dance almost imperceptibly to the driving bass-line of the Beatles’ Tomorrow Never Knows. Nobody – apart from us – seems remotely fazed by the proceedings.
There is a man dressed as a wizard, a woman as Boadicea, a Georgian gentleman – complete with blusher and powdered wig, and several pixies.
“Fucking hell. Nobody telt me we were going out guising!” says Eddie.
Two homosexuals mince by, holding hands.
Eddie
turns to Mark. “At least you’ll feel right at home, Olive.”
My peaked corduroy cap, Paisley shirt and leather coat give me a slight air of bohemianism and I find it mildly amusing that for once it’s Rocky and Eddie who don’t fit in. They are attired like mods from the planet 1964. They talk sharply to one another, but I can tell they are huddling together for safety. I feel a wave of tender love for them, for this moment, for this trip.
A beautiful mulatto girl approaches me. She is wearing a headdress and face-paint that make her look like Cleopatra, and her naked breasts are incongruously pointed. She is holding a tray of joints out to me and I take one. She kisses me, full on the mouth, then regards me for a moment, quite deadpan.
“It’s going to be quite a summer, darling.”
I notice Delphine is chatting intensely with an older guy, who is incredibly tall, perhaps six foot five, and has gentle, intelligent features. He’s aged about 30 and his black polo-neck jersey lends him an even more elongated impression. Delphine is holding a sheet of paper in front of him, which he is examining carefully. I notice they are glancing over at me.
They walk over and Delphine introduces him as Peter, one of her tutors at St Martin’s. He comes across as a pleasant fellow with a proletarian Lancashire accent.
“Delphine tells me you have school qualifications. Do you have a portfolio?”
“I reckon all the stuff I’ve done since I left school would be enough for five portfolios.”
“Why don’t you apply – for St Martin’s?”
“Next year?”
“No, this year.”
“Surely I’m too late?”
“Are you over 21?”
“Yes.”
“We keep a number of places for mature students. We’ve had at least one cancellation, I believe. And this year there’s no waiting list.”
“I’ll think about it.”
Delphine takes my hand and we dance. We have to shout to be heard above the music.
“So. What do you think about that?”