"It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way--in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only"

A TALE OF TWO CITIES

Well not quite. On May 9th 1998, Glasgow Celtic ended their 10 year wait for the Premier League Championship with a 2-0 win over St Johnstone at Celtic Park. The title run had gone right to the last day. Celtic needed to win to prevent The Forces of Darkness from winning the league and gaining their Tenth league title in a row. This they achieved in a tense match and afterwards the scenes of joy and jubliation were uncontrolable, not just in Glasgow, but all over Scotland and anywhere Celtic supporters could be found.

This tale was born on the Celtic List where I joined others in giving our accounts of that historic day. I thought I'd jazz mine up a bit though to make it slightly different from the standard (but still entertaining) accounts. Since then I've been talked into adding it to the site so here goes. I would like to say that this tale contains inaccuracies, inventions, downright lies and several libels. The characters contained therein are not fictional thus unfortunately are very real. The tale is mainly factual however and all these incidents did happen.. sort of. :-)

A TALE OF TWO CITIES - CHAPTER 1

Well I don't know about anyone else but I had very little sleep on Saturday, and the couple of hours I did have were only achieved through drinking myself into a drunken stupor. Well stocked with wine and lager, I had spent the early hours huddled over the PC rambling away on the IRC about God knows what - it's all a bit hazy. Eventually I had trouble hitting the right keys so decided to retire to the living room and watch some Celtic vids in an effort to calm the nerves - even large quantities of alcohol were unable to settle the throbbing heart, the pounding head, the shaking hands and the unsteady legs - though to be fair I think the alcohol may have actually caused the last one. I dunno when I fell asleep, 8.00am I think, but luckily there was no repeat of the January 2nd embarrassment as my darling loved-one awoke me in plenty of time with her gentle little fist. As the blows rained down I managed at last to convey the fact that I was awake, and she reluctanly slunk away to torture mice or whatever it is females do when they're not torturing us.

Out into the bright Leith morning sunshine I stumbled and with a bold stagger (shurely swagger? - Ed.) I headed off to Tollcross and the hallowed drinking den known as the International Bar. Upon entering the pub, I noticed that Dave Gardner was feeling the pressure as well, as he'd managed to get to the bar without a map or escort. Well, a couple of pints were downed and then it was time to set off for our date with destiny. I must admit to being a tad fearful, but also slightly hopeful, mixed with moments of confidence and others of gloom - yep, in other words, I was a mess. Gardner though had adopted his usual front of false confidence ;-) and loudly predicted that we'd win by two clear goals, 2-0 or 3-1 said the fat lad while running over several unwary pedestrians too old or slow to jump aside. Before leaving Edinburgh we stopped at the usual Off License in Slateford to pick up the provisions. The Hun who works in there looked sick as the proverbial parrot - I felt the confidence grow. :-)

Two moments of note occured on the journey along the M8. We got served by the most grumpy Huns you can possibly imagine in the Harthill service station Wimpey, and I lost my 3-year-old scarf. The happy staff in the Wimpey might as well have said "Here's yer food ye fenyun busturds..gob.. gob." It was written all over their faces, from the acne-scarred, sloping foreheads to the vicious sneers and pointy teeth. The scarf was lost as I tried to hang it out the window - one minute it was in my hand and I was rolling up the window, the next it was flying down the motorway while I watched it vanish from sight with a tear in the eye and a forlorn expression. " A bad omen! A bad omen!" screeched I admist the sniggering from the callous bastard sitting next to me. Anyway I got a new one as soon as we left Gardner's Model T-Ford in the Forge Car Park (quite a good one too - the scarf not the car park), and headed along with the happy throng to Paradise. 

The confidence all around me was remarkable, and I half-expected everyone could sense my doubts, which would then result in "Invasion of the Body Snatcher" impersonations. Luckily I managed to avoid Charles Broadfoot's Stasi and made it in to turnstile 29 with my season book intact. I even made it through the interrogation procedure:

Steward: You confident, sir?
Me: Yep.
Steward: You sure?
Me: Definitely.
Steward: You don't look too confident, sir.
Me: You're mistaken. Mr Confident, that's me.
Steward: We have orders to shoot anyone that isn't utterly confident, sir.
Me: Quite right too, it's the only language they understand.
Steward: You seem to be sweating, sir.
Me: It's the Malaria... definitely not a sign of guilt though.
Steward: Hmm okay, you may pass... but we'll be keeping an eye on you.

Taking off the moutain climbing gear and emerging from 408, the sight and sound of the Tims was quite simply amazing. The whole place seemed to be jumping, and strangely enough the chaos had its usual calming effect on me. Like so often in the past as soon as I get into the ground, the nerves go and a strange surreal peace descends on my tortured napper. I know I am at one with my world and that the uncertainty is gone, to be replaced by the profound insight that I am certain of being completely uncertain... well, it bloody works for me, alright? It doesn't last, though, but it's still a hell of a lot better than listening to the game on the radio or watching it on TV - now that is torture.

So it was in this deeply mystical state that I joined Dave at our seats and joined in the superb pre-match singing. As Walk On boomed out of 50,000 throats I could tell that Dave was beside himself with excitment as the death-like rattle next to me indicated that Gardner was actually singing. I noticed some of the older types near us clutching rosary beads and looking around fearfully, but nothing could break the moment.

A TALE OF TWO CITIES - CHAPTER 2

At the end of the last chapter we left our two heroes singing their hearts out in Celtic Park, while one at least was creating a few spare season tickets for next season with his death-like croaking. If you ever notice that there are no OAPs in 408, well, now you know why

I must admit that I've felt emotional at times at Celtic Park, normally it's anger, dread or fear, but this time it was an overriding love for my fellow man... well, those that wear green and white at any rate. As the massed ranks of hopeful Tims launched into a superbly out-of-time version of Over & Over, we could see movement in the tunnel. After a bit we asked the guy in front to stop doing it or we'd call the stewards.

Suddenly a roar erupted which fair sent the hairs on Dave's palms standing on end. The gallant hoops ran out onto the pitch. 50,000 voices were raised in a tremendous cresendo which if it could have been stripped of clutter would have sounded like this: "Oh please win, please win, please, please, please". After the initial din the noise subsided down to deafening level and the game to end all games began.

I had just taken my seat and started to think "Oh God, two minutes and we haven't scored, the bastards, the bastards..." when Larsson's superb strike tore into the net. Bedlam. Arms were flung in the air, legs too and the occasional torso. Voices roared through pain and ecstacy. Small children were hurled aloft to go sailing over the Upper Stand parapet and disappear into the seething mass of happy Tims in the cheap seats. It didn't matter, children could be replaced, league titles couldn't. The immediate aftermath of the goal is a blur - that could be the effects of the post-match celebrations or it could be the result of Gardner getting his own back for the time I hit him (accidentally - honest) in the eye during the Motherwell game. Suffice to say a modicum of relief had allowed the Tims to get into the total party spirit and the stadium rocked to the chants, clapping hands and the occasional cry for a medic.

Half-time came with the score at 1-0. We didn't care at that moment. We were on the way to winning the league, and there was the slight matter of the Paradise Windfall draw to think about. As usual, Gardner had bought one ticket, paying the vendor in tarnished one pences. He stood there, lip trembling, a sheen of sweat on the forehead, and the usual damp stains spreading out from the armpits as he grasped his ticket. Suddenly the number was announced and the scream of agony next to me indicated that yet gain, Dave was unlucky. 

However it was confirmed to me that this was definitely a day out of the ordinary. Not one sob passed his lips, neither did the usual cries of vengance and claims of vendettas, no fists were shaken in grief-stricken rage, nor were threats made against the winner, no black looks swept across the ravaged coupon, nor were clumps of hair pulled out in fury. None of this occured. Dave merely picked himself up, rung out his Celtic shirt and adopted a determined, if slightly pale, look.

The half-time singing was excellent. The Celtic Song raised the roof off. Over and Over was sung out of time again. The Fields ruptured the ear drums, and the rendition of Walk On caused Hanoi libarians to sush angrily. I've often wondered what the players in the dressing-room must think when they hear this stirring battle hymn. Probably something like "I wish they'd shut it, ah cannae hear masel think".

The second half is again a blur. What I do know is this. The Saints came back into the game and the nerves crept in. As the clock ticked away, you could see the supporters around you visibly aging. Grey hairs started to be all the rage, and young men became old before their time. 50,000 pairs of eyes tried to push the ball into the net, while at other times they tried to keep it out. Wails mingled with cheers as the game flowed. Everytime the Saints came into our half, the sound of rattling beads was deafening. I couldn't bear it any longer and like a true supporter, took to shutting my eyes and turning my head. Dave, bless him, was helping out by telling me when it was safe to look, but the bastard started lying which ruined it. I could see though that even Mr Cocky was feeling the strain as he emitted the occasional low groan which pleased me no end.

Luckily this is nearly the 21st Century and we no longer shoot supporters for cowardice. Imagine if this had been the league decider in 1915.

Me: I can't take it anymore.. I just can't.. I can't.
Capt Steward: Clarke, get up there and be a man.
Me: No No No, I can't anymore, it's too much, the constant attacks, the ceaseless slaughter, the misery, the pain... why, why, why...?
Capt Steward: Sgt Gardner, take this man and put him on a charge, he'll be court-martialed in the morning.
Sgt Gardner: Have a mercy, sir! He's been under constant fire for 30 years. It's enough to break anyone.
Capt Steward: You haven't broken, Gardner.
Sgt Gardner: No sir, but I don't have his intelligence. I'm too dumb to be scared.

In the morning I'd be taken out to the execution yard, where my scarf would be removed, my top burned before my eyes and my season ticket ripped up before me. I wouldn't go easily mind you, no heroic ending for me. Nope, I'd blub and cry and try to run away.

Anyway back to the game. The fear had reached crisis point. Songs were being belted out now in defiance rather than joy. Gardner was in such a state that he occasionally shuffled his feet. I had no finger nails left so had started on my toenails. All around supporters were falling prey to fearful superstition and were reverting back to the old gods.

Suddenly Boyd picked up the ball in his own half, he runs... he runs a bit more... and another bit... wee bit more... he unleashes a long ball up the wing to McNamara who sends a great low cross in front of Brattbakk. The ball boys start to run out to Kerrydale Street to get the ball... but no!... he slips it majestically into the corner of the net. KRAKATOA CITY! SHEER MAYHEM. Everyone is jumping like mad and screaming with joy and relief into each others faces, people are falling over seats and hugging everyone else. The whole world seems to be bouncing up and down. The noise is absolutely deafening. I'm on Dave's phone, calling the bint and screaming "We've won the league, we've won the league!" over and over again. I didn't know it at the time but I'd called the wrong number in my excitement. Hope it was a Hun. :-)))

After the goal it was pure party Tims and time to rock the house. Through all the singing, laughing, crying and cheering, we noticed that the guy who had sat in front of us all season was missing. "Where is he?" we asked his mate. This humanitarian replied with a big smug grin that said fellow's wife had booked the holidays for this time and we all had a good laugh at his misfortune.

Suddenly admist the chaos a whistle blew. The stadium erupted for the third time, players were running and hugging on the pitch. The joy in the stands was uncontrollable. Dave was saying "jolly good" and giving people brisk handshakes. I was screaming like a looney and hugging everyone near me, even the ones that tried to run away. We'd done it - at long, long last we'd done it. Celtic had won the league!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! LET THE PARTY BEGIN!

A TALE OF TWO CITIES - CHAPTER 3

As the cheers go up and party begins, our two heroes are joining in the celebration, leaping around going utterly mental. Well okay, one of them is, the other is swaying slightly and saying "Hear Hear" in a loud, but no too loud, voice.

The scenes at the final whistle will remain with us for the rest of our lives. The sheer outpouring of joy and relief threatened to reduce the mass ranks of Tims to blubbing wrecks but thankfully most confined themselves to simple hysteria and a noticable moistening of the eyes. I myself felt the emotion reaching critical mass at one stage and felt the eyes fill up, but realising that a lifetime of slagging would then result after being spotted by the keen eye of Gardner, I managed to keep a lid on it - even if I felt I was standing with a brick in my throat. Gardner meanwhile was dabbing a hankerchief to his eye and saying in a gruff voice that some grit must have gone in it. A snigger did then pass my lips and ran off down the stairs where it invaded the pitch and was pursued by several stewards.

The immediate abortive pitch invasion by supporters was looked upon unkindly by those like me who couldn't get down there, and by others who could but didn't want any incident to ruin the presentation of a trophy that had been held in the scaly claws of Satan for the past nine seasons. The whistles went up and the message got through. The invaders, hesitated mid-invasion, then slunk off back to their seats to gear themselves up for the proper one. Dave was beside himself with fury. I could tell this by the arched eyebrow and the muttered "bad show, you chaps". I was only glad that he'd left his elephant gun behind. There used to be herds of pachyderms roaming the Edinburgh savannah, but no longer.

The stands by this time were rocking to the songs of the Tribe of Tim. The glories of the Celts were sung and everyone from Glasgow to Tokyo was informed that it was indeed a grand old team to play for, that we should greet one-in-a-row by saying hello, that Walter Smith was a strange colour and of dubious birth while having a less then successful football team, that Celtic could even hide in Zaire (let's face it - Republic of Congo doesn't scan) and we'd still find them, that we'd all be stalkers and never let them walk alone, that we should all wave goodbye to ten-in-a-row and that the number of Wim Jansens were but one.

The rest is all mixed up in a big emotional pie, garnished by the sprigs of joy and smothered by a relief sauce. The team ran hither and thither (eh?) throwing their tops around like so much hooped confetti... well, confetti that's very large, shaped like a football top and is made of cloth. One lucky sod in the lower North received Annoni's top at the second attempt and for a brief moment Mr Jealousy poked up his wee green face only to be laid low with a blow from Mr Magnanimous who was on a day trip from the retirement home. If the poor lad did try to eat it and then choked on it, I am blameless.

Suddenly the navvies had the podium in position and the cup was placed there to the deafening din of reverent silence. Each Tim stood there with his head bowed, lost in private thought and deep contemplation of all things holy and good. Meanwhile the other 49,999 of us cheered, yelled and launched impromptu versions of Riverdance. Strangers hugged, kissed and passed notes of promise. Stewards waded in with buckets of cold water and the clouds of steam rose into the sunny sky. Season ticket books were ripped up with wild abandon and the air became thick with reserve match vouchers. A Puerto Rican wave became all the rage (that's like a Mexican wave, but at higher speed and everyonedoing it at the same time).

Suddenly admist the chaos, Tom Boyd strode towards the podium. He hesitated slightly as someone called out "You're shite, Boyd", but 'twas merely a figment of his imagination and he gathered himself together and boldly lifted the cup. For some, the moment became too much and tears coursed down the faces of large men. Their friends, understanding that this was an unique event, did not adopt the usual rite for this occasion. No trembling fingers of mirth were pointed, no falsetto voices were imitated, no imaginary skirts were held up and no prancing ensued, no, not even the sexuality of the blubber was questioned. A unique occasion indeed.

Each team member was cheered to the rafters when they raised the cup. The 50,000 pairs of eyes, taking a break from ball-pushing, were riveted on that sacred object. How many of us feared deep in our hearts that this symbol of glory would never again shine in our stadium? Well, none, but that's not really the point. It had been too long. 10 years in the wilderness to some clubs may be the equivalent of popping out to the corner shop for some fags and a newspaper, but to us it was a shopping trip to the Jakarta Tesco when the car breaks down and you get lumped with the trolley with the dodgy wheel, only to get stuck at the checkout behind the mad middle-class social worker with a carrier bag full of vouchers.

By this time the place was rocking to Boyd's inspired "Stand up for the Champions". A bit pointless, I felt, as we were all standing anyway - but what the hell. The team trooped around the stadium as the trophy was held aloft in triumphant glee. Gardner had lost all control of himself and was doing his "embarrasing dad at your party" dance. In what seemed like a few minutes, but I'm assured by the TV images that it was a hell of a lot longer, the team departed up the tunnel with a last wave to the Tims who were now pouring onto the pitch in droves. This invasion which was led by a few hardy souls, soon turned into a flood as the Stewards' rearguard was overwhelmed and fled for its collective life.

We stood lapping up the scenes and laughing like drains. Supporters streamed onto the Holy Ground whereupon they fell to their knees in supplication only to be trampled by the stampeding devotees behind. The more triumphant headed towards the podium which became a mass of jumping, cheering Tims who encouraged us all to wave goodbye to 10-in-a-row once again. Others, overcome by the occasion, just stared at the scenes around them. Yet more unfurled flags and banners and ran to and fro, while the keen amateur gardners amongst us decided to re-lay our lawns by borrowing some of that handy turf that was just lying around. The pitch degenerated into chaos as the flag cult competed with the gardners' cult (no relation) and both were pointedly ignored by the podium cult. Keen observers though noticed that the gardner cult seemed to be getting the upper hand, since the flag bearers seemed to be getting lower and lower while the podium cult was getting higher and higher.

In the upper North, we were busy singing Perfect Day and giving the kiddies a helping hand down to the lower stand, although they just lay in a twitching pile which just goes to show the laziness of the modern generation. All too soon, though, the Stewards had rallied and were herding the Tims off the pitch back to the safety of the stands. As we departed from Paradise we took one last look at the lhads and lhassies streaming off the pitch bearing most of it with them. Gardner hadn't said much for a while so I asked him if he was okay. "It hasn't sunk in yet," he replied with a faraway look in his eyes. I knew what he meant; strangely enough, this was going to be an occasion that would only be appreciated in the cold light of a sober morning. Good, something to look forward to apart from farting, thought I.

A TALE OF TWO CITIES - CHAPTER 4

The two unlikely heroes have now left Paradise and have made it to the Forge Car Park whereupon they enter Gardner's Model T-Ford and head east. Happy, elated and one at least is getting pissed.

The drive back to Edinburgh is a whirlwind of laughing, cheering people. Tricolours, league flags and hoops. As we drove through Shettleston and Ballieston we were greeted by waving crowds and victory signs. All the cars were blaring out their horns and the supporters buses were rocking to and fro as the party continued inside. People kept holding up their kids to us, dunno why, we didn't want them, but we cheered away anyway. The joy was unrestrained. Some capered and did complicated somersaults of cheer jubilation but I told Gardner he'd crash if he kept doing it.

Onto the M8 and through the supporters buses which by now were being bounced from lane to lane. As Dave increased the G force and approached the speed of sound, we broke into a rousing chorus of Say Cheerio To Ten In A Row! It was mere coincidence that as I hung out the window singing this and waving both hands, buses full of sullen Huns were speeding past on the other side of the motorway. Oh dear, hope I didn't upset anyone.

The night spent in Auld Reekie is a confused mass of singing, Guinness, more singing, more Guinness, a drunken football game in the Meadows and a feeling that air was being walked upon. Dave quickly parked the car in his own unique "Dukes of Hazard" way, and once we'd been cut free from the wreckage, it was into the International Bar where the Bhoys were already in full voice. As soon as we walked in a huge cheer went up, apparently we were the first lads back from the match. More hugging and cheering ensued. Dave was so affected by this that he even went to the bar without a struggle. Spying this, some of the singers momentarily faltered, but soon rallied and rose to the occasion.

We were soon joined by the bint, and the pub rapidly filled with those returning from the match and others who had been sitting giving birth to kittens at home while listening to the radio. The singing became louder and the celebrations wilder as the pure joy, relief and alcohol kicked in. More supporters piled in until the pub threatened to become a Green & White Hole of Calcutta. No-one cared. The pub shook to the chants and songs, strangers sang away with their arms draped around each other. It was at about this time that I became the unofficial song leader.

Now this was new to me, as people normally give me money or violence to stop me singing; but I wasn't passing up this rare opportunity. Song after song I led until I became drunk not only with alcohol but with power. Yes, I can testify that power does corrupt and absolute power corrupts absolutely. I was King of The Song, Presidente of the Prosody, Lord of the Lyric. Suddenly I paused for breath after one song and then... Revolution!!! Some upsurper on the other side of the bar started another one. I looked around in outrage and called upon my bullies to have at the fellow, but then I realised I didn't have any. Worse, Denise was singing away also. Betrayed!! Et tu, Denise?! Is this a blade I see behind me? Anyway, if I had been sober enough, I may have thought all this, but all I thought was "We've won the league, we've won the league, we've won the league..."

Bar-thing (you had to see her): What will that be, sir?
Me: We've won the league
Barthing: Is that one pint or two?
Me: We've won the league.
Bar-thing; That'll be £6.90, sir.
Me: You're f**king joking.

Ah yes, the night descended into a happy kind of chaos. Everyone in that bar loved everyone else. Even Denise only tried to glass me occasionally and even that was half-hearted. The bar by now was choked full. The sound of breaking glass could be heard over the singing as the windows gave way and Tims jumbled out onto the street where they lay singing away too pissed to care or notice. Inside the bar the whole bouncing, riotous melee paused momentarily as the Bar-thing threatened to ban the match highlights unless we returned the beer glasses. A new song! "Take the glasses to the bar" became the new anthem and the rocking continued. Glasses were passed over the dancing Tims like sacred objects while others took the quick route and chucked them across.

The highlights came on to a huge cheer and even louder singing. Larsson's goal sent the place into a bedlamite frenzy of cheering and singing while the reaction to Brattbakk's goal broke several windows in Oslo and did for most of the pub furniture. I was on a pinball machine at this time, singing away and sporting the traditional Celtic Top With Huge Guinness Stains look. I didn't care. Everything in my world was right. This is what it was all about. This is what makes those dark cold days sitting in freezing cold grounds with a dripping nose and frost bitten feet worthwhile. This is what we hope for when driving back from watching Celtic get gubbed in pouring rain at Fir Park, only to find out that  you're late for the bint's birthday meal and the flat upstairs has flooded the bedroom. This is what we dream about in the wee dark hours when we think about where it all went so wrong and wonder if it will ever be right again. Ten years of mockery, insults, despair, unfullfilled hope, broken dreams and crushing disappointment were burned away in a huge conflagaration of pure joy. At last, at long last, our day had finally come.

THE END