ALEX’S ANGLE: THE RELENTLESS PURSUIT OF PANDEMONIUM

IT WAS heading into the early evening of Saturday May 10 1980 and all was going according to plan in the Glasgow offices of the Sunday People.

Following a scoreless stalemate in the regulation 90 minutes, Celtic and Rangers were still going toe to toe in the extra-time period of the Scottish Cup Final in front of over 70,000 fans as the sun shone down on Hampden.

I was 28 years old at the time and chief sports sub-editor of the Daily Record. After years of resisting freelance employment on a Saturday, the Sunday People had made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. Hence, I was entrenched in their editorial on the last day of the Scottish football season of 1979/80.

The newspaper’s three main sportswriters were present at the national stadium; John Blair covering the game, Douglas Ritchie providing the aftermatch quotes and Bobby Bogan presenting his Big Match Verdict.

Randolph Caughie was leading the posse of photographers and I had already received the spool from the first-half via a courier to the newspaper’s offices at Anderston Quay.

Deadlines were tight, particularly as the journal was published in Manchester, and it was imperative to get the film to the dark room and select a few images from the negatives before having them printed, captioned and ferried to the wire room which occupied another floor in the building.

LIFT-OFF…George McCluskey leaps into the air as he celebrates his winning goal in the Scottish Cup Final at Hampden in May 1980 – before the mayhem.

From there, the pictures would be wired to Manchester. The process to send one photograph could take up to half an hour. It was a laborious and time-absorbing procedure on a day when speed was of the absolute essence.

Older readers will understand. The more youthful among you would be forgiven for believing horse-drawn hansom cabs were the normal mode of transport back in those sepia-coloured days.

Then it was a quick phone call to John Maddock, the Sunday People‘s editor across the border, and sports editor Phil Smith. I would keep them up to speed what was happening in my part of the universe and to inform them of the photographs, with rough dimensions, that were coming their way to get the production line opened. Shapes and sizes of images are crucial for visual impact in a tabloid newspaper.

Hugh Farmer, an old school news editor, was savvy enough to remain on call throughout the day. A wing column on the front page had been allocated to register a few words on who had won the Cup with cross-references to the back page and inside pages for the in-depth coverage of Scottish soccer’s grand finale showpiece.

I could view the Hampden action on a modest set in the newspaper’s TV room – there were no 60-inch plasma screens attached to every wall back in those unenlightened times.

The ancient Glasgow foes couldn’t be separated until the 107th minute of their compelling seesawing confrontation. At that moment, Danny McGrain struck a long-range drive at goal that didn’t appear to present any danger until George McCluskey materialised to manoeuvre a clever flick that flummoxed Peter McCloy, in the Rangers goal.

And, in that unforgettable split-second, the Cup was won. And lost.

In an outbreak of sportsmanship and bonhomie, the SFA had previously given both teams permission to parade the silverware.

Scotland’s football rulers had recently erected a ten-foot high perimeter fence around the touchline in the mistaken belief the obstacle would thwart any supporters who had the notion of joining their heroes in celebrations on the pitch.

Naive doesn’t cover it.

The joyous fans clambered over the wire barricades and were cavorting with McGrain and Co while the shrill of referee George Smith’s whistle still echoed around the national stadium.

A large number of Rangers fans had stayed behind, despite the demise of their team. Had sportsmanship invaded their very being and they wanted to applaud the victors on the day?

That may well have been some folk’s line of thinking. These supreme optimists may also believe in the abolishment of Income Tax some day in the future.

It wasn’t long before both sets of supporters were on the field. Bottles, cans and anything that could cause damage were hurled in a vicious coming-together. Some of those with more violent tendencies had smashed up terracing frames to utilise the iron bars and wooden staves as weapons.

There were extraordinary images of mounted police, batons drawn, wading through the combatants.

As the scuffles developed into a riot, my old friend Archie Macpherson, covering the game for the BBC, delivered his memorable line as the bedlam ensued: “This is like a scene out of Apocalypse Now.”

Across Glasgow, at the Sunday People offices, some feverish work was being done as front and back pages were ripped up and we started again. I was aware of the production times and the scheduled flights to transport the thousands of newspapers from Manchester to Glasgow for overnight distribution throughout Scotland.

Everything was done and dusted and, most importantly, on time before I headed to the office pub for a beer. Aah, the good old days when newspapers sold in their millions.

In the aftermath of the disturbing scenes in Mount Florida, viewed worldwide, both clubs were fined £20,000 and there were more than 200 arrests. Celtic blamed the Strathclyde Police for their handling of the sorry situation.

Absurdly, the vast majority of the police officers were on duty outside the ground at full-time in an effort to prevent any trouble in the streets. Both the cops and the SFA had assumed that the perimeter fences would prevent fans from invading the pitch.

Later, way too late, it was agreed the mesh barriers were “completely inadequate.”

The police authorities pointed the accusing finger at Celtic fans for the disorder, a position with which Rangers readily concurred. Surprise, surprise.

An investigation by the SFA executive committee found that this initial pitch invasion was “a spontaneous, if misguided, expression of joy.”

And that takes us to today and the fall-out of Sunday’s carnage.

The blame game is in full swing once again. Yes, the Celtic fans should not have entered the field of play. We accept that. Clearly, another expression of delight following the penalty-kick shoot-out triumph in a hostile corner of the city.

In an eerie re-enactment of the dark and distant past, that triggered a response from the opposite end. On came a mob and we all witnessed what happened next.

It was sickening and, once again, the world looked on.

Those viewing from outside this city may wonder about football followers wearing ski masks as part of their match day ensemble. Just as well they do not require facial recognition to get into the ground.

It may be okay for a Spiderman Convention, but it has no place in society.

I’m not even going to attempt to provide answers to this age-old problem. There are sufficient politicians and those in some sort of authority who will provide enough hot air to threaten the Ozone Layer.

I read one suggestion that Celtic should be thrown out of the competition as a punishment. Kicked out of the Scottish Cup for over-exuberance among the support?

That goes beyond comprehension. Surely the person who came up with this nugget can see the flaw in the argument.

Flip Sunday’s situation. The Ibrox side have just tucked away the winning penalty-kick. Their fans come onto the pitch to show their pleasure following a crucial triumph.

The rival support see the opportunity to create disruption to proceedings and take to the field to fire flares into the opposition end of the stadium and attempt to engage in some aggro with the enemy.

Celtic are already out of the Cup. What do they have to lose? An identical scenario develops as the one that occurred at the weekend and afterwards there are calls for the Ibrox club to be booted out of the competition.

Where would it end?

Is there anyone on this planet blessed with the know-how to get through to those who continue their pursuit of pandemonium with relentless vigour?

I seem to have been writing these words forever.

For almost 46 years, to be precise.

ALEX GORDON

 

 

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