ALEX’S ANGLE: A CRYING SHAME

ON SATURDAY January 2 1971 at approximately 4pm, I walked out of Ibrox Stadium with my brother-in-law Robert Murphy and headed for Glasgow city centre.

As we jostled through the crowd on Edmiston Drive, we reflected on what we had just witnessed. Jimmy Jonstone had scored for Celtic in the 89th minute and, just moments later, Colin Stein had equalised for Rangers, shooting into the goal in front of us in the Broomloan Road stand.

We made snail-like progress as we passed the Copland Road stand en route to our destination.

Just over my left shoulder, at that precise moment, people were dying while others fought frantically for their life. Robert and I were totally unaware of any ensuing tragedy.

There was the usual accompaniment of clamour and din in the fall-out of an Old Firm head-to-head, but absolutely nothing out of the ordinary.

We would be well out of sight and utterly ignorant of what had occurred that late afternoon by the time speeding ambulances, with their flashing blue lights and screeching siren wails, raced to the scene.

I was just 26 days away from my nineteenth birthday and had been a bit of a veteran of this fixture, my first had been Celtic’s emphatic 3-0 loss in the Scottish Cup Final replay in 1963. Remarkably, that drubbing did not put me off the Glasgow derby for life.

On a grey and pulverisingly cold winter’s afternoon, my companion and I reached the sanctuary of what would be known as a ‘wee man’s howf’, a welcoming stopping point before I carried on to meet my girlfriend, Carole, at the old Daily Record building at 67 Hope Street in the city centre.

I was a fledgling sports sub-editor at the time and Carole was the sports desk secretary. As I headed up Hope Street, I saw Carole racing in my direction. I wondered what on earth had triggered such a burst of spontaneous affection.

She practically grabbed me in a bearhug. “Thank God you’re alive,” were the words I will never forget.

Remarkably, I had spent an hour or so with Robert in a quiet little hostelry and nobody made any sort of reference to what had happened at Ibrox. Simply put, nobody had a clue what had occurred. There was no television set in the pub, there must have been a radio silence and there was a National Union of Journalists’ strike at the time.

The Saturday evening sports newspapers, the green Citizen and the pink Times, used to be sold in the pubs back in the day when if you sought information, you bought a journal. I did not see any newspaper sellers that day.

It was then and only then, that I was enlightened to any catastrophe that had befallen some poor souls in the stadium. Information, as you would expect, had been sketchy and all Carole could tell me was there had been a number of deaths.

She seemed quite relieved her boyfriend was not among them. On this sad day, others were not so fortunate.

We had absolutely no idea what the death total would rise to; alas, an unimaginable amount.

We went for a bite to eat and then visited one of our favourites drinking dens, The Alpen Lodge, a couple of minutes’ walk from the front doors of the Record on Hope Street, and settled down for a couple of drinks.

Back then, pubs were forced to close their doors at 10pm. By the time we were ready to leave, there had still been no mention of the sickening death tally across the city.

Carole lived with her parents in a semi-detached house in Kelvindale and if their daughter was not returned at a reasonable hour, her strict parents may have been prompted to send out the SAS in search parties.

We crossed the road from The Alpen Lodge, appropriately named on a frosty, misty setting, the pavements positively shimmering with white crystals, and joined the taxi queue on Gordon Street outside Central Railway Station.

Over fifty years ago, there seemed to be about one hundred taxis available to satisfy would-be passengers throughout Glasgow. A taxi driver’s licence was gold dust and, for whatever reason, the wing of the Glasgow city council that dealt with these matters, appeared to be of the mistaken belief there was a sufficiency of vehicles to meet the public demand.

That would lead me to believe these individuals enjoyed their own form of transport and would never require the services of a taxi.

Along with what looked like about sixty others in the shivering queue, we stood and quivered in the hope we might be able to move up the line and get the next available black hack before frostbite set in.

After about half-an-hour and, possibly two or three taxis coming to the rescue of those at the head of the queue, we decided to take to Shanks’ Pony and walk in the general direction of the West End. There was always the chance of attempting to hail a passing taxi with its delightful orange light beckoning.

On this night, the first Saturday of a New Year, there was more likelihood of being offered a lift by a passing UFO.

We walked the three and a half miles with the chill wind for company. I declined the offer of coming in from the cold for something fortifying – like a gallon of brandy, for instance – because I didn’t want to get too comfortable.

I had severe doubts that Carole’s curmudgeonly parents would provide overnight accommodation for their daughter’s beau of six months or so. With that thought in mind, I received a goodnight kiss and set off on another expedition across Glasgow.

Now I knew how Captain Scott felt some sixty years earlier. There was neither sight nor sound of a taxi. Today, you can produce an App and whistle up an Uber. Back then, it was utilising your legs or just standing still.

Off I went along Great Western Road, reversing the journey I had just made, the temperature seemed to be dropping at an alarming rate. I passed a shop window and noticed my hair had turned white with frost.

I managed the three and a half miles back to the city centre. I headed for the Saltmarket en route to my sister’s flat in Caledonia Road in the Gorbals. I had lived in Betty’s spare bedroom in the high rise tower block – on the 22nd floor – for a few months.

I had left what had been home in Castlemilk for the past 14 years or so for the convenience of living nearer the Daily Record offices. It would be another two years before I passed my driving test and could afford to buy a car.

Public transport getting into work from the housing scheme on the southside of the city wasn’t a problem, but, back then, my backshift at the newspaper was an immoveable 5pm to 1am and hanging around George Square in the early hours of the morning waiting for a stray bus was not my idea of fun.

As I walked along, with the tower block in sight, I spotted a recognisable figure. The guy looked devastated. He was standing on the pavement outside the city mortuary and he shook with utter, uncontrollable grief.

My exhaustion evaporated. Here was a guy I knew in obvious distress. His name was Ian, but I knew him as Brogie because of his striking resemblance to Celtic player Jim Brogan.

He worked in another department, the caseroom where typesetters put the stories into linotype before publishing the pages in the era of hot metal.

Brogie played as an uncompromising defender for the Daily Record works team in a Sunday morning league. I played in goal and I always appreciated the unflinching commitment of my team-mate.

I approached him in an eerie moment of silence when we appeared to have a small part of the city to ourselves. I had no idea what the time was. I had ceased looking at my wristwatch on the first excursion along Great Western Road because it was too cold to remove my hands from my pockets.

Brogie virtually collapsed into my arms. I held him tight as he wept, a decent human being with a broken heart.

It took a while before he regained control of his emotions.

It transpired he had just been called to the morgue to identify the body of his younger brother who, like Brogie, had been a Rangers fan.

I worked alongside Brogie for another fifteen years or so before new technology wiped out the job at which he was so accomplished. I doubt if he ever recovered from events of January 2 1971.

This is just one story of a black day in Scottish history. How many others can there be?

And that is why I am distraught by anyone who can derive pleasure from the death of 66 innocent folk who went to a game of football one day to support their team and never returned to their loved ones.

It is vile beyond any level of acceptance to glory in such fatal and harrowing circumstances. The multiples of grief for the supporters who perished that awful day is inestimable.

I doubt for a split-second that those who perpetrate such disgusting and cretinous acts possess a scintilla of understanding of what it means to the club they profess to support.

These people are outcasts from any form of reasonable society

Celtic Football Club doesn’t want them.

The human race doesn’t need them.

ALEX GORDON