Congratulations to everyone who participated in the 9-in-a-row CQN Charity Golf Day at Aberdour in Fife, yesterday. The event, auctions and raffles leading up to it raised £6000, the bulk of which will go to the 1254125 appeal, while some will go to Clic Sargent, who help families with children with that dreadful disease.
Lisbon Lion, Willie Wallace, and his wife Olive, were fantastic guests, who enjoyed spending a day with 70 or so friends. It doesn’t matter how far away Lisbon Lions live, you always find them the same way.
My sincere thanks to everyone who came along, bid of the auctions or bought a raffle ticket, all in aid of people you will never know. Thank you from all of us to John, Kevin and John, for their stressful work in pulling the event together, for the ninth year!
125 years ago a handful of people, living in a community devastated by hunger, destitution and TB, but who could make a difference, decided they would make a difference. As a result, Celtic was born. Celtic is not just something to brighten up your weekends, it’s not purely there to build friendships or to create common-interests across the generations, it is a movement you are required participate in.
The clarion call to all Celtic fans this year is to do more than just put your hand in your pocket, the spirit which gave birth to the concept of Celtic will only survive if those who can get involved, inspire a fresh generation by doing so.
Go register for 1254125, and commit to doing something to raise £125. It can be anything. You can walk a 1888 meters, go to the barbers and get a baldy to celebrate the signing of Amido Balde, it doesn’t need to be as ambitious as the 150 brave souls who right this very moment are atop Ben Nevis about to undertake the world’s highest huddle.
If you believe in this club, don’t leave it to someone else to take care of what’s important. The same goes for your season ticket. It has been over a century since we have been as close to the founding spirit of our club, but the sporting dramas which inspire us all are not achieved by new strikers, they are the fruits of tens of thousands fans buying season tickets.
Go stake your claim on Celtic.
You can buy Willie’s autobiography below:
[calameo code=0003901713852289beccb lang=en page=10 hidelinks=1 width=100% height=500]
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And they dared to call us paranoid. Seems to me from reading the Charlotte revelations that the hun office holders and their external associates feared a mad fenian hand behind all the unwelcome letters that ended up on their mat.
I tell you what though, I think the huns should ask that shredding company for their money back, ‘cos it looks like said shredding company didn’t do a very good job of destroying all the incriminating evidence, if any; probably staffed by a troop of mad fenians, having a laugh, if the truth be known.
Enjoying a wee double malt after watching the gowf:0)…..Well done Justin, you hit the dhots when it mattered; unlike acgr;)
Oldtim – as far as new golf shoes go; there are some really good ones out there now; just go to a decent golf store and ask the shoe guy what are the most the best ones, comfort and support comes fist.
If ye want a game with me, bT will bring ye over and we can enjoy the tinto and the gowf in Toronto.
Malt top uip awaits.
slainte
tony
shocking spelling there; I blame zee malt;)
Paul McStay – goals per game ratio… 0.11
Scott Brown – goals per game ratio… 0.11
Borrowed from here Don’t Let it be Forgot
And they Gave us James McGrory….
‘Jimmy, it’s time to get up,’ whispered Harry McGrory in his soft Donegal accent to his sleeping son. Sometimes he hated waking the boy up. He was surely happier in his dreams than he was facing the harsh realities and grinding poverty they faced each day in Glasgow’s tough Garngad district? Young Jimmy opened his eyes, smiled at his Da and then, remembering that today was to be the day of his brother John’s funeral, his smile faded. ‘What time are we due at St Roch’s Da?’ he asked quietly. ‘An hour or so to go yet son so get dressed and have a good wash. Put on your school clothes. Yer Ma is making some breakfast in the skullery.’ As his Dad left the room, Young Jimmy got up and glanced out the window of the tenement they lived in at 179 Millburn Street. The street was quiet and the old buildings, blackened by the soot of industry and the nearby Gas Works, looked dilapidated and dirty. He dressed quietly and before leaving the room sat on his bed, closed his eyes and prayed for his brother John, lost to meningitis just a month after his first birthday. ‘Jimmy, your breakfast is out son,’ called his mother from the skullery jolting him out of his prayers. Jimmy opened his eyes, blessed himself quickly and headed for the smell of toast which wafted through the chilly flat. His Mother looked him over as he entered the kitchen, ‘Yer looking smart son, we’ll get you some boots before winter.’ Jimmy glanced down at the frayed school uniform and sandshoes he wore every day. It was not in his nature to complain as so many of the boys at St Roch’s Primary school were worse off. Some even came to school barefoot in the better weather. The McGrory family finished their breakfast and slipped out of the flat for the short walk down the hill to St Roch’s. Neighbours nodded at them with solemn faces, ‘Sorry for your loss,’ said Dan Murphy, shaking Harry McGrory gently by the hand, a sad look on his face. Others stood in silence as they passed, a few blessed themselves. The sad walk of the McGrory family was one which many families in the Garngad had made in those hard years after World War one. Infant mortality in such areas was a national disgrace and as always, the poorest carried the heaviest burden.
They entered the Church and Jimmy saw the little coffin waiting for them by the altar. Tears welled in his eyes for little John but also for his parents. He glanced at his father who sat to his left, eyes closed, rosary beads in his hand. Decent, hard-working Harry McGrory, a man who signed Jimmy’s birth certificate with a cross because he couldn’t write. A man who laboured and sweated for more than 60 hours a week in the Gas Works to try and feed his family. His mother, Kate McGrory, prematurely old due to the wearying effects of poverty and child bearing sat grim faced and stoic. Her faith in God helped carry her through her troubles but losing a child is always a heavy blow. Whisps of grey flecked her hair and care lines ploughed her proud Irish face though she was still not yet 35 years old. Young Jimmy didn’t know then that he would lose her too before his twelfth year was over. He sat quietly in the rapidly filling Church and glanced at the image of Christ on the cross suspended high above the altar. ‘Help me,’ he whispered quietly to his God, ‘help me to help them.’
20 years later….
England brought their formidable team north to face a Scotland team which though often erratic was capable of occasional brilliance. The crowd packed into Hampden that day was given as 134,710 but this figure didn’t include the thousands of boys ‘lifted’ over the turnstiles to gain free entry. The scores were tied 1-1 and a titanic struggle ensued as both teams sought the winning goal. The excellent Bob McPhail of Rangers sent a fizzing shot whizzing just over the England bar and the packed bowl of Hampden growled and roared sensing Scotland might just snatch a winning goal. With six minutes remaining McPhail drove towards the England goal and saw his strike partner pulling left to make space for him. Instead of shooting though, the adroit McPhail pinged a perfect pass to his strong running team mate who controlled it instantly and stepping inside the English full back found himself through on goal. The crowd roared. This was the moment of decision. The tall, muscular English goalkeeper Henry Hibbs rushed out at the attacker to deny him time to think only to find himself outfoxed as the blue shirted Scot lobbed him with a deft left foot chip. The ball arced through the air as 134,000 Scots willed it into the net. The roar which greeted the goal was described as deafening by commentators of the day. The scorer of the goal which gave birth to the Hampden roar was James Edward McGrory of Celtic FC. The little boy born into poverty in the Garngad was the toast of Scotland.
Jimmy McGrory was simply the greatest scorer of goals in the history of British football. He amassed an incredible 538 goals in 534 professional appearances for club(s) and country. Most of these goals were scored for his beloved Celtic. A club which under the autocratic Willie Maley paid McGrory far less than he was worth and shamefully tried to sell him to Arsenal without his knowledge or consent. McGrory remains to this day Celtic’s all-time top scorer with 410 goals, a record that surely will never be surpassed? He played in an era when Celtic had lost supremacy to Bill Struth’s powerful Rangers team but he still found the net with astonishing consistency. That he earned just seven caps is perhaps testimony to the good strikers around at the time although many, including his friend Bob McPhail, were embarrassed at his exclusion from the Scotland team at times. Others muttered darkly about Celtic men being overlooked unfairly because they wore the green. The game of the 1920s and 30s was a lot tougher than the modern game. McGrory lost count of the number of times his nose was broken by the heads of aggressive centre halves but he fought hard for his goals and gave as good as he got. This normally gentle and devout man became a fearsome warrior once he crossed that white line. However, he also set the highest standard of sportsmanship and shook the hands of even the most unscrupulous defenders once the game was over.
McGrory’s 20 year spell as Celtic Manager (1945-65) coincided with a frankly dreadful era for the club. Yes there were moments of genius and delight like the Coronation Cup victory of 1953, the League and Cup Double of 1954 and the never to be forgotten 7-1 demolition of Rangers in the League cup final of 1957. But Celtic fans in that era lived with a board which regularly sold their best players, paid relatively poor wages for such a big club and had, in Bob Kelly, a Chairman who picked the team and undermined the manager. McGrory, the gentle boy from the Garngad didn’t possess the nasty streak necessary to succeed as a Manager or indeed the temperament to stand up to the autocratic Kelly. Bertie Auld said of him ‘He was the most decent and honest man I have ever met.’ Nice as those words are, they don’t describe the qualities a top manager requires to succeed in the tough world of professional football. In 1965 a tired McGrory stepped aside and allowed a new man with new ideas to take the helm. The new manager told his Chairman that team selection would be his decision and his alone. The new manager had the steel, presence and ability to mould the talented young players developed under McGrory at Celtic Park into a formidable team which would restore the club to greatness. His name was Jock Stein.
James McGrory had managed Stein in his playing days and knew his abilities to organise and inspire. He also knew early in 1965 that it was time to let go, time to let Jock take control. His role as Public Relations officer kept him involved at his beloved Celtic Park as the Stein era commenced. Everyone, including Stein, referred to him as ‘Boss’ and treated him with the respect he was due. With Celtic marching on to a dominance in Scotland that would last a decade, Stein guided them to the 1967 European Cup Final. McGrory travelled to Lisbon having lost his brother Harry shortly before the final. When the game was over and Stein’s immortal team had written their page of glory in Celtic’s history, an emotional McGrory was passed the big Cup by Jock Stein. He says in his own words that he just sat there holding the trophy and crying like a child. Perhaps this great Celt was overjoyed that at last his beloved team had rediscovered their greatness. Perhaps he was also reflecting on those no longer around to enjoy this triumph.
Postscript
‘Jimmy,’ shouted his sister to the young player walking from the Garngad to Celtic Park for training. ‘Don’t be giving all your wages away today eh?’ He smiled back at her, ‘I’ve only got a few bob on me, will you stop worrying.’ She looked at him, a wry smile on her face, ‘Get the tram home then if it’s raining.’ They parted and young McGrory, Celtic’s new hotshot striker continued the walk through the streets of depression hit Glasgow to Celtic Park. There would be no tram home after training though as every beggar and down at heel Glaswegian who asked him for a copper was met with a patient smile and couple of coins. By the time he reached Celtic Park McGrory had not a penny in his pocket. It was not an unusual occurrence.
Jimmy McGrory was a decent man. A humble and devout Christian, who demonstrated by example rather than preachy words how to live a good life. If his incredible prowess as a striker was not matched by his achievements as manager of Celtic then we can forgive him that. Like us, he loved Celtic deeply and gave 100% for the club. We are honoured to count such a good man and such a splendid player among the lists of Celtic Legends. Those of us too young to have seen him play should still consider his goal scoring record with awe. We should also respect a decent, honest man who was a truly great Celt.
Sleep well Boss and Thank You.
James Edward McGrory (April 1904 –October 1982)
Celtic Legend
Garngad Man,
looks like a bidding war has started for mr hooper, hull, reading and southhampton
hey gary, if you settle for any of 3, the only time you will see europe will be on a family holiday.
with dross such as miku and laasad away, and stokes on way out( wont really be missed, then if hooper leaves then where will goals come from up front? note sammi to me is an attacking midfield player now, just like commons :)
i know we have signed balde, but his pedigree so far is not a goal scorer
the entire fee if hooper goes must be used on a replacement
Torontony
I hear you always take 3 shoes with you when you play gowf……in case you get a hole in one.
Teuchter ár lá
Also from Don’t Let it be Forgot but if you want to read any more then you’ll have to go there and visit. It would be unfair to lift all the great stuff that you may find.
The Field of Dreams
Tommy Devlin felt the cold March air caress his face as he pushed open the door of McChuills Bar and stepped out into the darkening High Street. He’d been on some binges in his life but tonight he was as drunk as he’d ever been in his life. ‘Want me tae call ye a taxi, Tam?’ He swung around barely able to focus his eyes on the concerned looking young barman who steadied him with a firm hand on his arm. ‘Naw Pal,‘ Tam drawled, ‘Am walking the night,’ He turned and staggered towards Glasgow cross waving his hand to the barman ‘Catch ye!’ He turned left at Glasgow Cross and headed along the Gallowgate. As he passed the Celtic Bars at the Barras he began to sing in a drunken, slurred voice…
‘Hail Hail, the Celts are here, what the hell do we care, what the hell do we care, Hail Hail, the Celts are here, what the hell do we care now!’
A few friendly faces smiled at him as he passed. A few more watched him pass with looks which could have been pity. Tommy had been a hard drinker since he first drank cheap wine in the graveyard as a 15 year old. In the 20 years since then his life had spiralled downwards. He was drunk most days and when he wasn’t drunk he was scrounging money to get drunk. Friends had melted away, even family had started to close their doors to him. He hadn’t worked in years and his health was deteriorating due his dependence on alcohol. He had lost any purpose in his life and drifted from one drinking session to the next. His one solace in life was his love of Celtic but he had drifted even from that as money got tighter and tickets got more expensive. He hadn’t been to a game in a long time and he missed it. Sometimes it was the only thing which kept him going. As he saw the dark shadow of Celtic Park in the distance, something in Tommy’s drunken head drove him to walk towards it. The brooding Glasgow sky began to shower cold rain on the deserted City as Tommy trudged on. He turned off London Road and staggered up a deserted Kerrydale Street towards the statue of Brother Walfrid. The Irish Priest, cast in bronze, sat silently watching over his flock as he always had. ‘Aw right Fadder,’ Tommy drawled, ‘You were wan ay the best guys who ever walked God’s green Earth, helped a lot ay folk but I’ll tell ye this, ye couldny help me, am past helpin noo.’ As Tommy regarded the silent statue a noise to his left made him turn. A large truck was easing out of the big double doors which opened into the stadium at the junction of main stand and the Jock Stein stand. As it swung past him and headed down Kerrydale Street Tommy wandered up to the still open doors and looked into the Stadium. All was still and quiet as he stood in the doorway taking in the view of the stadium in the dark. The restaurants were all closed and only a few lights illuminated the dark silent cavern of Celtic Park. Whoever was assigned to close the big doors was obviously elsewhere so Tommy wandered into the stadium, walked along the track, opened a small gate and sat in a seat at the front of the Jock Stein stand. It was for him a strangely spiritual moment sitting in the quiet, empty stadium. It was like sitting in a deserted Cathedral. Tommy closed his eyes, a feeling of calm descending over him. He thought back to earlier times when he came here as a boy with his father. They had stood at the front of the old Celtic end through good times and bad and supported their team. But those days were gone thought Tommy, and so was his Da. ‘I miss ye Da,’ he mumbled to no one in particular as the dark veil of sleep covered him.
‘Are ye all right son?’ a voice with a hint of an Irish accent said as Tommy jolted his eyes open. For a long second his eyes focused as he tried to grasp where he was. He was lying on a grassy bank in the chill air of a bright but cold morning. He looked at the man who had woken him from his slumber, ‘Naw Pal, I’m cold, I need tae get hame.’ Tommy replied. ‘And where might home be young fella?’ the man asked. Tommy’s head was pounding with the mother of all hangovers, ‘I stay on the Gallowgate, near Abercrombie Street. ‘Ah, I know it, let me help you up and I’ll walk with you. I’m going that way myself.’ Tommy stood a little unsteadily and noticed men with shovels and wheelbarrows working away behind the man. ‘Where am I Pal?’ he asked, ‘What are they working on?’ He pointed towards the scores of quiet men beavering away. ‘They’re filling up the holes and old mine workings so the pitch is ready for the Team to play on.’ Tommy was more awake now and noticed the men were dressed in different garb from the norm. Even the kindly Irishman who was speaking to him had a style Tommy hadn’t seen before. He began to wonder where his drunken wanderings had taken him the night before. ‘What team is that?’ asked Tommy a little mystified. ‘My team son, good lads one and all. Now let’s get you home.’ They walked past some of stout labourers wheeling earth towards the uneven ground they were levelling. ‘Morning to ye Father,’ one of them said to Tommy’s companion. Was he a Priest?
As they passed through a wooden gate in the fencing that surrounded building site Tommy could see that he somewhere he hadn’t been before. Chimneys in the distance poured black smoke into the sky and the houses were a mixture of old cottage type dwellings and black decrepit tenements. He could smell bleach, acrid smoke and what he thought was sewage. It was not a pleasant place. Only a few people stirred and Tommy noticed that these people too were dressed in a strangely old fashioned manner. ‘Where are we?’ Tommy asked his newfound friend. ‘Glasgow son,’ he replied ‘I thought you’d know that being a Gallowgate man?’ Tommy looked at his companion, still confused ‘I didn’t catch your name?’ He smiled at Tommy, ‘You can call me Andrew.’ They walked along a straight road which seemed to be lined with sooty factories or equally sooty houses.
A few ragged and barefoot children ran towards them seemingly oblivious to the chill air or cold puddles. Ignoring Tommy they took the other man’s hand, ‘Father, me mum’s ill, can ye come?’ said one in an accent born somewhere in the Donegal hills. ‘Do you mind Tommy?’ he said, ‘Come with me if you like?’ Tommy nodded and they entered a close and followed the children into a foul smelling house which was cold and somewhat musty. The bare floor boards were damp and slippery as Tommy followed his friend into one of the rooms. There appeared to be a bundle of rags on the floor in the corner and nothing else in the room. The man knelt by the rags and began to speak in what Tommy thought was Gaelic. The bundle of rags was in fact an emaciated woman lying on some old blankets. Her pale face, waxen and weary stared out from the rags. Her eyes were bright, full of vitality but Tommy could see that she was very ill. A man’s voice interrupted Tommy thoughts, ‘Tis the fever that has my Molly,’ the man said. ‘God only knows how I’ll managed if I lose her.’ Tommy looked at the man, no doubting he had a stout labourer’s physique but his moist eyes suggested he was greatly concerned about his wife. The Priest said something in Gaelic and the man and four thin, barefoot children knelt by the woman as the Priest led them in prayer. He lit a small candle he had taken from the pocket of his long black coat. From another pocket he produced a small metal crucifix which he kissed before placing it on the bare floor beside the candle. Tommy watched as they blessed themselves and despite misplacing his faith a long time before, felt an urge to join them. Together in that gloomy, damp room they asked God to spare the woman’s life. The long forgotten words came back to Tommy as he joined them…
‘Hail Mary full of grace the Lord is with thee
Blessed art thou amongst women
And Blessed is the fruit of thy womb Jesus…’
When they had finished the Priest tactfully gave the man some coins and told him he would send a friend who was a Doctor to see her later in the day. ’ He knelt briefly by the woman, ‘I’ll return tonight Molly. He held her hand gently and smiled, ‘Beidh muid le chéile arís go luath, mo chara’ He nodded at the man and said quietly ‘I’ll return later Joseph.’ He asked Tommy to pick up his small metal cross from the floor and as Tommy did so, he locked eyes with the woman lying on the floor. She mumbled quietly to him, ‘Muinín sa Dia.’ Tommy smiled at her, unsure of what she had said. ‘You rest now, it’ll be alright.’
Tommy followed the Priest out the door. As they left the close he mumbled to Tommy, ‘If the fever’s back then God help us all.’ Tommy was utterly confused, ‘Father…Andrew, what’s going on here? Why are people living in this squalor?’ The Priest turned and regarded him. ‘Because no one cares Son, they’ve forgotten that we’re all brothers.’ Tommy replied ‘But you care don’t you?’ The Priest nodded, ‘I’m their Pastor, of course I care but we are few and there is so much need.’ As they stood in the dirty, damp street Tommy heard the clip clop of horses’ hooves and turned to see a large tram like vehicle being pulled up the street by two big shire horses. On the front of the tram was the destination board, it read ‘Parkhead.’ His head swam, ‘Where am I?’ he asked ‘What’s going on?’ The Priest regarded him with a patient smile. ‘You’re in the East of Glasgow young fella. My you’re a strange one!’ Tommy felt something click into place, a piece of the puzzle made the picture clearer. ‘Father, do you have another name that you’re known as in these parts?’ The Priest looked at him with a patient smile. ‘Yes Tommy, my name is Andrew Kerins but many call me by my chosen name in the order.’ Tommy knew what was coming but asked anyway, ‘What would that be?’ The Priest locked eyes with him, ‘Why Brother Walfrid of course.’ Tommy’s mind whirled, it all made sense now; the men working on the pitch, the strange clothes and the appalling squalor. Tommy felt as if he was going to faint. He felt something cold and metallic in his hand, ‘Father, I still have your cross.’ He held it out to the Priest but before Walfrid could take it Tommy felt his head swirl, his eyes close as darkness took him.
Tommy Devlin jolted out of his dream. He opened his eyes and looked around him. It was daylight and the sun slanted onto the big north stand of Celtic Park. It seemed to illuminate the huge white letters emblazoning the word ‘CELTIC’ onto the bright emerald seats. ‘Walfrid, we made it,’ he cried out, his words echoing around the empty stadium, ‘Your people made it. Your team made it too.’ A groundsman working on the pitch at the halfway line turned startled to regard the man shouting in the empty stadium. ‘Here Pal, what are you doing here?’ He called. He walked towards Tommy ‘How did you get in here Pal, the place is locked up?’ Tommy smiled and stood on rather shaky legs. ‘It should never be locked up mate, it belongs to us all.’ The man sensed Tommy wasn’t a threat but more likely a sobering up drunk and relaxed, ‘I’ll let you out the side door buddy. Don’t forget yer cross.’ He pointed at the seat beside Tommy on which lay a small metal crucifix. Tommy’s eyes widened as he reached for it. ‘Aye,’ he replied, ‘It belongs to a good friend.’ As Tommy left the stadium the groundsman smiled, ‘I’d go easy on the drink son, gets you into all sorts of scrapes.’ Tommy looked at him and nodded. ‘I’m done with it pal. It won’t pass my lips again.’ He had said those words before but this time he meant it.
As Tommy walked towards the statue of Brother Walfrid in the early morning sunshine, he saw a grey haired man and a child of five or six. The Grandfather was pointing to the statue and telling the boy about the deeds of a good man who had wanted to help the poor and had started a football team to raise money for them. Tommy waited until they had finished and moved on to the statue of Jock Stein. He walked over to the statue of Walfrid. ‘I think this is yours Andrew,’ he said, taking the small metal crucifix from his pocket. Resting his foot on the marble plinth he pulled himself up and placed the small cross on the lap of the statue. ‘We were forgetting again weren’t we?’ he said to the still figure of the gently smiling statue. ‘Forgetting we’re all brothers. Well I won’t forget and I won’t let Celtic forget either.’ Tommy turned and headed down Kerrydale Street. He had found his purpose. Brother Walfrid’s work isn’t finished, there was much to do.
Teuchter – I thought I had a hole I wan yesterday but the President was sooking it back frae the hole, and you know he’s a big sooker:)
Oldtim needs a new pair a shoes; he wears a lot oot going up tae the bar:)
slainte
tony
I know I shouldn’t but this is the last one I’ll borrow from Don’t Let it be Forgot
Semper Vigilo
Glasgow can be a rough town at times. Today I watched a video on YouTube which showed two burly men grab a teenager, who was doing nothing which could be construed as offensive, and wrestle him to the ground. If I had carried out such an unprovoked act, I would expect to be charged with common assault. The two burly men won’t be charged though with anything because they were dressed in the uniforms of Strathclyde Police. Watching this behaviour took me back to darker, less enlightened days when such occurrences were the norm…
Those of you of a certain vintage will well remember the days when football fans were treated like cattle. Policing of games in the era before all seated stadia was robust and occasionally brutal. I recall well the infamous ‘Janefield Street Riot’ of the 1980s when the crowd leaving a midweek Celtic v Rangers game was charged without any provocation I could see by mounted units of Strathclyde Police. Janefield Street had houses on both sides in those days and was a narrow funnel for Celtic fans leaving the old Celtic end. The sight of four huge horses charging through the densely packed crowd caused near panic and people were trampled by fellow fans as they scrambled to escape. Walls on one side of the street collapsed under the sheer weight of humanity trying to escape the horses. I saw one fan lying helpless on the ground as his wheelchair was overturned in the crush. Only timely and brave action by a few fans who dragged him to safety prevented him being seriously injured. By the time the Police reached the Stadium end of the street, the fear and panic had turned to anger. As the horses turned and began to charge again some of the younger element among the Celtic support prepared to meet them with bricks from the collapsed wall. A virtual riot ensued although in truth it was hard to decide who were the forces of law and order that night and who were the rioters, as the mounted Police, joined by colleagues on foot lashed out with their batons, feet and fists at anyone who crossed their path. On that evening some fought back, some watched in horror and some chanted ‘SS RUC’ at the Police. It was a shameful episode in the history of Policing in Scotland and despite protests from the Club and hundreds of letters to MPs and newspapers nothing was done.
These events occurred in an era when Judges, Magistrates and the press automatically believed Police versions of events without question. Football fans were thought of as unintelligent, drunken louts for the most part. One only has to read accounts from those days of the framing of the Guilford four, Birmingham six or Giuseppe Conlon to realize that some elements of the Police thought themselves above the law. It was an era when few working class communities assisted the police as they saw them as negative influences on their lives, enemies even. Policing has moved on since then and is more intelligent than it was. It is more rooted in communities and tries hard to engage with the people it serves, the people who pay their wages via their taxes. Strathclyde Police work under the motto ‘Keeping People Safe.’ Did they live up to that motto on the Gallowgate on Saturday? Around 100 members of the Green Brigade were ‘Kettled’ and roughed up for nothing more than walking the Streets of their home city. Those who were not trapped in the ‘kettle’ (especially those filming events) were forced away from the incident by ‘Public Servants’ wielding batons and behaving in an aggressive manner. Enough video footage of these events appeared on YouTube to build up a clear picture of what occurred. Why are the police harassing the Green Brigade in this manner? They allowed 7000 fans of the now defunct Rangers FC to march unimpeded to Hampden last year with barely a Police officer in sight. They allow Fascist groups, Orange Parades, spontaneous ‘Union Fleg’ Demos at the City Chambers and yet feel obliged to call in 200 Officers, a helicopter, Police dogs and horses for 100 non-violent Celtic fans? It’s not as if Celtic fans marching along the Gallowgate to a home game is something unusual?
We live in a supposedly democratic country where the right to assemble, free speech and even the right to demonstrate are protected and viewed as pillars of a free society. Something more sinister is going on here as the treatment of the Green Brigade is not proportionate to the threat they pose. They have not been involved in any major disorder at football or on our streets yet a pattern of harassment is emerging which is at once worrying and puzzling. The Green Brigade warned fans in advance about likely Police tactics and advised them not to react to provocation. Those of you who have read my blogs in the past know that I have not always agreed with the Green Brigade’s song book but I do admire the thunder they bring to games. As fellow Celtic fans we should all be asking what the hell our Police Force is doing. These are people paid and employed by the tax payer to uphold the law not to over react and treat football fans as potential rioters. Our club should be pro-active too in protecting the interests of their fans.
It is to the Green Brigade’s credit that they didn’t take the bait and respond to this Police aggression with violence. That would be playing right into their hands and the Green Brigade need to be intelligent enough to see that. During the ‘Battle of Janefield Street’ in the 1980s, some fought back with bricks and fists. One has to worry that if this harassment and intimidation goes on some of this generation of Celtic fans will choose to fight back in such a manner. I would urge then not to use bricks or fists, but video cameras, lawyers and above all their brains. The forces of law and order cannot be above the law they claim to uphold. We have reached a stage where we need answers from the Police, the politicians and Celtic Football Club about what exactly is going on here.
The old motto on the cap badges of Strathclyde Police reads ‘Semper Vigilo.’ This translates from Latin as ‘Always Vigilant.’ Perhaps the time has come for all Celtic fans to be vigilant and note the treatment of our fellow supporters by the Police Force we pay for.
Postscript: Statement by Celtic FC Monday 18th March:
‘’The safety and well-being of Celtic supporters is of paramount importance to the club. The club is very concerned to see imagery of Saturday’s march by members of the Green Brigade from Gallowgate to Celtic Park., and subsequent claims by supporters of police harassment and heavy-handed policing. This is an issue the club takes very seriously. Once again we would urge any supporter who feels they have been a victim of such harassment to contact the club with details by using the following email address:
fansagainstcriminalisation@gmail.com@celticfc.co.uk in order that we can formally raise such matters with Strathclyde Police.
We should remind supporters that the club has set up a working group, which is independently chaired, to establish a complaints review panel to oversee the complaints process and improve transparency.
Any suggestion of collusion between the club and Strathclyde Police is frankly, ludicrous. The Celtic support has a long and well established reputation for good behaviour and everyone is very proud of that and keen that it continues. In the meantime we will be writing to the Chief Constable to ask for a full report on Saturday’s Events.’’
Celtic’s statement is welcome if overdue. It’s about time they stood up for their fans. They must never forget that it is the fans who make Celtic the club they are by giving so much of their time, money and affection to Celtic. The very least the Club can do is to ensure they are treated in the right manner and to be first in line asking why when they aren’t.
Tony,
The president even has the air conditioner in the club set at such a level that it is sookin’ anaw.
Enjoyed the stories of the gowf , and defo considering Aberdour by the sea, one of these years………..although realistically, I may be better at the evening events:)
Teuchter ár lá
A Stor Mo Chroi
Enjoyed reading the story about Tommy Devlin and Bro. Walfrid……Thanks for postin’ that.
Teuchter ár lá
Torontony….I was trying to see if anyone over this way played a bit of golf,, or cruelly liked a wasted walk. Jellynicecream@hotmail.ca
It would be nice meeting any cqn bhoys over here.
A Stor Mo Chroi
Thanks for posting these excerpts. CQN is always an education and can occasionally bring a tear to the eye.
HH
Morning CQN,
It’s has been a while since I have commented but had a look at Gordon’s photo’s from the golf and gutted I have never made any of the outings….
I also note The Token Tim seems to have added a few extra balls around the waist :-) Only kidding matey…..
Would love to make the next one and I will make an added promise to ensire Imake the 10 in a row event :-)
Hail Hail
SPC
a stor mo chroi more please, this is why:- our anthem has…..for if you know the history……superb and thank you
ASTORMOCHROI
Eczellent stuff-took your advice and read a few more.
My thanks,once again….
Eczellent?
WTF?
Good morning friends from a currently dry and bright East Kilbride although I can see dark clouds on them there horizons
Good morning Timland.
A Stor Mo Chroi……..outstanding.
The cheese debate…….not so…..for the record
it’s toasted cheese……the sooner the fitba starts
the better.
it ain’t half hot bhoy
00:01 on 17 June, 2013
I was waiting for this to come up! I can only offer my heartfelt apologies and blame hutchiebhoy instead! ;-)
jamiebhoy75
06:29 on 17 June, 2013
it ain’t half hot bhoy
00:01 on 17 June, 2013
I was waiting for this to come up! I can only offer my heartfelt apologies and blame hutchiebhoy instead! ;-)
Never mind pal – you can keep me one at the ten in a row event :-)
Jobo
Just heading to nerston now…those dark clouds on the horizon… just think … if you lived in the south side of Glasgow they would be overhead as they have been for some time. ;)
Smiling to myself now… as I have been for a while. .. thinking about that comedy sketch where the spanish weatherman looks over a map of iberia and its all ” scorchio” every day.
Could some wag not do the govan weather forecast with dark clouds every day…
” Im john mckay ( in my royal blue tie) now over to SEAN with the weather “
Owen Glendower,001 Bhoy, Summa of Sammi, love yir posts and Hail Hail from a very depressed USA.{ Celtic supporters in Vegas exempted} No Rose coloured glasses to be seen. Lots of hoops tops heading home.Met up with Harry D and Jimmy D at the pool party. Had a great time here at the world most important event in the USA this week. Will post the CDS soon as I get back to OZ.
Hope Tuesday brings great joy to Australia and Rogic plays a big part.
WGCDR
Just so there is no confusion whatsoever, those posts from earlier, I did not write them, they are the words of the person who writes the Don’t Let it be Forgot blog. All I did was borrow a few and copy and paste them onto here. I’m glad they made for good reading and I hope the owner doesn’t mind; if a few were to visit his site for some more good stories, I’m sure he wouldn’t mind at all.
With regards FAC and the Green Brigade, they might consider a wee kettleing a wee tickle of the vanities compared to what some endured in the 40’s and 50’s in Rumania.
Another government that had it in for Christianity. as illustrated by the treatment meted out to Father Tertullian Langa, Vicar General of the Cluj Diocese, who was arrested in the earliest waves of repression in 1947. His crime, according to the judge who sentenced him, was simple: “There is no evidence against you, but since you are in prison, it is because you are guilty, guilty of having been arrested.” Given the regime’s understanding of justice, it is no surprise that he was only released 17 years later, after accumulating a wide range of experiences in the prisons.
I hope that judge’s kin never get employed in the Scottish Judicial System, lest Neil Lennon gets a life sentence for receiving deadly mail.
good morning fellow cqners it is now one minute to six and you will see by the posts time setting how long it has taken for me to type this….it is the first and only testimonial tae ma wee da,and I am pretty sure you will have gathered im onto my second bottle wee CB was born into the family in 1921 his dad was irish and his mum Scottish Charlie and Isabella, wee CB grew up in the rough and tumble of the gorbals in the days of johnny stark and the immortal ,no mean city…he never told me of his childhood except to say it was hard. He found it difficult to get work at the age of fourteen,mainly because of his name, Corrigan was so obviously irish and catholic.His diminutive height didn’t help either 5′ 0″ he had a few jobs, milkboy bread delivery but nothing of any manly status until he became an optical technician in 1938 (he made up the lenses for glasses)….this all came to a halt in 1939 when he was called up to the RAF. He failed the medical (flat feet) and so was confined to serve out the war as a cook,in leuchars fife. After the war in which he met and married my mother(1942) he went back to his making glasses job.Mother worked in the Remington rhand factory,hillington(making more money than him,i quote) in his wisdom he decided to go to night school to train to become an ophthalmic optician, no less in 1953 he qualified and started his new career as an optician again bigotry rose it ugly head cowdenbeath was where he got his first start(I know )but the wee man was even forced out of that,next stop wales, aye Cardiff that’s what he/they had to endure he eventually made it back up to Glasgow and applied for a council house in the newly built estates and circa 1957 mr &mrs got offered a house in the new scheme of easterhouse in the east end of Glasgow mrs c couldn’t have kids so they applied to adopt and a few months later they were awarded (not my wording) a baby daughter .three years later a similar award was made in the shape of yours truly and so the family was complete we attended blessed john Ogilvie primary and st benedicts school for mass (the church wasn’t built yet) wee Charlie stayed true to his catholic and socialist beliefs and became a member of the parish council, distributing we blue envelopes for the building fund st benedicts opened circa 1965/6. I in my wisdom decided on every other Saturday(cos that’s when football was played) to cycle to parkhead (being an optician dad worked on a Saturday) I parked up on the seventh floor (jinky) of the London road flats and got a lift over the turnstiles dad eventually got me into the john Ogilvie csc (jimmy Maxwell convenor) at the same time as Frankie Vaughan moved in to help easterhouse we moved out to the south side and thus my days of seeing the bhoys were limited to midweek evening games with dad taking me then in 1979 we moved to banknock Stirlingshire big sis had flown the coop so it was me and my parents I was 17 and they were in there late fifties as far as I was concerned life was great.i got a motorbike and the world was my oyster 13 may 1981 (google it) crashed bike resulting in 5 brain operations when asked about turning the ventilator off wee Charlie steadfastly said no regardless of how poor a quality of life his son will have his argument ,even to fr senus -bader (the priest that gave me extreme-unction) life is life so thanks to that wee wonderful man I am still here he then went on to become the best grandfather ever too my youngest son Christian (20)has one tattoo gran and grandpa ….he was 3 when my dad died. the best person that I have ever known it has taken me nearl 90 minutes and a few haufs to write this but wee Charlie who had cannon mcginn (st benedicts first pp later of st marys larkhall) fr clarke (st luke first pp in banknock) and the current incumbent of that position at the time (I don’t know his name cos I wasn’t a parishioner) conducted his funeral wee Charlie was buried in st peters London rd and we all as a family went to the jock stein suit for the purvey. Four years later we did the same for my mum 2000 wonderful people and as my fathers day ends I hope and pray that , wee Charlie I’ve done you proud…….x
Morning cqn.
And so begins another week on the roaf to recovery. .hopefully get myself outside and commence the weight loss regime.
Managrd to get my foot on the floor yesterday.
Onwards and upwards…
HH..
blantyretim
As they say the long journey begins with one small step.Keep at it and good luck on your recovery.
bt one small step for man ……you know the rest
charliebhoy
Extraordinary folk living ordinary lives….tears running
down both Mr and Mrs valentinesday’s cheek’s.
charliebhoy
07:40 on
17 June, 2013
Great stuff.
Charliebhoy..
Hail Hail to you my cyber and Celtic friend.
BT
Chin up mate …….
Morning all. Lovely down here at the moment.
BBC reportng that the Co-op Bank are having a “bail in”, which seems to have sorted any problems they might have had. So, that’s our money safe then. Phew…..
I don’t post as often as I would like to for reasons made clear earlier but it really makes it worthwhile when the response of valentinesday and macjay make it all worth while this keep the faith slogan is stronger than you think cheers and long live cqn
Horsey bhoys
stick any thoughts, fancies, news, tips, info on the end of the previous thread please. Save us boring the non horsey bhoys with our money losing drivel.
you too bt cos we’re neighbours lol
Twisty.
Tell young Chris I was asking for him. He truly is a great father son and nephew.