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| IN THIS ISSUE WE LOOK AT CELTIC AND LUTON TOWN FANS ... CELTIC Aaaaaaahhh….Viennnaaaahhh! The trouble with being a Celtic supporter, the thing that breaks your heart, isn’t the failure, it’s the expectation. Despite all indications to the contrary, you start each season in the belief that somehow Celtic can go all the way in Europe, and around Christmas reality comes along and leaves you with an arse like a ragman’s trumpet. I often wonder if the worst thing we ever did was shoplift the European Cup in ’67 from an Inter Milan side so affronted by Celtic’s cheek they just shambled around in shock whilst we played an exhibition match. The Celtic boys were shadows…they jinked, they feinted and teased…they gave Inter the ball and nicked it back at will… For an hour the aristocrats of European football clung to a one goal lead then… BANG, BANG… the Eyeties were in tears and we danced all the way home from Lisbon. It’s the old, old Celtic story…play quick, possession football, toy with them like a champion matador, wait until the clock’s ticking down and they can almost taste the champagne then break them at the last possible minute. Unfortunately, in the 39 years since Lisbon, Celtic have been doing it to their fans, not the opposition. Every year, Celtic promise to respect you in the morning and every year you believe them. Right up until you’re pitched out on the pavement, bitch-slapped and sobbing like the office whore at a Christmas party. Which brings me to the 7th November 1984, when we were entertaining Rapid Vienna in the second round of the Cup Winners’ Cup. They had a 3 -1 lead from Austria so we knew Celtic would be making a game of it in Glasgow, which back then that was exactly how we viewed a two-goal deficit from the first leg of a European tie. Apart from a slip-up the previous season against a Notts Forest side at the peak of their abilities, the last side to have taken European laurels away from Celtic Park was AC Milan. That was in 1969. In the immediately preceding years I’d seen Celtic beat Juventus and Real Madrid and utterly destroy a much-fancied Sporting Lisbon 5-0. No, we weren’t overly perturbed by their 3-1 lead. How well we play the office slapper… on her fifth Lambrini & lemonade, making hopeful eyes at the Managing Director but knowing deep down she’ll be bog-shagged by the post boy before the party’s over. It was all going to plan on that freezing Autumn night. With ten minutes left we were three–nil up and looking forward to the quarter-final when a commotion broke out down the Celtic End. Some numpty had heaved a whisky bottle onto the field and “Austrian Legend” Hans Krankl was writhing around on the grass, claiming to have been struck on the head. I’ll tell you what, if he had it was the only thing he’d got his head to all night. Celtic Park was an old fashioned ground with the classic cinder track and that big, D-shaped patch of grass behind the goal that put the crowd a good twenty yards from the field of play. The Austrians were claiming a bloke who had just drunk an entire bottle of whisky had retained sufficient hand-eye co-ordination to launch his empty a full twenty yards, straight onto the skull of his intended victim. This in spite of TV footage of the bottle bouncing along the deck towards Krankl and him having a sly shuftie around before dropping poleaxed on the spot. Of course, he could well have been hit by an Irn-Bru bottle thrown from the Grassy Knoll. But so bloody what? We were through to the quarter final and all eyes were on the upcoming draw. It was going to be our year. The following morning’s papers concealed a spring-loaded boxing glove. There he was, the cheating Hun bastard, with an enormous bandage wrapped around his bonce which he’d so clearly put on himself it was laughable. There was no way that thing was the work of a doctor but there he was nonetheless, gurning away on the back page of the Daily Record like a pissed up Ali-Baba at the arse–end of a fancy dress party. Those of us with sense began to worry. An Austrian is just a German without a sense of humour, as anyone who saw that shameful draw in the 1982 World Cup will testify and Rapid Vienna’s shame is compounded by the fact they were champions of Germany (no, Germany!) in 1941. That Teuton Axis (oops, did I say “Axis”?) also ran UEFA so we knew we were in for a slippered arse. We assumed the worst that could happen would be a fine and maybe a game behind closed doors but UEFA had different ideas. Turns out Hansi was about to score a brace in the last ten minutes and send the Austrians though on away goals. Well in that case, there was only one fair outcome…a replay at a neutral venue. Fine, bring ‘em on…but somewhere deep down inside, we knew we’d be trudging home from that neutral venue wearing Alice Cooper mascara. Luckily for us, UEFA’s notion of a neutral venue was Old Trafford. Even more luckily for me, my sister’s boyfriend’s dad was on the Celtic coaching staff and a pair of impossible-to-get tickets was duly secured. As I’d provided the tickets, my mate Peter took it upon himself to lay on the transport in the form of a lift with his Uncle Frank.
Very soon into the journey, it became horribly apparent that one of our number was a “character” who had taken it upon himself to “entertain” us on our journey, which he did for every single one of the 171 shit-eating miles from Glasgow to Manchester. Unfortunately Uncle Frank had emptied his boot of sharp objects to accommodate third-class passengers, so I could kill neither him nor myself. Then again, I suppose his inane drivel did keep my mind off the fact that the M74 was flashing by at 80 miles an hour, about a centimetre beneath my benumbed arse. Another diversion was a game we were playing with the motorway police, who were cruising alongside suspect vehicles to check for overloading and drinking at the wheel. At the cry of “Polis!” two of the four back-seat passengers would throw their heads into the laps of the other two, who for their part would sit bolt upright and whistle with pantomime nonchalance. Why they thought this tableau made them appear less arrest-worthy to a passing patrol car, I’ll never know. I guess those were more innocent times. Back there in the boot, we were tasked with darting (insofar as three grown men in the boot of a car can dart) under a tarpaulin when the cry went up, and it did, at the sight of any white vehicle regardless of shape, size or flashing blue lights. After about a year, Uncle Frank pulled onto the hard shoulder, half a mile from the motorway services. “Right, oot yez get boys” he cried. Apparently the doughnut-munchers had got tired of driving up and down the motorway and had taken to laying up at service stations to bag overloaded vehicles and Uncle Frank had decreed that we’d have less chance of being nicked if five of us approached the rest stop on foot. The back hatch was popped and we willed our limbs to move but eventually had to be rolled out by our fellows. I can only assume there’s considerably more paperwork attached to a motorway pedestrian than an overloaded car since plod gave us no more than a sideways glance as we trooped by, and later displayed no interest at all in why we were loitering with intent in the hedgerow where the traffic rejoined the motorway. So eventually we got to the outskirts of Manchester, whereupon our navigator declared his work duly completed. Given that the scrimshanking bastard had got the front seat all the way there on the strength of this responsibility, you’d imagine he’d have researched the way to Old Trafford but no, reading the motorway signs was the extent of his exertions. More by luck that judgement we found the ground and went our separate ways. As we walked around to the end where we had tickets, we happened upon the Rapid Vienna bus. Well I’m assuming it was the Rapid Vienna bus, seeing as it was being rocked onto two wheels by about fifty Glaswegians baying “Cheats…Cheats…Cheats…!” You could feel the tension in the air when we got inside. The party atmosphere of a European Night at Celtic Park had been left firmly behind in Glasgow and fans and players alike had taken on a grim resolve to get the job done and move on. It was later to be described in the press as a “cauldron of hate” and I couldn’t argue. I can’t imagine there was much singing in the Rapid Vienna dressing room either. To be honest, the game was remarkable only for the sustained outpouring of venom from the 50,000 or so Celtic fans who made up the crowd, which I suspect had as much effect on our lads as theirs. As a game of football it was irretrievably shite. Both sides played it like an away tie, Celtic in particular treating the halfway line like the Berlin Wall. It wasn’t a Celtic team and it wasn’t a Celtic crowd. You know those games you know are going nowhere after about 15 minutes? Well, this was one. The only goal of the game came when Celtic hit the woodwork, the Austrians collected the rebound and hit us on the break. We were caught completely square and you could tell it was a goal from three moves out. It’s a bizarre sight, to watch twenty-odd men capering about in delight in front of fifty thousand, quietly seething people who wish them dead. It was so quiet, we could actually hear them shout to each other in German. All except their keeper that is, who had just been soundly kicked in the bollocks by a five foot three, sixteen stone drunk in a Celtic shirt. When later questioned, the steward who let him waddle on by claimed, “I thought he was a player.” Player? He was Man of the fekkin’ Match as far as I’m concerned. The journey home was subdued, with our self-appointed Morale Officer in a drunken sulk and our erstwhile navigator joining us in the boot, his usefulness expended. Och well, every cloud, eh? Rapid Vienna went on to the Final in Rotterdam, where they lost to Everton in front of an estimated two or three thousand Celtic supporters who, we like to believe, had gone in a show of solidarity with our Scouse cousins and to see the spawn of Satan get their comeuppance. In truth, they’d probably bought Final tickets in a fit of lunatic optimism after the first round draw. It was going to be our year, you see. There are two people in the world I would like to meet. Firstly, I’d like to ask the clown with the bottle what the Hell he was thinking at the time, has he come to understand the damage he did, and how’s he enjoying life in Antarctica? I’d also love to meet Hans Krankl, although I have no questions prepared. Two left-footer LUTON TOWN Luton V Leicester 11 March 2005 It is generally accepted that if you have a good clean shit first thing in the morning, just after a cuppa, its a home win; a tried and trusted method of prediction used by, amongst others, the pools panel and Oxford and Cambridge examining boards. A second dump a few hours later did however throw a spanner in the works as although not an away win banker, can put the skids under the home advantage. The weather is not a big factor in helping to predict scores but changes are and as the sky cracks the dark sleet clouds for sunshine things began to look bad, or, possibly, good. Snow was forecast; that tends to be good for the home team, unless its Dubai, but Luton, on the northern edge of the Chilterns, is used to the weather dumping on it. A hardy tribe of straw-hatted artisans we carved the town - roundabouts, multi-storeys, the Arndale - by hand from the chalk; whatever the weather come rain, snow and the occasional walkout, we make things in these parts - roads, hats, roads, trucks, roads, artificial grass, cars, roads and away fan ban perimeter fences and roads. Besides, football and snow always looks great. We shall meet. The signs are good again. I fart absent-mindedly walking past a tube Inspector; Dan, helpless with laughter gives me the edge in the stair well challenge race to the platform. Victory. It’s looking good, it’s in the bag. We meet the opposition. On the train from St.Pancras we predict the score, the form says goals, poor defences both but we score more; form is all; say 3-1, and then it begins to turn nasty. The new boy Arman has the touch of the golden child, he’s never seen Leicester lose, and this will be his third match. Dan, older, wiser, more selective with his memory, has never seen Luton lose either, recently, forgetting Scunthorpe 2-3, some years back and Liverpool on the tele, damn!. Suddenly the cracks are beginning to show. Who’s luck will prove the more powerful? The pub will decide. The Bricklayers is Luton for me. Good beer, egg rolls and a crowd known to stop in mid chortle if the tele flickers to anything about Luton, football scholars shushing as they crane to hear. This Luton that doesn’t really exist, but is imagined by a sect of supporters who in turn attract others desperate for other times; the over-read, over aged, over the hill and far away but ever seeking the comforts of proper beer, comradely banter, good manners and the illusion of allegiance. The Beacon slips down a treat. And then the cracks widen. We have to leave to meet Worzel in Sainsbury’s car park, it feels wrong. He’s a neutral, we were evenly balanced 2 home 2 away now this. Its bad, we have to impress, he’s got to approve. The tone it’ll be wrong like watching footy in the pub. It’ll be all wrong. It’s a bloody disaster. And there’s no sign of snow. Then Gooch cracks it wide open. He thought we might have had a second in the pub, ‘couple of pints before a match perfect start’, and he’s right. Who ever went in a pub for one pint. It doesn’t happen, even between trains, a quick pint becomes a carry out; a pint after work ends in the curry house. And the beer was good and it was Beacon and brewed in Leicestershire. And he wanted two, but I said one, Because of Worzel, because he was waiting and now he’s ruined it. For everyone.  Luton’s ground is, and I say this with all the affection garnered boy and man over 35 years, a dump; more scrap than crap. Comparable to the Stalinist tower blocks of Soviet Russia it’s form fashioned from the politics of the day and the members only perimeter fence, unlike the Berlin Wall, still stands. The main stand squats hard against the railway line and relief road, as if the town planners actually believed the ground had already relocated or had specially issued local authority football club blinkers on during the construction. Still it serves as a valuable jumping off point for the desperate of the Town, green activists, car workers, and John Gurney. The Executive boxes are the defining feature of the ground. Aspirational 1980’s Luton Thatcherite Greenhouses where the vegetables can grow quicker and fatter.  Over here, yes, in here, we’re with ‘the people from work’; we’ve got sandwiches and lager, and a tele for the half times and the rugby. Very nice. I could get used to this, know what I mean?….. They can’t see the sinister silo though, lurking at the end of the Executive Boxes, they don’t know what’s in that drum, but one day, one day, they’re going to find out.  Luton’s ground is like the space station, or old Meccano, knocked together during the holidays over a long period of time, when budgets allow at the whim of whoever, on which a small dedicated group build dreams. Then the money runs out and people no longer look to the stars but can’t quite stop getting a little bit excited when they read the Luton News report of a new stadium planned for the outskirts of Pluto. The Oak Road end was the home. And even now it is odd staring from the away end at the jubilant home fans celebrating generously each away goal. Who says fair play and sportsmanship are dead. We are a credit to the Championship. The match was terrible, early injury, wrong formation no ideas, dogged visitors and a centre half yet to master that most challenging position; standing. I gather in Holland and Brazil they have them standing on two feet before they can walk. We’ve got a lot to learn. Going one down early on meant Luton had to respond positively so they chose to kick the ball up in the air a lot. Leicester responded by sending on lots of small boys. Luton mindful of the danger of interfering with children in a public arena kept away but cleverly deployed an ice cream van outside the ground for much of the first half to distract the opposition and, I suspect, to entice them outside for a bit of a kicking. A sound tactic but one not yet proven at this level. It worked for most of the half until, no doubt, some toadying FA Official Tonibel sponsor regulator turned up and moved the van on. Still while it lasted the view of the Luton mosque and the wail of the ice cream van provided a curiously English backdrop to a curiously crap forty five minutes. A lot of good sense was talked at half time and it all started brightly. An equaliser was well deserved and cracks in the Leicester ranks began to show. I smelt victory; unfortunately it was only Worzel’s meat and potato pie. A bad omen; he only bought one. Not two. They sent on another boy. Wise to the pupils versus teachers game plan Luton sent on their biggest player, Enoch Showumni. Enoch despite appearances is more Joe Bugner than Muhammad Ali and inevitably some cocky fifth former nudges the lumbering physics teacher and bobbles in the winner with five minutes to go. And so it was. 1-2 the home end erupted in joy. We’re so sporting its unbelievable. I hate Worzel and his bloody pie. The Leicester fans even escape detention and we endure their puerile chanting (sit down shut up hung the thought bubble over our platform) as we graciously hid our disappointment at the result and our missed train- fucking fuckers, watch your language Dan , effing efffers mumble mumble. And then the inevitable, a woman and ‘get your tits out for the lads, get….whaheyyyyy! Roared the away fans as a large Lutonian rose to his feet and bared his chest, ‘you fat bastard, you fat..’ came the gleeful retort, so he turned and dropped his trousers, to the sort of applause Pavarotti receives at La Scala. A perfect end to a perfectly dismal day. That reminds me, I hate that Worzel. Ticker |
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