The Tales of Old Seville
And so the Celtic european pilgrimage reached the beautiful and stunning
Andalucian city of Seville in a sweltering May heatwave. Flocking in their
thousands from Scotland, Ireland, the States, and all points in the southern
hemisphere, the green and white cut a great swaying throng in the Seville
sunshine. The beer and wine was there for the drinking, and plenty of it too as
the locals tried to meet all requests for the thirsty hordes. Seville had never
witnessed anything like it before in their lives.
The matchday unfolded in rolling swathes of euphoria and jubilation, a
celebration on the streets of what it is to be a Celtic supporter. Some
congregated around the bars, some around the array of fine monuments in the
city's plazas, some hugged the river banks and some sought solace and
contemplation in the stunning cathedral.
But wherever you were in Seville on 21 May, at whatever time you were there, the
day was unmistakenly Celtic's in its entirety. A moving throng of 100,000 tims
jetted and bussed into the southern Spanish heatwave. Talk about "forty
shades of Green", more like "forty degrees and where's the shade and
ma shades". Pure sweltering heat which the bottled water did little to
offset.
Great cries of "hail, hail", from the winding streets of the old town.
"Ole", as beach balls were kicked joyfully in any available space
these part time players could find.
And so I arrived in this great shimmering green and white spectacle on the
Wednesday afternoon. My nerves were shot as a result of deciding to travel down
from Hull, fly from Heathrow to Madrid, train from Madrid to Seville all on the
day of the game. Never increase the variables!!
However, for once, things ran smoothly. I'd travelled down from Hull on the
Tuesday with my brother after some tearful farewell's from my mate's mother and
father who sadly couldn't make the trip. They were with us in spirit every step
of the way. We met up with my mate down in London late Tuesday evening and a
first glimpse for him of those beautiful cup final tickets.
Early start on the Wednesday and I sat next to a guy called David on the plane,
Turned out he's the guy that Andy Jacobs from Talksport is always going on about
"the mad Celtic fan next door". Heard some good stories from him.
Apart from failing his exams the day after he saw Celtic beat the huns in '79,
4-2 to win the league (nae wonder) he also told me how he and a mate got chased
through the streets of Amsterdam by mad skinheads in the early eighties after
another Celtic excursion. I hope the warm welcome of Seville paid him back a
hundred fold for the frightening experience he'd encountered all those years ago
(and the failed exams!).
So the plane finally touched down in Madrid and as it did the captain wished all
the very best for Celtic and the supporters. Wait a minute, I thought, we are
travelling to a destination which is hundreds of kilometres from Seville and we
have already generated enough interest to make the captain wish us well.
Astonishing. At the airport a quick baggage lift left us jumping in a taxi and a
quick dash by motorway into Atocha Rail Station. "No inglaise", was
the cry from our cabbie but hurtling along at 90 miles an hour he was insistent
on opening his newspaper up and shoving it under the nose of my brother to show
him the Spanish view of the "Theltic". The cab swerved from lane to
lane as he made sure he had the right pages of the newspaper to show us. Spanish
drivers, the perfect tonic for calming the nerves.
And there we were, in the station at Madrid, bang on time for our train to
Seville. Indeed time for a pint in the station bar. The place was already packed
with tims and we quickly discovered that many of them had tickets for the train
out to Seville but no tickets back. A couple of irish guys based in London were
trying to make the best of the fact that they had no chance of getting back from
Seville to get their flight out the following day. They'd resigned themselves to
staying in Madrid and finding an irish bar to watch the game that evening. It's
at times like this that you feel helpless for those guys who must put just about
every spare penny they have into following the Celtic. Sadly for these guys they
weren't gonna make it to Seville but they were determined as hell to party in
Spain.
We then boarded the train for Seville, not before a lengthy delay in which our
rail tickets were closely scrutinised not having booked them through the Spanish
rail system. After a good bit of debate and the input of four officials we were
finally on our way. Having travelled enough times up to Glasgow on the train I
can tell you that we could learn a hell of a lot from the Spanish railway guys.
superb journey in under two and a half hours. Stepping off the train the heat
hit us big time. Loud shouts of "we're in Seville" as the bhoys made
there way to the taxi ranks. It was at this point that you really began to
realise the sheer volume of Celtic supporters in Seville. The station was
heaving with hoops and the local taxi system looked completely overloaded with
demand. We jumped into a cab and made for our hotel on the Plaza Nueva. Working
our way into the centre of Seville it was obvious that the whole city was
gridlocked by the sheer weight of numbers. We abandoned the taxi and made the
ten minute walk to the hotel. Now, normally when you check into hotels you'll
see the odd person sitting in the foyer and perhaps a couple more people in the
bar but the sight of hundreds of tims all taking in the atmosphere and the
alcohol. We dumped our bags in the room and set out on the journey to the
Estadio Olimpico. I have always found there to be something intoxicating about
walking a fair distance to a match. Back in Glasgow I love the build up of the
atmosphere as I make my way from the city centre up the Gallowgate on foot .
Sometimes I drive up to the Forge but somehow it's not the same as taking in all
the sites and sounds as you pass through the Barras and listen to the songs
flowing out of Bairds, Bar 67 and the like. In Seville, the walk to the stadium
was charged with atmosphere and events a hundred times more intoxicating.
Everwhere the gigantic support of Celtic was evident. you looked down little
sidestreets and alleyways and saw the place teeming with hoops. Locals were on
their doorsteps or hanging out windows barely able to comprehend the sheer
magnitude of the celtic invasion but seemingly loving every minute. A couple of
guys had stopped to talk to some local senoritas. They were trying to teach them
to say "Celtic". Now we all know the Spanish have problem with their
"C's" and every time the bhoy said "Celtic" back came the
senoritas with "Thelta". "Naw, naw it's Celtic, hen, not Thelta."
as the bhoys continued their Learn to speak Glesga introductory course.
Walking across the bridge on the river like many others we stopped for the
obligatory photo call. Looking in every direction on the bridge you could see
vast numbers of people making their way to one of the bridges or simply
congregating along the river bank. The walk down the main road to the stadium
took us past the massive beer tent which had all the sold out signs against it.
The noise emanating from here was incredible and we pressed on yet to catch a
first glimpse of the stadium.
Then slowly, but surely, the stadium started to appear in our eyeline. All the
while buses from the centre of Seville were infrequently making their way to the
stadium. Each one packed with supporters, each one blasting out the songs of
Celtic.
As we finally headed under the motorway bridge just before the stadium we
encountered the last line of touts. "one thousand euro for tray
tickets" the tout demanded in broken English. A small group of bhoys were
gathered round attempting to haggle the guy down to 600 euros. Of all the things
that happened before, during and after Seville this is the only sour issue, the
role of the tout. Sadly, there is some evidence that even some of the Celtic
support had resorted to selling tickets at inflated process via ebay and other
means. Truly shameful in the circumstances.
As we headed through the initial stadium security fence I got chatting with the
only two people in sight not sporting some kind of green and white apparel.
Turns out these two individuals, donned in black, were from Dortmund. We talked
about Paul Lambert and the time Celtic had come to town in Dortmund. They were
rooting for the Celtic and we wished them well. It's little things like this
that remind you how the Celtic phenomena has reached out to many cities and
countries over the years. Here we were, chatting with a couple who'd come all
the way from Dortmund, in part, because of the impression we'd made on them all
those years ago. God only knows how the "phenomena" will effect
Seville in the years to come.
Finally we were inside the perimeter fencing and climbing the steps into the
stadium itself. One final nerve jangling moment as you hoped the barcode on the
ticket was legit. It was and we were onto the concourse behind the seats. As if
by magic the most unbelievably timed event happened. I swear as the woman handed
me back the ticket, the PA launched into life with the first bars of an
accordion followed by the unmistakeable voice of Glen Daly singing the Celtic
song. Talk about timing. The tide of pure emotion just took me onto another
level from thereon.
The build up to the game, the game itself, the whole part of being engulfed by
wave after wave of songs and the sheer exuberance of Celtic in all its facets
will live me forever. Henrik's goals were a joy to behold as we danced with
sheer joy and pride.
So the final result was not to be and we witnessed some shocking professional
tactics from Porto particularly through the second half and in extra time. No
matter. Without question Celtic, as a club, it's manager, players and we as
supporters truly moved the football world on Wednesday 21 May.
As we headed back to the city centre their was a slight air of despondency but
every step of the way you could see spirits lifted and these feelings of
disappointment were slowly but surely fading as we began to realise just what an
achievement it had been by Celtic.
"Memories are made of this", goes the song. Well in Seville in a
fleeting few moments, in the grand scheme of things, a hundred thousand memories
and more were created and unfolded before our very eyes. This is just another
tale of Seville. There'll be thousands more shared by friends, families and
supporters clubs across the world. But the endearing thing about these tales is
that they will be with us 10, 20 30 years from now, handed down from father to
son. And in years from now some ageing grandfather will sit a grand child on his
knee with a gleam in his eye and perhaps recount the tales of old Seville.
When you hear the tales of old Seville
The castle, cathedral and the local goodwill
Remember too the Celts were there
A vast great throng, none could compare.
A football game they went to see
They partied on so gleefully
A hundred thousand, maybe more
All to see King Henrik score.
Alas, the result was not to be
But Seville was touched eternally
And in years to come when nights grow long
The tales of Seville will still burn strong.