Martin O'Donnell wrote:
 
 
 My first Celtic game was in January 28, 1967 when Celtic faced Arbroath
 at Celtic Park in the first round of the Scottish Cup. The game itself
 will not go down in the annals of Celtic history as one of the great
 games. Celtic strolled to an easy 4-0 victory against the hapless 'Red
 Lichties'. The most remarkable thing about that day was not what
 happened in Glasgow's East End, but rather something else which happened
 many miles away , but more of that later.
 I had been playing football in the local park with my pals on that
 freezing day when the great opportunity presented itself which would
 allow me to see Celtic in the flesh for the first time. One of the
 laddies I had been playing with was the son of Frankie Corrigan who had
 a bit of cash and had recently acquired a Ford Zephyr. To me this
 represented the ultimate in taste, fashion and sophistication. A popular
 television programme called "Z Cars" had this particular model as the
 main protagonist in its opening scenes. This only served to add to the
 allure of the expedition which I was about to undertake.
 Frankie, noticing that I had no coat and had only a pair of wellies to
 display my football skills, suggested that it would be a good idea to go
 home, get a coat and ask my father for permission to go to the game.
 Knowing that my father would not countenance such a thing, I boldly
 stated that it was alright and with that jumped in the car.
 There were five of us laddies squashed in the back seat which as I
 recall was covered in what seemed to be emerald green plastic. We were
 given juice and crisps as we set off westwards to find Paradise.
 Frankie was at the wheel with big Paddy Coyne as his navigator. Frankie
 and Paddy were that new generation of younger Catholics who had a wee
 bit of money and were able to see the Bhoys on a regular basis. The
 contrast between the two could not have been greater.
 Frankie was a bit older than Paddy and came from Derry and a smile was
 rarely of his face. I never saw the man angry in my life. By way of
 contrast, Paddy was a bull of a man.
 Well over six feet and with the build of a genuine light heavyweight, he
 was an awesome sight. Even with numbers huns were very wary of him, at
 that time I always felt reassured by his sheer physical presence.
 It struck me odd that we were leaving at eleven o'clock for a regular
 three o'clock kick off.
 My confusion was added to by the fact that we seemed to avoid the main
 Glasgow road and instead embarked upon a grand tour of  West Lothian,
 Lanarkshire and Greater Glasgow. The reason for the detour became all
 too apparent as our Odyssey gradually unfolded. We seemed to stop with
 monotonous regularity at every second pub on the way with which both men
 had an intimate knowledge.
 In an era when there was no breathalyser and when car ownership was
 still mainly confined to the Middle Classes, Frankie and Paddy rightly
 deduced that there chances of being pulled over were minimal. Today's
 over protective society would have been appalled by the circumstances of
 our travel arrangements. No seat belts (not compulsory), a driver who
 was clearly over the limit and five youngsters in the back and a car
 which seemed to automatically screech to a halt when it sensed a pub in
 the vicinity.
 
 
  A combination of the stop-start and the effects of too much juice and
  crisps led to the inevitable, with me much to my shame throwing up on
  various grass verges en route.
 Finally we made it to the outskirts of Celtic Park and the inevitable
 ritual of parking the car. A wee boy who was younger than us, but much
 older in other ways, kindly (as I then thought) offered "tae look efter
 yur motor Mister". A tanner was thrust in his hand and I felt great
 jealousy that this wean was able to con two grown men out of a lot of
 money.
 
 This was my first visit to Glasgow that I could remember and there
 seemed to be a lot of people that you don't see anymore. Wee dwarf like
 men with clubbed feet and other deformities which I had never seen
 before yet all possessing voices like foghorns selling an array of goods
 and papers. Coming from a small village, I had never seen so many people
 congregated together as we made our way through the streets.
 As we approached the turnstile my excitement mounted, it hadn't occurred
 to me that I would have to pay to get in. Paddy stood next to the
 turnstile as the laddies lined up, he grabbed us by the scruff of the
 neck and thrust us roughly over the contraption into whatever lay
 beyond. The closest I have seen to this manoeuvre was on television 
 when a group of Australian farmers shepherded their flock through the
 sheep dip, though it has to be stated that the Antipodeans displayed far
 more concern and dexterity than Paddy did.
 Typically, I was last in the queue and as I was wheeked over the
 turnstile, one of my feet caught the top ( I have always been a big
 lump)  and I tumbled over into the muck and whatever else lay beneath.
 When I arose from the filth, much to the amusement of all present, I
 looked like a prime candidate for "Children in Need'.
 
 Thus I entered Paradise.
 
 Impervious to the derision of the others as well as the freezing cauld,
 I bolted up the stairway and gained my first sight of Celtic Park. My
 breath was taken away by the sheer size and scale of the ground.
 Unbeknown to me I was in the 'Jungle', it's difficult to convey to the
 younger generation of the atmosphere that was generated at that time but
 it was unique. Being a child I saw everything from a child's perspective
 both physically and emotionally. Of the game itself I have very few
 recollections except that Celtic seemed to score with effortless ease. I
 was disappointed that both Jinky and Buzzbomb weren't playing that day
 as they were my favourite players. In the school playground, everybody
 wanted to be Jinky as he could dribble and the ball seemed tied to his
 boots. Buzzbomb could run fast and score goals, that was good enough for
 me. (The more subtle but immense skills of Murdoch and Auld were
 completely lost on this nine year old.)  Three players stood out one of
 whom was Ronnie Simpson with his bright, emerald green jersey. Then
 there was big Tam Gemmell with his flaming red hair. However, Billy
 McNeill commanded my attention most as he just looked like a giant with
 his blond hair and imperial presence.
 
 Most nine year olds have a short attention span and once it was
 established that Celtic were going to win this game with ease, my eyes
 and ears began to wander. At ground level I could see the debris of the
 broken bottles which littered the terraces, the reek of stale drink was
 everywhere. As it transpired, my wellies had been an inspired if
 unintentional choice of footwear for that day as an acrid and foul
 smelling torrent streamed endlessly southwards.The floodlights too were
 a source of wonder, I had never seen anything quite like these things.
 
 But most of all it was the people who intrigued me as I slowly got used
 to the sing-song rhythms of the Glasgow speech and patter. It was as if
 I was being taught a new language, acquiring a new vocabulary and new
 songs and most importantly being gently inducted into "the Celtic way".
 From what I can recall there was no chanting and certainly at that time
 no overt reference to the political struggle in Ireland. The troubles
 however were sadly shortly to break out some months later. These were
 happy days in so many ways as the song so rightly proclaimed. I was also
 privileged if blissfully ignorant of the fact that I was watching the
 greatest football team to come out of the British Isles and one of the
 greatest sides ever in the history of the game.
 
 At the end of the game a huge roar erupted and I assumed that this was
 how every Celtic victory was acclaimed at Celtic Park, although even
 though it did occur to me that vanquishing  Arbroath did not merit such
 a response. Paddy was delirious with joy as he yelled out "The Huns are
 oot the cup!". I wasn't even aware who the huns were playing that day
 but was quickly apprised of the essential facts. In probably Jock
 Wallace's greatest moment, he as goalkeeper had managed to retain
 Berwick Rangers 1-0 slender lead over the big Rangers in far off
 Berwick.
 
 Paddy insisted that the monumental defeat of the hated hun was yet
 another reason to prolong the celebrations, though had Rangers won 10-0,
 he would still have gone to the pub anyway.
 Eventually when they had quenched their thirst, it was decided to make
 our slow, tortuorus way back home. Through the gloom and the darkness,
 it slowly dawned on me that I would have to face the music.
 In my absence, my parents had sent out search parties to locate me. They
 were frantic with worry. I knocked at the door and my mother's face was
 a mixture of shock and pure relief, "Where have you been!"........ "I've
 been to see Celtic ma" came the honest reply.
 As I explained the chain of events relief gave way to incredulity and
 then to anger. I was given a skelping (well, rituals had to be observed)
 and sent straight to bed with no supper.
 
 That night I couldn't sleep, not because my arse was stinging because of
 the skelping (my father's heart wasn't in it if the truth be told, deep
 down I suspect he admired what I had done). To me the sights and sounds
 of that day were too vivid to erase from my memory.
 
 I knew I had to go back.