Seville: Tom Shields reflects on the trip of a lifetime to Seville as
part of Celtic's invasion force of fans which recorded a spectacular
victory by winning over the hearts and minds of the citizens of the
Spanish city and helped salve the pain of losing the Uefa Cup final to
Porto



It is said history does not remember the runners-up. The 80,000 or so
Celtic fans in Seville this week disproved this rule. As the last of the
hooped ones lowered their banners and folded their tents to depart, the
citizens of this paradisaic Andalucian city were still talking in terms
of some wonderment at the comportment of the Celtic supporters.
'I cannot imagine what your celebrations would have been if you had
won,' was a common refrain. The word educado cropped up regularly when
Sevillians were asked their opinions of the visiting verdiblancos.
Educado does not mean educated. It is to do with politeness, good
behaviour, and many other words which are antonyms of hooliganism.

Even those hardier souls from the Gallowgate, some of whom do not appear
immediately to qualify for the term educado, were magnificent. My new
friend Fernando who is the Compo of the Last Of The Summer Wine set in
the Morales bodega near the cathedral in Seville, said his only
complaint was that Celtic had not brought with them more of their
beautiful female fans. Particularly, the younger variety in the short
kilts.

Everybody and their granny was among the Celtic support. There was a
surprisingly large number of grannies. Ladies who looked for all the
world as if they were heading, message bag in hand, down to Henry
Healey's to get something for their man's tea.

The fact they were wearing Celtic jerseys on top of their usual outfits
marked them out as Glasgow grannies who had failed to resist the
temptation to migrate to Seville for this event. I tried to elicit from
one such lady the motivation for her trip. The full text of the
soundbite supplied by this impressive and sensible lady is: 'Naw, son.
Ah'm no' talking tae the papers.' She departed into the heat of the
Seville afternoon looking very much like a woman who was off to steep
her feet in her hotel room bidet.

At the other end of the age scale I found Liam Kriger from Tel Aviv.
Liam, at the age of 11 months, was the youngest person wearing a Celtic
top sitting drinking on the pavement outside Morales bodega. I should
point out Liam was on his mother Sigal's knee and was being breast fed.

Wednesday, May 21, was the longest day for this correspondent. I went to
bed early to prepare for the Uefa final. I woke up at 3.30am to a
refrain, from a group of fans gathered in the street below my balcony,
that while 'Buckfast tonic is fine, we prefer Spanish wine'. The chaps,
from Saltcoats, were not drinking wine, but litre bottles of the local
Cruzcampo lager laced with vodka.

Much has been written about the Herculean drinking of the Celtic fans.
Carlos Cari–o put it well when he spoke of the 'peaceable Scottish
support dedicating themselves to the beautiful and precious art of
drinking beer'. Cari–o said that he had never seen, even in Seville a
city noted for religious artefact and symbolry, such a sight as 25
Celtic supporters worship a passing brewery delivery lorry.

Hearteningly, more and more football fans are staying relatively sober
on match days on away trips and this was certainly a feature of the vast
majority of the Seville contingent who wanted to savour the moment
rather than the bevvy. But on the days before and after the match, there
was the opportunity for indulgence. Some to excess with the usual
consequence.

The lost souls trying to find their hotels. Brendan from Clydebank
trudging the streets in an attempt to locate a hostal whose name and
location he had forgotten. He did know, however, that it was beside a
bar with a pool table.

Another of the dazed and confused said he was looking for a place called
the Hostal Completo. At least that's what the sign on the door said.

Many fans had no such luxury as a bed they could not find. Some took a
leaf from Seville's own rough sleepers and booked into the
air-conditioned cashline areas thoughtfully provided by some local
banks. Some had brought Celtic blankets, supporting the club
merchandising even in their slumbers.

One fan, sleeping in a doorway, had taken off a training shoe to use as
a pillow. He woke up, still much the worse for wear, and walked off
leaving his shoe behind. A young Spanish couple retrieved the shoe and
even put it back on for him.

A more organised squad had travelled from Manchester in a van with a
two-seater sofa in the back. 'The wife wasn't too happy,' the driver
said, 'but she was lucky we couldn't fit the armchair in.' One fan, who
will be nameless, said he had been in a bed for all of 15 minutes during
the trip. It was in a bordello and it cost him 31 Euros. Despite the
best efforts of Archbishop Mario Conti, who urged any of his flock in
Seville to eschew temptations of the flesh, sex occasionally becomes a
topic of conversation on such trips. I overheard a Fife chap saying to
one of the aforementioned Saltcoats men: 'Do you want to shag my wife?
100 Euros. I'd give you more, but it's all I've got on me.' This was a
good joke but not as fine as the T-shirt with the words: 'My wife thinks
I popped out to buy a loaf.' Many traveller's tales emerged and will
continue to emerge from Seville.

Well done to the two Tim soldiers who travelled all the way from Goose
Green in the Falklands. The Sri Lanka supporters had the nicest banner
with the drawing of an elephant beside the compulsory shamrock. Well
done to those who made the last miles from Malaga to Seville in a convoy
of mopeds. 'Twenty miles an hour going uphill, 70mph going downhill,'
said John-Paul, one of the bikers.

The sight that cheered me first on the way back from the stadium was a
bus with Pollok on its destination board.

On the fancy dress front, the first prize definitely goes to the troupe
of leprechauns from Ayrshire. Father Steve Gilhooly from Currie in
Edinburgh is commended for his ensemble of Celtic away top,
three-quarter length white pantaloons, and green-and-white hooped bovver
boots. I didn't recognise Steve at first and uttered a blasphemous
'Christ!' when I realised who he was. 'No, it's just Father Steve,' he
said.

There was much to fill the heart and mind in Seville last week. There
was much salve for the soul to witness, in a sea of greed and hype,
Celtic fans passing on to fellow supporters at face value tickets which
they could have sold for hundreds of pounds.

The game itself for me passed in a blur. I thought we were going to
sneak a famous victory. But I was knackered and couldn't kick a ball in
extra time.

Call it unsporting but afterwards I didn't shake a single Portuguese
hand. The pain of coming so close precluded any such expressions of
sporting fellowship. I remained, I hope, educado, but did ask quite a
few Porto fans what was the Portuguese word for cheating.

As ever the Irish came to the rescue. I didn't feel much like
celebrating, which is an unusual emotion in Seville. But Colm and
company from Finbar's pub in Madrid insisted. They had bought the last
40 litres of Cruzcampo from the all-night kiosk beside the river and
were having a pavement party.

Colm and his pals were skilled, if inebriated, gymnasts and gave
impressive displays of somersaults and forward rolls for the benefit of
the occupants of passing Porto supporters' buses. I think Colm and Co
were hinting at a certain amount of diving and unsporting theatricality
on the part of the Porto players.

There is no room here, and even if there were I probably could not find
the words to express the pride I feel in Celtic football club, its fans,
players, and a bloke called Martin O'Neill.

Runners-up? Yes. Losers? No.