The Holy War

The Holy War

Last Easter I took a trip to Poland and visited the beautiful and historic city of Krakow. It’s a relaxed, pretty place with fine buildings and friendly people. One part of town houses the Schindler factory made famous by Spielberg’s epic movie Schindler’s List.’ It’s an interesting place to visit and a reminder that amid the sunshine and laughter of modern Krakow the past is never far away.

I got chatting to a taxi driver who spoke excellent English and was a big football fan. He followed local side Cracovia and told me he knew all about the Polish players who played for Celtic over the years. I mentioned Celtic’s visit to Krakow to play Wisla in the 1970’s and he got quite animated. Wislaw Krakow are the main rivals of Cracovia and there is much bitterness in the city when they meet. He told me of the ‘Holy War’ between fans of the two clubs which over the years has seen many violent clashes and even a few fatalities. The hooligans of Poland apparently agreed not to use weapons but those in Krakow opted out. It was interesting hearing first hand of a rivalry which seemed to be every bit as fierce as any around Europe. As the driver dropped me at Wavel Castle he said, ‘One day I hope to see Celtic play Rangers.’

Later that day I visited the district of Kazimierz which was for 500 years the flourishing centre of Jewish life and culture in the city. Over 70,000 Jews lived there before the coming of the Germans in 1939. Today the district is full of cafes, galleries and many of the old buildings still retain their pre-war Yiddish signs. A few hundred Jewish folk have set up various businesses which offer a glimmer of what life must have been like here before the Holocaust devoured the Jews of Krakow. 30km from town is the engine of that destruction; Auschwitz.

Auschwitz concentration camp is one of those places which you feel compelled to visit even though you know the experience won’t be a pleasant one. The young Polish guide was excellent though at making the mixed group of people from a dozen countries see the gravity of the place. She told one young Italian taking a selfie by Krematorium 2 in no uncertain terms that it was not appropriate. ‘This is the largest mass grave in Europe,’ she said, ‘You will show respect, or you will leave.’ To use a Glasgow expression, ’his gas was put on a peep.’ Auschwitz is the low point of European history. It’s the end of the line when hatred is allowed to flourish, go unchallenged or is fostered for political ends.

I got thinking about that human capacity to divide themselves up by race, politics, colour, class, football allegiances or a host of other characteristics. Such tribalism might be a leftover from our hunter-gatherer past, but it does seem we humans are a clannish lot by nature. That ‘Holy War’ in Krakow between fans of Wislaw and Cracovia is fought out between Poles who have a city, a history, a culture and language in common yet still find a reason to fight each other.

This week marks 30 years since Rangers signed Mark Walters and we saw a mirror being held up to an ugly facet of Scottish society of the 1980s. Some Scots used to think they were immune to the racism so common on the football terraces of England in that era, but they had a rude awakening as Walters was subjected to sickening behaviour from a minority of Scottish football supporters. There can be no hiding from the painful truth that some Celtic supporters behaved despicably on his first visit to Celtic Park. No excuses about it being a different time will suffice. You can’t complain about the discrimination or anti-Catholic chants directed at Celtic supporters in those days and then racially abuse a player on the grounds of his colour. Such hypocrisy isn’t and never will be acceptable. It was and remains the low point in my years watching Celtic. Thankfully the majority called the morons out for what they were; ignorant fools who shamed themselves and the club they proport to support. The fact that the away fans polluted the air that day with their usual ‘FTP’ nonsense doesn’t excuse some of our own stooping to base racism. It was wrong then as it would be wrong now.

Like all countries, modern Scotland still has a minority who will abuse people on the basis of race, religion, disability, sexual orientation, gender or whatever other facet takes their fancy, but it is a country which has moved on greatly since the 1980s. Laws have sought to challenge hate crimes and same sex marriage is now not only legal but widely accepted. There is a long way to go to get through to the serious haters who exist in the shadows of every society, but mainstream Scotland is a far more accepting place than it was in decades past. Don’t be fooled by the anonymous idiots online who post their bile. They are a dying breed and the echo chamber of social media can magnify their importance. I saw one recently post a hateful comment which had over 100 retweets. This for a stupid person with just 13 followers!

So tomorrow, if the snow doesn’t lead to a postponement, 60,000 will gather at Celtic Park to watch Celtic play a Derby match against the Rangers. It’s a fixture which brings the best out of some and the worst out of others. The atmosphere will no doubt be raucous and match anything around Europe. The fans will be as fully committed as the players and I can recall coming home from such games physically and emotionally drained. I want Celtic to win as all Hoops fans do, in fact I want the team to wipe the floor with the Ibrox club, but I hold no hatred for them or anyone else. It’s a sporting rivalry and it’s a game against a club and support which karma is currently paying a long overdue visit. All my life I, like many others, have endured their curiously warped triumphalism laced with the sort of ignorant bigotry from some which I despise. That being as it is, I approach such games with hope in my heart and not hatred.

A walk around the streets of Kazimierz or along the unloading ramp at Auschwitz soon teaches anyone where hatred leads. Enjoy the game tomorrow should the weather relent, and it goes ahead. Shout your head off, drive the team on to victory but remember it is just a game and not a holy war.

Have a wonderful 2018. I think it’ll be a Champion year for all who love the green.

The biggest man in football

The biggest man in football

Those of you following the debate about what the SFA should do about Hampden Park when the lease is up for renewal in 2020, would have noticed Fergus McCann’s open letter to the Herald newspaper. The former Celtic supremo has always been adamant that pouring over £65m into redeveloping Hampden was a complete waste of time and money. Not only does Scotland possess adequate stadiums to cover internationals, the huge sums spent on the stadium could have rejuvenated the game had it been invested in facilities and coaches for the development of young players. Among the points McCann made was a cutting remark which few missed. He stated…

‘My Hampden memories of events later in life were rather more negative. In charge of Celtic, and having to rent the stadium for the 94/95 season, I had to tolerate the mean-spirited behaviour of Queens Park officials throughout that period. This began with a clause in the lease – a “deal breaker” as their attorney made clear – that forbade “the display of any foreign flag.” Shades of SFA 1952.’

The ‘foreign flag’ referred to wasn’t specifically named but those of us well versed in Scottish football’s ways knew exactly what the ‘mean spirited’ officials of Queen’s Park were getting at; you can hire the stadium but you’re not flying the Irish tricolour above it. The fact that as late as the 1990’s this was an issue for at least some officials of Queen’s Park is a little depressing but as the Farry-McCann affair demonstrated, there were still lingering suspicions of people’s motivations even then. The modern Queen’s Park board wouldn’t be drawn into a debate and merely said that their records of the time differ from Mr McCann’s. It is unlikely though that Fergus McCann would invent such a detail. The straight talking former Chairman was never one to shirk a fight or fail to notice any slights against himself or Celtic. His alluding to ‘shades of 1952’ is interesting as he clearly feels the motivation for the ‘no foreign flags’ clause was similar to that of those who demanded the removal of the tricolour from Celtic Park over 40 years earlier.

Celtic met Rangers at Celtic Park on New Year’s Day 1952 and by all accounts had played poorly, losing 4-1. The usual amount of drunkenness led to some less cerebral home fans making their displeasure known by throwing bottles and the Police waded in with batons flailing to make arrests. The trouble made waves in the press and the SFA reacted to suggestions from Glasgow Magistrates to consider the following courses of action…

Celtic and Rangers should not meet on New Year’s Day again due to increased drunkenness at that time of year. Matches between them should be all ticket with a crowd limit set by the Police. Celtic should in the interests of safety number passageways at Celtic Park. The two clubs should avoid displaying flags which might incite feelings among the spectators.

The Referee Committee of the SFA met to consider the Magistrates recommendations and following a 26-7 vote ordered Celtic to stop displaying at the ground any ‘flag or emblem which had no association with football or Scotland.’ The implication was clear; the SFA wanted Celtic to remove the Irish flag they flew to honour the club’s founders. No mention was made of the fact that Rangers, one of the most important member clubs of the association, was excluding players from its team on the grounds of their religion. Celtic were having none of it and Bob Kelly, a stubborn man of principle in the McCann mould dug in his heels knowing that Celtic had not broken any rules of the SFA. At Celtic’s next home game the Irish flag flew in its usual place prompting one newspaper to state ‘They are still flying the Eire flag!’

Kelly was supported in his stance by Rangers Chairman John F Wilson, a gesture he appreciated. Indeed Mr Wilson told the council that the emblem had never been of any annoyance to Rangers. ‘Don’t delude ourselves,’ he added. ‘This flag has nothing to do with the trouble.' In time the SFA realised the absurdity of threatening to suspend Celtic from the game over the issue particularly as they found it impossible to demonstrate any rule the club had broken. They appealed to Kelly to be a ‘bigger man’ and take down the flag. The Herald newspaper sensing that the SFA had overstepped the mark stated at the time…

‘Kelly was asked to realize that the matter was no longer one of just taking down the flag; it was a matter of Celtic defying the instructions of the council. He was told that if he would only make the gesture of taking the flag down even without prejudicing further discussions everyone would be happy. ‘You’ll be the biggest man in football’ Mr Kelly was told ‘You’ll establish a reputation never possessed by anyone in football if you’ll only take the flag down.’ Perhaps Mr Kelly did not wish to be the biggest man in football or perhaps he wanted to maintain his reputation for adhering to his principles. There can be no doubt that he struck his shrewdest blow when he stated that suspension could only follow a broken rule. No one had proved Celtic had broken any rules.’

The SFA were clearing struggling to save face and realised that Kelly was right. Hibs Chairman Harry Swan is still thought of unkindly by older Celtic supporters over his role in this episode but real driving force was SFA Secretary George Graham, a man with no love of Celtic and all they represented. This whole episode, coming as it did just three years after Belfast Celtic exited football following the brutal assault on their players in a match against Linfield was symptomatic of the times. 1950’s Scotland was a stuffy, conservative place where everyone was expected to know their place. The uppity Irish in Glasgow’s east end had founded a club which rose to be among the finest in the land and there were at least some who wished Celtic didn’t exist.

The season following the ‘flag flutter’ saw Celtic face Rangers at Celtic Park with the eyes of the press on the lookout for any trouble. There was a minute’s silence before the match to remember a young Celtic player called John Millsop who had tragically died. Gerry McNee states in his book ‘The Story of Celtic’

‘During a one minute silence there were howls of profanity about the Pope and blasphemous demands for the game to begin emanating from the Rangers end of the ground.’

Such ignorance has little to do with a flag hanging at the opposite end of the ground but is rather the product of prevailing social attitudes of the time among a fair percentage of people in Scotland’s industrial heartlands. Scotland is a much changed land since those far off times when a flag could lead to the SFA threatening to expel a club from the association. Celtic’s Bob Kelly stuck to his principles and was vindicated. He is often portrayed as a man who meddled in team affairs to the extent of telling Manager McGrory who to play in games but there is no doubting his love for Celtic and his steely determination to fight  the club’s corner.

Of course flags can still annoy or even antagonise some. It’s not unusual for some to make their feelings known about Celtic supporters continuing display of the Irish tricolour but for most it has become empty rhetoric. The Irish dimension of Celtic is woven into the club’s history and will never be undone. The club mirrors the community which founded and sustains it and now stands proudly as the premier Scottish football club and if some ‘mean spirited’ individuals find that hard to stomach then that’s just tough because it isn’t about to change any time soon.

As for the flag of Ireland, it still flies over Celtic Park with the flags of many other nations. The press of 1952 may have screeched, ‘They are still flying the Eire flag!’ It's flying there still and that isn’t likely to change either, nor should it.

The Greatest Treasure

The Greatest Treasure

Charlie Reid zipped his coat up against the biting winter wind as he walked along Argyll Street. Despite the bitterly cold wind the street was crowded with shoppers rushing here and there beneath the gaudy Christmas lights. As he walked, he thought back to his childhood and how his mum used to walk him and his sister and brother all the way from Springburn to see the Christmas lights in the city centre. Christmas was exciting then even if they didn’t get much in the way of gifts. He smiled as he remembered being utterly elated the year he got his first Celtic shirt. He was nine years old and opened the present containing the centenary home kit with the Celtic cross badge on the breast. He almost cried as he hugged his mum; she was struggling to bring up Charlie, his sister Angie and his big brother Paul on her own and he knew she’d have saved and gone without to make their Christmas special. He wore that shirt till it was utterly worn out and even then he wouldn’t part with it and wore it to bed. As these thoughts filled his head he reached Glasgow cross and crossed the street to the Tollbooth Bar.

He scanned the faces filling the well know pub until he saw Paul in the corner with a couple of his cronies. For a moment he looked at his brother as he drank and talked to his associates. The boy he grew up with, so full of laughter and fun was long gone. In his place stood a man approaching 40 who might have been 10 or even 15 years older. His shock of black hair was now mostly grey and his face bore the marks of numerous confrontations he’d had in his life. A thick scar above his right eye gave him a mean and dangerous look which wasn’t entirely undeserved. Charlie knew how Paul made his money and how the poison he dealt in ruined lives and blighted communities. He was still his brother though.

In that long moment as he regarded him, he recalled their younger days. Playing football in the streets, running through Sitehill cemetery as they played their boyhood games and of course walking all the way to Celtic Park to watch the Celts play. Paul hated losing at anything and that led to the odd scrap with Charlie when they were kids. As the younger of the two, Charlie usually got the worst of it. He remembered one sunny day when they and some of the Shamrock boys from the Garngad were returning from a Celtic and Rangers game and blundered into a hostile group of Rangers fans under those ugly tower blocks which once stood off the Gallowgate. The fight which followed was brutal and Charlie saw for the first time the utterly ruthless side of his brother who flew at the enemy with a frightening ferociousness. The sound of Police sirens had broken up the fight but Paul had to be dragged off his immediate opponent and they made their escape.

As they grew up Charlie noticed his brother’s competitive nature eventually giving way to a burning resentment of their relative poverty. He’d take what he wanted in life and this led to trouble with the Police as he got involved in various petty crimes. The local bad guys soon saw his potential and he graduated in time into being ‘one worth a watching’ as he heard someone once say of him.

Their contacts had lessened as they grew to manhood and their lives diverged. Charlie worked hard to support his own family while Paul drifted in and out of their lives. They’d bump into each other at family events now and then. Paul arriving in his garish big car and splashing the cash, seemingly oblivious to the disdain some of the family now felt for him. It was common knowledge how he made his money and he was treated with a mixture of coldness, subdued contempt and even fear. It was strange for Charlie to see that all the material things Paul now possessed hadn’t made him happy. People made their choices in life and for good or ill had to live with them.

He pushed his way through the crowded pub towards his brother. Charlie saw him coming and smiled a little before ordering his cronies to give him five minutes. As they walked away Paul locked his eyes on his brother’s, ‘Alright Charlie boy, long time no see, what brings you down to this neck of the woods?’ Charlie nodded, ‘How ye doing Paul? Can we talk somewhere a bit quieter?’ Paul’s eyes narrowed a little; Charlie usually had something serious to say when he made such a request ‘Aye, the car’s around the corner.’ He signalled he’d be back in five minutes to his friends and they exited the noisy Bar and headed out into the chill of a dark winter’s night. ‘You’ve got that serious look on your face bro,’ Paul said as he guided Charlie into his white BMW. He turned the key and warm air began to flow into the car. Paul turned down the music which came on as he started the engine. Charlie smiled a little to hear Glen Daly’s unmistakable tones sing, ‘and the Glasgow Celtic will be there….’ Not many gangsters listened to that, he thought to himself.

Paul looked at his brother as they sat in the dark car, the green lights of the dashboard casting shadows on his face, ‘So what’s it all about bro?’ Charlie sat in the dark car and told his brother in a calm and monotone voice that their mother was dying and she wanted to see them both before her time was up. Paul listened, his tough face showing no emotion, ‘How long?’ he asked in a quiet voice, ‘A few weeks at most, Paul. She went in with stomach pains and they found the cancer. It’s too far gone to treat. She’s home now and the nurse comes every day but when the time come she’ll go tae the Marie Curie place up in Stobhill.’ Paul shook his head slowly, ‘Life’s a bastard, Charlie, an utter bastard.’ With that he eased the car into gear and they headed for their childhood home.

Charlie’s sister Angie opened the door to them, her face tired and sad. She embraced Charlie, ’She’s in the room.’ She embraced Paul too though in silence as if she had nothing to say to him. The two brothers entered the room where their mother lay on the double bed, her head propped up by pillows. An icon of Jesus, hands outstretched showing the marks of his crucifixion adorned the wall above the bed, his all-seeing eyes watching them. Charlie approached her and leaning over gave her a gentle hug, ‘Hi Ma, how have you been today?’ Paul sat on the bed too, He took her hand and looked at her but words wouldn’t come. ‘Ah boys,‘ she said in a weak voice, ‘I’m glad you could come. I want to talk to you both before I go.’  They brothers sat and listened to her outline what she wanted to happen when she was gone. She had thought it all through; her funeral arrangements, the hymns, which possessions to give to her friends at the church, even where the cat was going. She then pushed herself up on the bed a little and looked at Paul and Charlie. ‘I want you two and Angie to be there for each other no matter what. Family is the greatest treasure we get in life, don’t drift apart.’ She looked at Paul and squeezed his hand weakly, ‘Promise me son, promise me you’ll stop doing the things you do which hurt people.’ Paul was taken aback by this request. He knew what she meant and was momentarily lost for words. He seemed to be thinking for a moment before looking into her eyes and slowly nodding his head.

In the months following the passing of their mother the brothers tried to meet up more often. Charlie even got Paul to come to the odd Celtic game. They had a long chat in a quiet city centre bar after one such game. ‘You don’t just retire wi a pension from my line of business,’ Paul had said, ‘but it’s time I got out anyway. They’re like fuckin’ wolves, Charlie, always some young buck looking tae take over.’ He explained how he’d been taking a step back, handing things over to others. He’d be out of it soon enough. He’d be true to his promise to his mother. Charlie was pleased, Paul had been hardened by his life, his heart slowly setting like concrete, but there was a glimmer of hope he could get his brother back.

Charlie switched the conversation to happier memories. ‘Remember when we went tae Stuttgart in the Seville year? You thought you were getting aff wi a burd in that pub?’ Paul laughed, ‘Aye, turned out she was a fuckin he!’  Charlie continued, ‘Easy mistake to make, he was gorgeous, even I thought he was a wumin!’ Paul nodded, ‘Aye but I winched the face aff him! Their laughter filled the void of years when they had hardly communicated. Paul said through a rare smile, ‘Then there was you telling yer work you were aff sick and getting the sack when you were spotted on the front page of the Daily Record going mad in Porto when Larsson scored the winner!’ Charlie laughed at that memory too, ‘Boss was a pure tadger, the bastard had the picture cut oot and on the notice board when I got back! Circled my heed wi a felt pen! I was glad tae see the back of that place anyway.’  They shared such memories for a few happy hours before heading back to their very different lives.

There was a chance that Paul would be able to escape the world he had inhabited for so long and Charlie was going to be there to help him whenever he could. They had promised their mother to be there for each other and they would honour that promise. Whatever the future held they’d try to be a family again. What was it she had said? ‘Family is the greatest treasure we get in life.’  He had learned that she was right.

The faults of others

The faults of others

The spring of 1991 was a trying one for Celtic fans. The team’s promising start to the SPL season was all but over as the dominant and big spending Rangers side of the era stepped on the accelerator and left the Hoops miles behind. For a long time it looked as if the Scottish cup might offer Celtic the only route into European football the following season.  The supporters did glean some joy from a double header with Rangers in the SPL and cup as Celtic won both matches. The semi-final tie in the Scottish cup with Motherwell took on added significance as Rangers were no longer in the tournament and a cup win seemed a realistic hope. The defensive frailties which had torpedoed Celtic’s league hopes returned in an SPL match at Celtic Park just before the cup tie which Motherwell won 2-1; Tom Boyd scoring against a Celtic side he would later lead to glory.

Celtic headed to Hampden and before a crowd of almost 42,000 endured a tense game in which they looked far better going forward than they did defending. Motherwell were something of a bogey team for Celtic in the early 1990’s with Dougie Arnott in particular prone to punishing the Hoops’ defensive lapses. The game ended 0-0 and Celtic fans remained optimistic that they could make the final. The replay the following week was one of those matches which turned on a particular incident. Celtic started well and took an early lead. Predictably a defensive mix up let Arnott equalise before Rogan had Celtic 2-1 up. Then Celtic had a corner which was partially cleared before the ball was knocked back towards the goal. As the Motherwell defence raced out the ball spun to Paul Elliot who slammed it into the net. Despite Colin O’Neil being on the post and clearly playing Elliot onside, the linesman raised his flag and Celtic were denied a 3-1 lead which may or may not have been decisive.  Celtic seemed to lose heart at that and went on to lose the game 4-2. In truth Motherwell with players like O’Donnell, Boyd, Arnott and Nijholt were the better side in the last half hour. They would go on to win the cup in an exciting final with Dundee United and few grudged them their moment of glory.

That memory came back to me after reading a host of complaints in the media and online from fans or various clubs about the penalty awarded to Celtic at Fir Park on Wednesday night. For me McGregor was barged over and the defender was very foolish challenging an attacker so robustly when he was heading away from goal and posed no scoring threat at that moment. Radio and TV Pundits talked about a ‘laughable’ decision and generally laid into McGregor for ‘going down very easily.’ A few such as Michael Stewart and Tom English revised their opinions when other angles were shown of the incident. One in particular shows the angle the Referee had and is convincing proof that McGregor was indeed fouled. Motherwell released a statement following the match which read in part…

‘It is disappointing to see high profile decisions affect Wednesday night’s match and the Betfred Cup final in the way they have. To that end we have made contact with the Scottish FA’s head of Refereeing to express our views and seek feedback.’

There is no doubting their disappointment at losing the League Cup final and being denied a rare win over Celtic so late in a game but a dose of realism is required when complaining about refereeing decisions. In games against Celtic they have had some big calls go their way. Most impartial observers agree that the shocking tackle by Cedric Kipre which injured Moussa Dembele in the League Cup final was worthy of a red card. The Referee didn’t even give a foul. Dembele Tweeted that evening, ‘Another game, another win. Almost lost my leg there but we’re still unbeaten!’

The narrative that Celtic gets all the big calls is utterly laughable when examined in any detail. Consider Nadir Ciftci about to Score at Fir Park when a defender punched the ball away from him in a most obvious manner. Decision: Play on. We also had an utterly horrendous challenge on Kieran Tierney at Celtic Park by Bowman of Motherwell which could have seriously injured the full back. We awaited the inevitable red card and to the astonishment of most in the ground he received a yellow.  

We had a Johan Mjallby’s shot which was well over the line and the Referee waved ‘play on.’  We saw a Motherwell player strike a Rangers player in the face with his elbow to such a degree that it broke his nose in this season’s League Cup semi-final. No action was taken by the referee.

Celtic has been on the wrong end of some very poor refereeing calls in recent times which cost them important matches. The most obvious being the Meekings hand ball in the Cup semi-final with Inverness which would have seen Celtic awarded a penalty and the defender sent off had the referee given the correct decision. He didn’t much to the astonishment of everyone else in the stadium who saw what 5 officials managed to miss. 

We had the Duberry handball at Perth, the extremely dubious Penalty given to Hearts in a Scottish cup semi-final, the ‘Dougie, Dougie’ nonsense at Tannadice and other calls which left us mystified.

All of these examples demonstrate that Motherwell’s whingeing in recent days is at best ill-advised and at worse poor sportsmanship. Their physical approach to the game and sheer effort against Celtic has made the last two matches between the clubs close affairs but at the end of the day Celtic are undefeated in 66 matches for a reason; they’re the best team in Scotland by a long way.

Football is a fast, fluid and unpredictable game and human error certainly plays its part in refereeing decisions. Anyone who has refereed a game at any level knows how difficult it is to get every decision right. This is especially true at professional level where players of all clubs are out to pressure or even con the referee. Throw into the mix the clannish and often spiteful nature of Scottish football as well as the strong cultural identity some clubs possess and you have a recipe for suspicion. There is no doubt that historical injustices were done to Celtic by certain figures over the years. One only has to read books like ‘Celtic Paranoia’ to see incidents like the ‘Flag Flutter’ of the 1950s or the inexcusable Farry-Cadete affair of the 90s. In modern times football officials are scrutinised far more closely. Incidents like the amateurish handling of the Rangers meltdown of 2012 or the Dallas anti-Catholic email still cause concern but Celtic has grown into a confident and powerful club who wouldn’t be slow to make their side of any debate known.

The modern referee has a dozen cameras tracking every decision he makes amplifying every error. Social media takes clips showing such errors and they spin around an amplified echo chamber of like-minded fans giving an impression of institutional bias that isn’t quite fair.

Motherwell’s bleating in recent days has been to say the least unedifying. There are always tough 50-50 calls to be made by referees in the heat of games which could be given either way. Incidents happen in a split second and have to be called without the benefit of constant replays or multi-angled analysis. Players play acting doesn’t help and Motherwell have their share of con men like all clubs. Perhaps Motherwell should be looking at more constructive suggestions such as better training for Referees and assistants or the use of video reviews for big decisions or better still consider some of the big calls which have gone in their favour over the years and have a more balanced outlook.

Hypocrisy is pointing out the faults of others while conveniently ignoring your own. Motherwell has indulged in that this week.

Uncle Phil

Uncle Phil

There was a quiet restlessness among the fans exiting Celtic Park after a perfunctory if uninspiring 3-0 win against Gretna on a cold December day in late 2007. The team were stuttering along, winning games without looking too impressive but the main topic of conversation wasn’t the football it was events at Fir Park just a dozen miles from Paradise. Motherwell had been playing Dundee United in an exciting match which had ended in a 5-3 win for the home side. However all of that meant absolutely nothing as stunned supporters watched the club Physio and Doctor attend to Phil O’Donnell who had collapsed on the pitch. Supporters could see from the distraught reaction of the players from both sides that something serious was occurring. O’Donnell’s distressed team mate and nephew, David Clarkson had to be substituted as he was simply incapable of playing on in such circumstances. O’Donnell, affectionately known as ‘Uncle Phil’ around Fir Park had suffered left ventricular failure of the heart and left us at just 35 years of age. It was a dreadful afternoon for Motherwell but also for the whole of Scottish football which was left to mourn the passing of one of the good guys in life.

When news of his death spread it caused huge consternation and no little grief in the football world. Phil was a famously fit and clean living man who approached his profession with dedication. His former team mates at Celtic were as distraught as his Motherwell colleagues and the club asked the league to postpone the traditional New Year’s match with Rangers, which they did.

I only met Phil once and it was outside the Celtic Park in the mid 1990’s after some forgettable pre-season friendly. He stood patiently signing autographs and posing for photos with fans. He was courteous, quietly spoken and seemed to me to be one of those guys we used to call a ‘gentleman.’ I wished him well for the season ahead and told him how desperate the fans were to stop Rangers beating Celtic’s nine in a row record. He smiled and said, ‘We’ll do our best, it won’t be for lack of effort.’ That was one thing you got from Phil O’Donnell; 100% effort in every game.

His Celtic career began when Tommy Burns signed him for £1.7m in 1994 and in his first match at Firhill he scored twice against Partick Thistle to the delight of the big Celtic support. His time at Celtic swung between highs like the Cup final victory over Airdrie in 1995, the 5-1 crushing of Rangers in 1998 to the famous title win which stopped the ‘Ten’ on that sunny May day in 1998. His low points were undoubtedly the frustrating injuries which often saw him out of action just as he was imposing himself on the team. A boyhood Celtic fan, he would be proud to say he wore the Hoops although no one should doubt too the genuine affection he also had for Motherwell FC and how deeply they felt his loss.  

Of course football mourned such decent man and dedicated professional but the effects on Phil’s friends and family can only be imagined. He left a wife and four children who would have to deal with a loving husband and father not being around anymore. For the fans he was the box to box midfielder with the sweet left foot. For his family he was everything, his daughter Megan, just 12 when she lost her father said recently…

I miss the car journeys to school every morning, belting out Queen’s greatest hits and singing songs from the Forrest Gump soundtrack. I miss playing football in the hallway, with him as the goalie in the door frame whilst my brother and I chase the ball in our pyjamas.  Unlike my siblings, I was lucky to have my dad present for my first day of high school – my youngest brother, Luc, didn’t even have a father to see him on his first day of primary school. But I wasn’t able to share my excitement of getting into university with my dad, and I know that when I graduate I will miss him more than ever. The saying goes “it’s who you look for in a crowded room”, and I know that when I collect my degree next week, I’ll not only be looking for my mum and my grandma in the crowd, I’ll also be looking for a sign that he is with me.’

It is with some poignancy that the two clubs who meant most to Phil O’Donnell are meeting in the League Cup Final this Sunday. Supporters of both will I’m sure mark the upcoming anniversary of the passing of Phil with a suitable tribute. In an era when footballers can often act with an arrogance and aloofness which forgets the fans who put them where they are, it will be fitting to recall one of the good guys who had patience and time for the fans. One story about Phil which demonstrates his character was recalled in the press in the days following his death..

‘The old cliché which gets dusted off in times like these, namely that no-one had a bad word to say about him, may as well have been coined specifically for O'Donnell. He was unfailingly polite, gracious, and reserved. Those qualities were evident to team-mates, opponents and the media, and transmitted to supporters of his own and even other clubs. People knew that O'Donnell was one of the good guys. Years ago he once turned up to play in a youth cup final at Fir Park only to realise that he did not recognise the official at the door. Rather than say "don't you know who I am" he avoided any fuss by walking to a nearby turnstile and paying his way in. "My family taught me to keep my feet on the ground no matter what," he once said. "It's just the way I was brought up, I suppose."

I hope Sunday sees a good game of football with the best side winning. I also hope it sees a noisy, sporting crowd remembering one of Scottish football’s gentlemen in an appropriate and fitting manner. Of course I want my team to win but if the passing of Phil and his great friend and Manager Tommy Burns in that 2007-08 season taught us anything it is that football is only a game and its transient glories are but naught when we think of a family losing their father. 

Thank you for all you did for Celtic Phil and I’m sure Motherwell fans will thank you just as much for your efforts in the claret and amber.

Rest in peace Uncle Phil.

Phil O’Donnell (1972-2007)

One of the good guys

The Beautiful Game

The Beautiful Game

The rise of the internet and social media has been generally a positive feature of modern life. Those old pub arguments about who scored a certain goal or whether a player was offside or not are now solved with the flick of a button and a glance through YouTube or Twitter. Another positive of the internet age is that the once all powerful press is now regularly ridiculed online and held to account in a manner unthinkable in pre-internet days. For instance, the contradictions and downright absurdities they tried to sell the footballing public over the liquidation of old Rangers were ruthlessly torn apart as the nonsense they were by an increasingly clued up and articulate online community.

It’s refreshing and somewhat democratising to see the old media being challenged by the new. In a world of news manipulation, ‘alternative facts’ and ‘post truth’ it’s easy to be sceptical about what we see and read but now and then there is still good old fashioned reporting which reminds us that decent journalists are still around. Of course there can be a tendency to praise those who see things the way we do and if social media has one great failing it is that communities of like-minded individuals follow each other into an echo chamber of seamless conformity. Within the bubble of orthodoxy it takes a brave person to stand up to the herd mentality and espouse contrary views. It is however necessary to good open debate that we hear other views and can disagree without rancour and abuse.

It’s interesting to see how Rangers supporters view Journalist Graham Spiers after his many statements on bigotry and racism among a support he was once part of. Some quietly agreed with much of what he says even if they thought he banged on about it a bit much. For others of limited intellect though, Spiers was a traitor who had turned on his own. Statements such as these cut them to the bone:

‘I have always happily ignored one of the traditional and cowardly rules of Scottish sports journalism - the rule which says, always apportion equal blame to Celtic and Rangers when talking of bigotry - by pointing a much bigger finger of blame at Rangers, the club I grew up supporting.’

In 2011 after the League Cup final between Celtic and Rangers, Spiers pointed out a feature of the game the vast majority of the watching press pack chose to ignore…

‘The incessant bigoted chanting by Rangers fans at Hampden was shocking. They are unarguably the most socially-backward fans in British football. The really damaging thing for RFC is, it’s not the mythical ‘small minority’. There appear to be thousands upon thousands singing these songs.’

Those of you who understand the pernicious sub-culture which sadly still lurks in the shadows of Scottish society will understand that it takes courage to speak out in such terms. We saw for instance the campaign of abuse aimed at Journalist, Jim Spence, for expressing the perfectly reasonable opinion that the resurrected Rangers of 2012 was a new club. Some lobbied to have him sacked from his job while a few aimed venomous and cowardly abuse at him from the anonymity of the internet.

In days past we produced some excellent sports writers in Scotland who wrote eloquently on the issues of the day without fear or favour. Some, such as Ian Archer took the bull by the horns and spoke about issues others for whatever reason ignored. Following a riot by Rangers fans in Birmingham in 1976 he called out bigotry in a manner few of his contemporaries would have contemplated…

"This has to be said about Rangers, as a Scottish Football club they are a permanent embarrassment and an occasional disgrace. This country would be a better place if Rangers did not exist."

This is not to say that Celtic are free from anti-social elements among their support for all big clubs have their share of less cerebral followers but the issues swirling around Rangers are on a much larger scale and have not been helped by being ignored by large parts the media for a century or more. Perhaps Scottish society wasn’t ready to confront the elephant in the room. Every attempt to address bigotry became mired in pointless obfuscation about the role of Catholic schools or the ‘Old Firm’ problem when in reality there is no excuse for teaching a child to hate or allowing impressionable young minds to be polluted by a ‘culture’ of division and prejudice.

Most right thinking people wish it wasn’t so but our society still has work to do to ensure our sports reporters can attend sporting events and write freely about the passion, drama and action on the field. When greats like Hugh McIlvanney are unleashed they write with an eloquence and a poetic beauty that anyone would recognise. In the bowels of the Estadio Nacional in Lisbon in 1967 he described the following scene…

‘’When he had been rescued from the delirious crowd and was walking back to the dressing rooms after Celtic had overcome all the bad breaks to vindicate his confidence Auld – naked to the waist except for an Inter shirt knotted round his neck like a scarf – suddenly stopped in his tracks and shouted to Ronnie Simpson, who was walking ahead. "Hey, Ronnie Simpson, what are we? What are we, son?" He stood there sweating, showing his white teeth between parched lips flecked with saliva. Then he answered his own question with a belligerent roar. "We're the greatest. That's what we are. The greatest." Simpson came running back and they embraced for a full minute.’’

Great writers take you there, make you feel the same emotions and passions they did as they watched the scene before them unfold. Whether writing about boxing or football, McIlvanney was the master of prose which not only informed the reader but stirred the imagination. This paragraph on the wonderful Real Madrid side’s victory in the European Cup final at Hampden in 1960 is typical of the man…

“Fittingly, the great Glasgow stadium responded with the loudest and most sustained ovation it has given to non-Scottish athletes. The strange emotionalism that overcame the huge crowd as the triumphant Madrid team circled the field at the end, carrying the trophy they have held since its inception, showed they had not simply been entertained. They had been moved by the experience of seeing sport played to its ultimate standards.”

He was a writer who described George Best as having ‘feet as sensitive as a pick-pocket’s hands’ and on one wild windy day’s reporting at Ayr races he wrote; “It was the kind of wind that seemed to peel the flesh off your bones and come back for the marrow.” Such turn of phrase is uncommon in this age and more’s the pity. One of Hugh McIlvanney’s greatest pieces was written in the aftermath of the death of Jimmy Johnstone. It carried such affection and poignancy and began…

‘Solemnity was always handed its coat early in Jimmy Johnstone’s company and something as ordinary as death had no chance of altering that. What else but laughter could be the predominant sound when the wee man was buried in his native Lanarkshire on Friday? The shadow cast by the horrors of diminishment that punctuated his improbably long struggle against the implacable ravages of motor neurone disease, and by knowing he was only 61 when his resistance was finally exhausted, was a darkness bound to yield to a thousand memories of somebody driven — sometimes destructively, often hilariously — by an instinctive conviction that life was meant to be lively.’

He went on to speak of Jimmy’s many escapades and the brushes with Jock Stein but never failed to recognise the genius of a wonderful football player who was, despite his very human flaws, a master of his chosen profession…

All of which guarantees that Johnstone will not be remembered simply as a footballer of electrifying virtuosity, though he was certainly that, with a genius for surreally intricate dribbling so extraordinary it is impossible for me to believe any other player before or since quite matched his mastery of tormenting, hypnotic ball control at the closest of quarters. As I have acknowledged in the past, other wingers might fairly be rated more reliably devastating (Garrincha, George Best, Tom Finney, Stanley Matthews are obvious candidates) but none of them besieged opponents with such a complex, concentrated swirl of deceptive manoeuvres or ever conveyed a more exhilarating sense of joy in working wonders with the ball.’

McIlvanney’s great gift was of course his identification with the ordinary fans who invested such emotion, even love into their club. As a working class lad from a mining background in Ayrshire, he understood what football meant to ordinary people. He would take short incidents or scenes he had witnessed at sporting events and build a very human story around it. This, again from Lisbon in 1967, is typical of the man…

‘It was hard work appearing so relaxed and the effort eventually took its toll on Stein when he made a dive for the dressing rooms a minute before the end of the game, unable to stand any more. When we reached him there, he kept muttering: "What a performance. What a performance." It was left to Bill Shankly, the Scottish manager of Liverpool- and the only English club manager present- to supply the summing-up quote. "John," Shankly said with the solemnity of a man to whom football is a religion, "you're immortal." An elderly Portuguese official cornered Stein and delivered ecstatic praise of Celtic's adventurous approach. "This attacking play, this is the real meaning of football. This is the true game." Stein slapped him on the shoulder. "Go on, I could listen to you all night." Then, turning to the rest of us, "Fancy anybody saying that about a Scottish team."

Those of us who love football and recognise in it all the triumphs and disasters, heroes and villains we see in life itself, will always find time to listed to or read the words of those who share our passion. Writers like Hugh McIlvanney are rare but there are some fine scribes out there. I just wish more of them were given the freedom to write in the manner they want to and that editors had the integrity to trust them and back them up when they take on the difficult issues surrounding our game. In an age when clubs have PR departments trying to control the news agenda, we need a few mavericks asking hard questions and we need a few artists painting pictures with words.

I’ll leave you with the words of McIlvanney who described watching Jimmy Johnstone play in the following manner….

‘That last characteristic gave an extra dimension to the impact of watching him play for Celtic and Scotland. It went beyond excitement or aesthetics or entertainment. When he was at his best, the performance was so extravagant and idiosyncratic, so full of wildly imaginative impertinences and a small (5ft 4in) man’s defiance of the odds that it touched us profoundly but lightly, as sport should. The natural reaction was not to gasp in awe, which would have been in order, but to smile or even to laugh out loud.’

The old game is still capable of being beautiful. Our sports writers should aspire to writing prose of equal worth and not simply regurgitate press releases from those out to control the message.