#this is queued i’m having a night away from football <3

[daydreamgoddess14]

Support System pt. 10 - The Finale!

CH1 | CH 2 | CH 3 | CH 4 | CH 5 | CH 6 | CH 7 | CH 8 | CH 9

MASTERLIST

It's the end doo doo doo doo! The final match of the season, the ending. I really hope you've enjoyed reading this as much as I have writing it. I've had the best time and I'm really proud of this one! 💜

Chapter 10

You hadn’t considered that footballers or their coaches would get nervous. But the tension in the run up to the Man City game was palpable. The whole town seemed on edge, Roy included. He’d spent each one of your Lexie nights at your house, it felt a little odd that he was there observing your boring mum routine of washing, cooking and carrying the mental load of knowing where Lexie needed to be, when and everything else in between. He didn’t ask to stay, even though you’d wanted him to, he’d said goodnight each evening and gone back to his place. By the time Lexie was back to her dads, you’d worked out that he’d been there every evening not just because he’d wanted to be, but because he’d needed to be. The build up to the game had him restless and distractible and the time with you and Lexie managed to relax him far more than sitting in an empty house, or going over and over the match with Jamie, or Nate or whoever else was free for a pint. When you’d gone to him just a day before the match, the only solace he’d found from the plays, the tactics and the team, was in you. He took his time, undressing you slowly and kissing every inch of skin as it became exposed to him.

"Let me take care of you," you whispered. You felt his head shake as he kissed down your neck. 

"I've never needed anyone like I need you." He muttered, swiping a calloused thumb over your hardening nipple, "you look so fucking beautiful like this." You rolled your hips against him, 

"Please, Roy. I need you-" you all but begged. All night he'd taken the lead and given you everything, losing himself in the feel of your body against his. When they won the next day, you were euphoric. Lexie and Phoebe had been in bits when the camera had focused in on Roy and Nate discussing something over an iPad and they could see that Roy was wearing his Richmond colours friendship bracelet. The late journey back from Manchester and the subsequent celebrations meant that it was Tuesday morning before you saw him again. You’d joined the slip road to the school, queuing for the carpark with the windows down and blasting 90s dance music when his car had pulled alongside yours. You and Lexie had been so engrossed in singing/shouting Robin S ‘Show Me Love’ - complete with 'big box, little box' hand dancing - that you hadn’t even seen him until Phoebe had called through the open windows. 

“Morning. Congratulations on the win!” You’d called out.

“Morning. Nice dancing.”

“Especially for you.” You winked. You’d ended up parked at different ends of the carpark so he and Phoebe had waited for you by the gate as you walked down to them. You’d pulled out your phone to take a call from a recruitment agency so he’d walked alongside you while you talked and the girls ran ahead. “And that’s in Richmond? Wow, ok that sounds really interesting. Absolutely yes, send my CV over if you think I’m in with a shot. Actually, just send it over anyway - I’d be mad not to at least try,” at the front of the queue at the gates, you handed Lexie her bag and gave her a kiss whilst still on the phone, “Ok, could you just hang on one second please?” You moved the phone away from your mouth and stepped up on tiptoes to give Roy a lingering kiss. The other playground parents looked on, wide eyed. “I have to go, I love you. See you later.” You whispered, taking up the phone again and going back to the car, your hand holding onto his until you couldn’t reach any further. Lexie was with her dad during the beginning of that week so that she could go with you to the final Richmond match at the weekend, so after work you’d gone straight to Roy’s. You hopped up to sit on the counter while he cooked.

“Ted’s staying.” He told you, hands on your thighs.

“Really? That’s great!”

“He got to work this morning and Rebecca was in his office. She only fucking told him she was in love with him, that she’d help his ex get a job here if she wanted to move, she’d help them find a school for Henry… pretty much told him she’d do fucking anything if he’d say.” You leaned forward, eager to hear more,

“And did he tell her?”

“Yeah, told her he was in love with her. We walked in to find them nearly going at it in the office.” You shrieked,

“Oh god that’s so cute! At least you all know before the weekend as well.”

“Settles the lads down a bit, bunch of fucking kids sometimes.” You slid forward to wrap your legs around his hips. “Any news on that job from this morning?” His hands move up your thighs and around your waist so he can kiss your neck,

“Not yet, the agency is putting me forward. It’s in Richmond though, which would be amazing. I should hear more tomorrow.”

“And how you feeling going into your last week?”

“Happy. Scared. Nervous.”

“We’ll figure it out, you know. I won’t let you fucking drown. Season finishes at the weekend, so this time next week I’ll have loads more free time for a few weeks. I can help with Lex while you do what you need to do.” He’s turned the pan off and pulled you off the counter, taking you over to the sofa, dinner forgotten for now.

~~~~~~~

You took a further call from the recruitment agency the following day. Their client was interested in meeting you but needed an informal off-site meeting. You arranged with the recruiter to meet with them towards the end of the week just outside of town. To say you were surprised to see Keeley Jones and Rebecca Welton being led to your table was an understatement. You shook hands and sat back down before your legs could give out. The mums might have been all good, the kids, but maybe you were about to be ousted by two of the most influential women in Roy’s life? You clearly looked terrified because Keeley, to her credit, took your hand and held it,

“Oh fuck, you look so scared! I’m so sorry we ambushed you, are you ok?” You think of the night before when Roy had cooked your favourite meal while you’d taken Lexie to swimming lessons and then onto her dads. When you’d sat in his lap and pushed your fingers into the knot in his shoulder to try and relieve some of the stress of the final week of the season. When he’d lost all patience and decided on a different way to unwind, which had mostly revolved around keeping his head between your thighs for as long as you let him. You think about your 4am wake up call that morning, and the 6am follow up, where he’d interlocked your fingers above your head and pressed you into the mattress as he whispered “I could do this forever”. Whatever had changed their mind in the time since the gala, you couldn’t let it derail your future.

“Look, if you’ve suddenly come to the realisation that I’m not good enough for Roy then that’s your opinion and you’re entitled to it. But I’m not going to be scared off. He loves me and I’ll take that for as long as I possibly can because I am so, so in love with him and I will spend forever making him happy in any way I can. I’m really sorry, I’m sure you’re both lovely women and I know he values your opinions, but if he’s ever going to change how he feels about me then he’ll do it himself and he’ll tell me himself. And congratulations by the way,” you turn to Rebecca, “I heard that Ted is staying and that he finally told you he loves you. I’m so happy for you.” Keeley smiled at you while Rebecca looked curiously. 

“Are you sure about this?” She asked Keeley,

“I’ve been doing some digging. Trust me, Rebecca.”

“We’re not here to try and break you and Roy up.” Rebecca said finally,

“Oh. Well then I don’t understand?”

“I’d like to interview you for a job.”

“Sorry, what? Shit, have I just fucked it up completely?”

“Nahh!” Keeley said quickly.

“Well-” Rebecca interrupted.

“No, she hasn’t. We probably scared her half to death, Rebecca! Give the poor woman a minute to recover.” You finish your water and take a deep breath.

“I’m sorry, really I am. I got completely carried away and I shouldn't have gone off like that.”

“Thank you,” Rebecca said, smiling at last. “And thank you for letting me know just how much you care about Roy.” You nod, making peace. Keeley whipped out some paperwork from her bag.

“So! Like Rebecca said, this is I guess, a final stage interview without all the previous stages? We already know about you, we'd love to know more. Our previous Director of Comms was Leslie Higgins, he moved into the Football Ops role quite a while ago now and there’s never really been the need to replace him. He and Rebecca have sort of taken on the various tasks and it’s worked fine.” She pauses for Rebecca to step in and continue,

“Now though, we’re one game away from maybe winning the Premier League just one season after coming back from relegation. That’s practically unheard of. The huge, growing success of the club, the opportunities with the Champions League next season and our plans for the future mean that we need to strengthen the internal team. KBPR can only do so much - they have other clients and I can’t ask Keeley to devote all of her time to the club.”

“We think,” Keeley started, “that with us, and Leslie and you… we could be a real Fab Four. The core AFC Richmond decision makers - with the coaches input of course.” You are stunned, to say the least.

“When you say you’ve done some digging, what exactly do you mean by that?”

“Well, when you told me who you worked for and what you’d worked on, I realised that we’d met before. I’ve been asking around people who have worked with you or who have come across you in a professional capacity to learn more. When I liked what I saw, I took it to Rebecca.”

“With Ted confirmed as staying now, I have some big plans ahead for Roy. We have some very big plans ahead as a club.”

“And you don’t think it would be weird? Me working with you, for one,” you gesture to Keeley, “or with Roy?”

“I’ve been at the club probably at least two or three times a week since the day you blocked him in on the school car park. He came in ranting and raving about some idiot driver and every day, I’ve heard him fall more in love with you. If he found out there was a way to have you in the same building every day, I think he’d be beating Rebecca’s door down himself. And working in the same building doesn’t necessarily mean you spend every waking hour together. You still have crucial jobs to do. And as for me, I'd love to work with you.” Rebecca nodded in agreement.

“The job is nothing you don’t already know, the only difference is the industry.”

“Exactly, my football knowledge is… limited at best!”

“We’re a family, we wouldn’t let you drown.” Hearing Rebecca use the same phrase as Roy struck a chord with you.

“I take it you have a job spec, contract, everything I need to read through and make a decision?”

“An interview is as much about you deciding if we’re the right fit for you, as it is for us to decide. I think you’ll find that the club's current standing means we can afford to give you a generous package, and the locality means we can support a better work-life balance.”

“Take this, read it and see what you think.” You take the folder.

“As his friends, do you think I should tell Roy now, or decide based on him not knowing? I assume we’ve met here because he doesn’t know, and inviting me to Nelson Road would be a dead giveaway?”

“Perhaps tell him about the role first and then bring in where it came from. Let him help offer an opinion based on the job alone.” Rebecca suggested. “And I do so hope you’ll agree to join us, I think you could be a truly great asset to the club.”

~~~~~~~~

You’d kept the folder at your house, not daring to leave it in a bag or your car in danger of accidentally taking it to Roy’s. Being at yours also meant you could be ‘busy’ and have Lexie as a buffer and it also being your last week at your current workplace, this also gave you an excuse for being more distracted than usual. The last game of the season was doing the same for him so his being distracted also helped you. The intimacy of spending time alone at Roy’s exposed all of your vulnerabilities. You’d spent so many nights laying in the dark in his arms listening to him talk about his family and career, and have him ask about yours, it was impossible to hide anything from him. You’d mentioned the role to him, you’d had to since he knew about the original recruiter call, and he’d reacted to it exactly as you hoped he would - excited for you to have such a great opportunity, close to home, with a package befitting your knowledge and experience. You wanted to wait until after the West Ham game to tell him exactly who the role was for. Lexie was spending the night before the match at Phoebe’s for a sleepover. The night before the Man City game meant you knew exactly how he'd want to forget the West Ham match and this time, you'd planned accordingly. You'd finished your final day at work early and had blown the cash from your leaving card on the most beautiful lingerie set you'd ever seen. You'd come back via Nelson Road to borrow his keys, and gone back to his to cook. When he got back late that afternoon, you'd set up outside under the secluded canopy in his garden with soft lights, blankets and cushions. You handed him a beer and led him outside, brought food out - including dessert, and then when you'd eaten and cleared up, you stepped in front of him and slipped your summer dress down your body. He reached out and took your hand, you'd sat in his lap with your legs either side of his. He ran his finger over the cup of the bra, 

"Holy fucking shit, you're perfect," 

"Distracting enough?"

"Yeah I'd say so." He said gruffly. “It’s a good fucking job I just need to stand on the side of the pitch now.” He laughed. 

The match was intense, unexpected drama on the sidelines and Isaac’s incredible goal had everyone holding their breath for another goal or for news from the Liverpool game. When the win came, no one seemed to care what the final table result was. The fans flooded the pitch to be with their team. You, Sara and the girls had stayed back a little, you could see better as Coach Lasso danced with his team surrounding him. When you let the girls onto the pitch, they run straight to Roy and he ends up with Phoebe on his front and giving a piggyback to Lexie at the same time.

“Don’t come crying to me later when you can’t walk.” You tease, finding a route past Phoebe to give him a kiss.”

“You’re not gonna fucking take care of me?” He asks, faux outraged.

“Every. Single. Day.”

“Dad!” Lexie calls, she taps Roy’s shoulder and he lets her down. Andy is coming across the pitch from the away fans side.

“Alright love.” He scoops her up and hugs her. “Congratulations,” he says to Roy who nods without greeting. “Dunno what old Mannion was doing. Made us look like fools. Do you ehh, do you know if our gaffer is ok?”

“Yeah, that old twat is fine. Just a bruised ego and a picture of his balls on the front of every paper tomorrow.” Andy shrugs.

“I uhh, I wanted to apologise to you both. I was a real dickhead-” Roy snorts a laugh, “worse than that, then. I’m sorry. I’ve been watching since the game finished. You look happy.” He turns to you,

“I am.” You say shortly, unsure whether to trust the apology.

“Good. I mean it, you look happy together. And Lexie tells me so all the time. I’m… happy for you.” You thank him and he heads off with his mates to the pub. You’re left with the feeling that you might never be friendly, but you can at least be cordial. Relieved of carrying the kids, Roy pulls you into his arms.

“He’s jealous.”

“Of me?” he laughs,

“Of me, you muppet.” He leans down to kiss your cheek and whisper in your ear, “because you're the one. You're it. You're the only one I want for the rest of my life. And he knows he fucked it up.”

“Hmm, you're pretty irresistible yourself.” The kiss you leave him with leaves you both breathless,

“Think we can find somewhere-”

“No way, there are hundreds of people here. I need to tell you something later.” He looks curiously at you, but you both get caught up in another ‘Richmond til we Die’ chant when Jamie, Keeley and a raft of players come over to find Roy. A little further through the crowd, you see Ted sweep Rebecca into his arms and kiss her. Even an hour after the game had ended, the club was still heaving with people. The fans had gone on to celebrate elsewhere but the families and friends of the players and staff remained. Rebecca had instructed the bar to stay open, insisting that she’d cover the bill. Phoebe and Lexie were still running around on the now empty pitch with Leslie’s younger children and other player’s and staff kids. You’ve told Sara about the job and you can’t wait to tell Roy. He’s sitting with Nate, both of them animatedly discussing Jamie’s Oscar winning performance with Coach Beard. 

“Have you got an answer for me yet?” Rebecca asks, sitting next to you in the dugout.

“Yes, I think I do. I’d like to run it by someone in particular first though.” You catch Roy’s eye, he looks surprised but happy to see you talking to Rebecca. She waves her hand to call him over.

“Coach Kent, congratulations.”

“You too.”

“I meant your excellent girlfriend, not the match.” He cocks an eyebrow at her,

“Thanks then. She’s fucking brilliant.”

“I know. Thought I might poach her from you?” The furrow in his brow deepens with his confusion. You stand up and kiss the frown away.

“The amazing job I’ve been offered? It would be here. Working for Rebecca.” You tell him, trying to keep your voice light but nervous for his response.

“Here? Every day?” 

“Yeah,” you start to mistake his hesitation for annoyance, “but if you think that’s really fucking weird, then I can tell Rebecca to stuff it - no offense, Rebecca - and I can carry on looking and something else will turn up-”

“I don’t think it’s really fucking weird. I think you should say yes. You should definitely fucking do it.”

“Yeah?”

“Fuck yeah.” 

“You’d better come over tomorrow then, sign your contract.” Rebecca says with a smile. “Welcome.” You and Sara party on the pitch with the team until the girls start to flag and it’s time to go. You insist Roy stay,

“I’ll see you tomorrow, go - have an amazing night, you’ve earned it. I’m so fucking proud of you.” You kiss him and he waves you off. 

~~~~~~~

You’re reading in bed when the door knocks so quietly you think you might have imagined it. Lexie is practically comatose in her bed, the combination of exhilaration and fresh air has completely wiped her out. You creep down the stairs in one of Roy’s t-shirts and open the door. Jamie Tartt is on your doorstep with an arm slung around Roy.

“Tried to get him to come to a club with us, but he made us bring ‘im ‘ere instead.” You stifle a giggle, you can see that Roy’s nowhere near as drunk as Jamie but he’s still looking at you with total adoration.

“Thanks Jamie, I’ll take it from here. You have a good night,” you look around him to the taxi down the path. Isaac and Colin are both waving madly at you. “Be safe, boys.” You wave to them and blow a kiss before slipping your arm around Roy’s waist and guiding him inside.

“Night Coach,” Jamie grins.

“Night Tartt, fuckin’ love you man. Fuckin’ love all of you.”

“We know. And we wouldn’t have been on that fuckin’ pitch without you.” Jamie gave you both a little salute and ran off back to the taxi.

“Come on, coach. Time for bed.” You lead him upstairs and sit him on the bed so you can take off his t-shirt, then you drop to your knees and unlace his trainers. You pull his hands to get him to stand up, running your hands around the waistband of his dark jeans and pulling them down. Once they’re free of his hips, he sits back down. “Come here,” you whisper, climbing into bed and pulling him with you, his body between your legs and his head on your heart. 

“Feels like I won the whole fucking thing.” He whispers against your skin as he falls asleep.

#ted lasso fanfiction #ted lasso fic #roy kent #roy kent fluff #roy kent fanfiction #roy kent fic #roy kent x reader #roy kent x you #roy kent smut

[robmacz]

The Business Trip of a Lifetime - Part 7

I didn’t get much sleep at all. The noise of the cellblock never completely stopped. In a city of steel cages, something is always clattering or coughing or suddenly exclaiming something. I wondered how many bunks had more than one man in them that night, and how many of the sounds came from those bunks. How much could the guards see from outside? The security lights were enough to keep anyone awake. . . But I did eventually drop off to sleep. Then the bell rang and I saw that light was streaming in from the tall narrow windows that were cut, every 30 feet or so, into the opposite wall. The windows were too thick with bars to allow you to see much, but it looked like a beautiful day. Only I was in HERE!

“You awake?” my cellmate said, banging on the underside of my bunk. He got up and walked across to the toilet. I say walked across, but it was more like stepped across, such was the proximity. He got his dick out and took a piss, then he sat down to take a shit. I rolled over to look at the wall as I listened to him dropping his load into the bowl. Then quickly, as he seemed to have a routine, he was washed and shaved and putting on his uniform. “Your turn, cellie,” he said. “And hurry up. Count starts in a couple of minutes.” I managed to take a piss and then washed, using the hard brown soap and the tiny rag of cloth I found by the sink. But I couldn’t shit in front of him. I knew I would have to eventually, but right now it wasn’t going to happen.

As I fastened up my uniform, I heard the bell, this time short and sharp. I heard men in the nearby cells move to the bars, as did my cellmate. As happened the previous night, a guard walked down each tier and counted the number of inmates in each cell. I’m not sure where they thought they might have gone between last night and this morning. This wasn’t a prison film; there was nowhere anyone could escape to. Each of the guards then called in his numbers, and if the count was correct this was followed by a series of loud buzzers and the huge noise of the cell doors on each balcony grinding open. It was like hundreds of iron junk heaps had been set in motion all at once. Each of those piles of junk was a cage for two men.

It was startling to see the bars of our cage starting to slide open. Controlled from some distant point, the steel wall that confined us parted with the kind of slow, reluctant motion that made you wonder, automatically, “What if some day they can’t get them open?” There were convicts marching past us in their striped uniforms. Anybody looks scary in stripes. Except me. I knew that I looked like a clown. “Follow me,” my cellmate said, and I followed him into the black and white army.

As we walked along the tier and down the three flights of steel stairs, no one said anything. There were guards placed at strategic points with their batons in hand, and guards with rifles looking down from a perch up above. There was also, obviously, a rule of silence on the march. The only sound was the clomp of those heavy boots we had to wear.

Once we were on the ground floor we were channeled to the mess hall. This was like being at school and going to the canteen—with a few important differences. The first was the size of the place. It was massive, half the size of a football field, with a roof as high as the Royal Albert Hall. Second, everyone looked exactly the same. Same clothes – black and white stripes. Same hair style – bald. Third, everyone got the same food; there was no choice at this canteen.

I didn’t quite know what it was, it looked disgusting. I followed my cellmate through the process, getting a tray – not a normal tray that you use to carry plates, but a steel tray split into sections. As we queued up to be given our food I could see why. There were no plates. The slop that was called food – chow, as I soon realized it was called inside – was just dropped directly into the tray. You passed through the line—quick, no reason to stop—and a convict dumped something onto your steel substitute for a table setting. Then another convict dumped something else. At the end of the line I followed my cellmate to the table allotted to our bit of the tier—a long steel table with twelve backless steel stools for the occupants of the four cells immediately to the left of ours and the one immediately to the right.

This was not a table constructed for conversation. We all faced one way, so that the guards with rifles in the little balcony above would be able to see at one glance what our hands were doing. But JR quickly introduced me to the others. Most had been resident for a while, but one was a new boy like me. I didn’t recognize him at first, but he was the young DUI guy who had been on the bus to the pen with me. It turned out that his name was Paul. He was bald now, and looked completely different from the hot young guy I had seen earlier. And yet, there was still something horny about him. I felt my dick begin to twitch again.

We were not long in the mess hall. A leisurely breakfast was not something they went in for here. As soon as we could be expected to scarf down the “food” we were marched out into the yard. The sun was getting up and you could tell that it would be a hot day. As usual I followed my cellmate, but one of the guards pulled me aside. Paul was culled from the herd too, as were a number of other guys. It was soon apparent that we were the new boys. The rest of the population lined up in groups.

The group of new boys were each given a card stating their labor detail and told to join the appropriately numbered line in the yard. Both Paul and I were given Cleaning Services – whatever that meant. And this was line 2. We joined the line and were marched off to begin our day’s labor.

It turns out that Cleaning Services means scrubbing floors, washing down walls, cleaning windows, etc. So essentially I had gone from being an executive in a nice suit to a cleaner in prison stripes. What a come down! No more people to boss around, no more expensive lunches and dinners, no more fancy clothes and nice shoes. I was now one of those people you hardly notice, the ones who come and empty your bin when you are working late at the office, or one of those who clean the office bathroom several times a day. You see these guys around, but you don’t notice their faces, you don’t see them as people. I was now one of those guys. Even worse, I was a convict.

Paul and I were sent, with five or six other guys, to scrub down the floor of the mess hall. No mops, just buckets and brushes. This was back breaking work, squatting and crawling and reaching. I’d never done so much physical labor. But having said that, there was an honesty to this work. It was a job that needed doing. Not like the business world I had hitherto inhabited, where there was a lot of pointless stuff that I ended up doing with no real purpose. This was simple. The purpose was to have a clean floor, and that was what we were doing.

It also gave me a chance to get to know Paul better. He was still in a mess, and even though Prison had been a shock to my system, I think I was holding up better than he was. He told me that he should have been back in college this week, but he had now lost his place and thought he had ruined his life, At least that’s what his dad had told him. His girlfriend had also dumped him. She had come from a well to do family and she could not be seen visiting a state penitentiary. She would go back to college with the other rich kids and laugh about him in prison. Then they would forget about him.

“So what do you care?” I said. “If they think that little of you they aren’t worth having as friends anyway.” He nodded, but he knew he had thrown away his dreams of a college education and would now end up in some dead end job once he got out of here. If, in view of what J R told me, he ever got out. “Who will employ an ex-con?” he asked.

That hit me. I hadn’t thought about what would happen when I got out. Naturally, I’d be fired right away from my current job, as soon as my boss figured out what had happened. I imagined what the reaction would be, and I winced. And would having a record in the States get picked up by the authorities in Britain? Of course it would. Then would I have to declare that I had been in prison? If so, I would have to start thinking about a very different career to the one I’d had. But perhaps that would not be a bad thing. After all, I didn’t like my job.

As soon as I thought that, I added, “What the hell! I’m already thinking like a convict!” And yeah, it was bewildering. The change from what I had been in the UK to what I was right now. The change from suit to stripes. The change from colleague to cellmate. The change from, “Yes, my job is good. It pays well, and it’s appropriate to my skills. I’m getting on well enough, thank you” to “I didn’t like my job.” Actually, I hated my job. Worse than I hated squatting on the floor of the penitentiary and trying to wash it off. When my new cellmate talked about a sentence of Life, I wondered which one he meant.

We finished cleaning the mess hall at just after 10:00 and started on the guards’ mess room. “Hey boy; you missed a spot” was heard, and we tried to clean that spot. Once finished there we were lined up again for a roll call, out in the yard. Then it was back to the mess hall for lunch – more slop, but as I sat at the table I began to feel one of the guys—one of the guys in the Cleaning detail. I was less nervous than at breakfast and the routine of the day seemed easy to follow. Just as I started to relax the bell went again and we were back to work.

The afternoon consisted of cleaning the guards’ changing room and toilet facilities. Not a nice task, and the guards overseeing us were especially keen that we did a good job, much more than when cleaning an area for prisoners.

About 3:00 a guard stomped in and gave me a card that had LAUNDRY printed across the top and then my number stamped on it and the current time. He gave one to Paul as well. “Be back on the yard by 4 o’clock and report for Count. Move it.”

We wandered for a while, not knowing where the Laundry was, then finally got enough courage to ask another convict – fuck! there it was again--“another” convict; I was a convict now myself! – to show us where it was. He pointed to a squat, ugly building with a peaked roof and a pair of big steel doors, like the mess hall. Inside was a long hallway, with deep scuff marks on the floor, as if thousands of boots had been waiting there impatiently. There was a counter at the end of the hallway with steel bars closed across it and a sign above saying WAIT HERE. I had plenty of time to wonder why we were there and whether it had anything to do with JR, who’d told me that this is where he worked. And sure enough, when the bars opened, the face I saw was JR’s.

(JR continues:)

I don’t mind working the Laundry detail. You wouldn’t either, if you didn’t mind spending your days watching dirty stripes turn into wet stripes turn into dry stripes turn into stripes packaged for pickup. If there’s anything that says Prison, it’s the stripes we’ve gotta wear. When I was on the Outside, I never really knew whether I was fitting in. A lotta gay boys feel like that—LOL! But now I did fit in. I was wearing stripes, so I was a convict, same as everybody else. You wanta fit in, kid—go to the Pen! Also, it gives you a sense of order. Six days a week, a gang of us go out and pick up the laundry bags that the cons hang from their cages. You’ve got your number on your laundry bag; you’ve got your number on every jumpsuit, sock, or pair of shorts inside it; your outfit’s not gettin lost. You’re not gonna escape from your stripes. So after we’ve washed em, we sort em and bag em, and once a week, on pickup day, you line up right here and you get em back.

You see what I mean—it’s a sense of order. You’re issued three outfits, total. And let’s say your laundry day is Monday. You put two outfits in the bag and you’re wearing the third one. Then on pickup day, which in your case would be Wednesday, you come to the window and you grab your bag. You’re pretty well taken care of. And I’m pretty well taken care of too. True, I’m not dressed up in two-thousand-dollar clothes, the way I used to be; this suit I’ve got on, it costs the state about ten. But I’m not here to drag in business for the firm, the way I used to be. Which means that I don’t have to make up a new business plan every three months. Which means that I can’t get fired. Which means that I can’t get out. OK, not a bad bargain.

And right now, I’m feelin like it might be a pretty good one, if my new cellie turns out to be as hot as I think he is. I mean, as hot as I think he could be. He’s still stumblin around like a new colt. But he might shape up. And hey, why do you think I caught desk assignment today? Because the new fish have to come in and pick up the rest of their outfits, and my cellie’s a fish, so I wanted to be on the spot. Help him out. Give him some encouragement, you know. I seem to remember stamping his card for 3:00. Which means he might have found the way to the Laundry . . . right about 15 minutes before now.

So I open the bars and, yeah, there he is. Standin exactly the way I expected—like, Am I in the right place? Why isn’t this counter OPEN? What’s the MATTER with these people? He’s got that Outside look all over him. Pretty funny. I was expecting another dude too, and there he is. Lookin a lot less keyed up. Lookin pretty hot, actually. Sad and confused, but hot. My cellie, I know he’s gay. This one—not so sure.

“Complaint Department,” I say, just to beat down that serve-me-first look on the cellie’s face. “But I’ll bet you’re wondering why you’re here, fish.”

“Uh, yes, I mean . . . yeah,” Mike says, not knowing whether to cop an attitude or not. I mean, I only let him stand there for about 15.

“This,” I say, “is where you are issued the rest of your uniforms: two jumpsuits, two shorts, two tees, two pairs of socks, one cap, one laundry bag. You get your coats when it gets cold. Gimmee your cards, I’ll find your shit for you.” Then I banged the counter shut.

Of course, I let them stand there for another 15. Then I opened up again and threw their laundry bags at em. “Here’s your shit. Don’t worry—it’s all numbered. Won’t get away from you. Or vice versa. Any questions, you can ask your cellie. Now go to the yard and report for count. Here’s your cards; I stamped em.”

[celticnoise]

TODAY CQN brings you the twelfth EXCLUSIVE extract from Alex Gordon’s book, ‘CELTIC: The Awakening’, which was published by Mainstream in 2013.

The book covers the most amazing decade in the club’s history, the Sixties, an extraordinary period when the team were transformed from east end misfits to European masters.

THIRTEEN days after Lisbon, Celtic provided the opposition for the legendary Alfredo di Stefano at his glittering Testimonial Match at the Bernabeu Stadium. This was to be no friendly occasion.

Bertie Auld recalled, ‘Big Jock took me aside and told me, “Real Madrid are desperate to do us. We’ve just won the European Cup, but they still think they are best team in Europe. Amancio is their main player – do your utmost to keep him quiet. Keep an eye on him. I want to win this one.”

‘John Cushley was reserve centre-half to Billy McNeill at the time and he was one those rarities, a well-educated footballer! He could read and speak fluent Spanish and he told us what Real Madrid were saying about us in the national press. Basically, they were informing everyone that Celtic had merely borrowed the European Cup from Real for a year. Oh, yeah?

‘When we turned up at the Bernabeu the place was a 135,000 sell-out, everyone in Madrid appeared to want to see the great Alfredo for the last time in that famous all-white kit of Real. He was forty-years-old at the time, but still looked incredibly fit. He kicked off and lasted fifteen minutes before going off to the sort of hero’s accolade he undoubtedly deserved after such an incredible career. However, when he disappeared up the tunnel, the real stuff kicked in. Now we would see who was the best team in Europe.

JIMMY JOHNSTONE…marvellous in Madrid.

‘Wee Jinky was unbelievable that night. He was simply unstoppable. It looked as though he wanted to put on a special show for Di Stefano who, along with England’s Stanley Matthews, was Jinky’s idol when he was growing up. The Real players were queuing up to kick our little winger, but he was simply too good for them. They just could not get the ball off him. Even I felt like applauding at times. Honestly, it was an awesome array of talent Wee Jinky provided that night. That wasn’t in the script.

‘This was supposed to be Alfredo’s Big Night and here was this wee bloke from Viewpark, in Uddingston, stealing the show. While he was going about his business, Amancio and I were getting ‘acquainted’ in the middle of the pitch. He didn’t like the attention I was paying him and we had a couple of wee kicks when no-one was looking. Nothing too serious, but enough for him to realise I was there to do a job for Celtic that night. Friendly? After Alfredo said his farewells, I don’t recall anyone, and I do mean anyone, pulling out of a tackle.

‘They were absolutely determined to hammer us and, equally, we were just as committed to the cause to show we were worthy European champions. Just borrowed the European Cup? It was just unfortunate for them we had a bloke who could read the lingo.

‘Amancio and I were still going at it when, suddenly, there was a 50/50 ball and we both went for it. Crunch! There was a bit of a fracas. He threw a punch and I felt the need to return the compliment. The referee was far from amused. If he thought he was turning up that night to simply swan around the place taking charge of a routine friendly, then he must have been in for a real shock. Here were two teams going at it hell for leather. But they would be doing so without any more input from me or my friend Amancio – we were both sent off. To be honest, it was a fair decision because we were both as bad as each other. As I walked past Big Jock in the dug-out, I looked over and said, “Problem solved, Boss.” He had the good grace to laugh.

‘It was Jinky’s night, though. He was at his elusive best. I recall one of their defenders, I think it was a so-called hardman called Grosso, coming out to the right to give the Wee Man a dull one. He clattered into him and down went Jinky. The Real player then turned his back and returned to the penalty area to take up his position to defend the resultant free-kick. He must have been alarmed when he looked round and saw Jinky back on his feet and preparing to take the award.

‘He was irresistible. Maybe he thought he had to make up for Lisbon where he stuck to the team plan. In Madrid, though, he had the freedom of the pitch. It was apt that we won 1-0 and Jinky – who else? – set up the winner. He took a pass from Tommy Gemmell on the left, skipped past a couple of tackles in that effortless style of his and slid the ball in front of his great mate Bobby Lennox. Bang! Ball in the net. Game over.

‘Even the Real Madrid players must have admitted we were true masters of European football after that exhibition. To be fair to their support, they started to applaud Celtic and, obviously, Jinky, in particular. He would sweep past one of their own players and the fans would shout, “Ole!” It was a night for our wee magician to display his tricks and flicks. He didn’t let Alfredo down.’

SEEING RED…Bertie Auld dismissed in Di Stefano’s Testimonial Match.

The serious European business kicked off again on 20 September and Jock Stein fielded the same line-up that had won in Lisbon in the opening defence of the trophy against the tough Soviets of Kiev Dynamo. Sadly, Celtic made some unwanted history on this occasion as they became the first holders of the trophy to go out of the tournament in the opening round. It was also Celtic’s first defeat in Glasgow in European competition.

The timing that was impeccable in Lisbon deserted them in Glasgow four months later. Unfortunately, too, the first leg would be at home. The psychological advantage was already with the Russians. There was an unusual slackness in Celtic’s early play as they faced Kiev that evening. The 55,000 fans, obviously still on a high and anticipating another wonderful European adventure on the club’s newly-found magic carpet, chanted, ‘Attack! Attack! Attack!’ for a full fifteen minutes before kick-off and continued raucously as the game made its early progression. By half-time, there was silence and concern with the Soviets two goals ahead through efforts from Valentin Pusach and Anatoly Byshovets.

Gemmell, hero of Lisbon, admitted, ‘I don’t think we got caught up in the atmosphere or anything like that. We were used to that sort of thing. Aye, we were aware the fans were shouting, “Attack” over and over again, but that was the way we always played, anyway. As I recall, I got down the wing in the first minute or so and fired a shot into the sidenetting. Another couple of inches to the right and who knows? Certainly, it had beaten their keeper. However, we left ourselves open at the back and they took full advantage.

‘Bobby Lennox pulled one back in the second-half and we piled forward, still taking risks at the back. It ended 2-1, but I can tell you we were convinced we would get back into it over there. We had already played Kiev in Tiblisi two years earlier, so it wasn’t like we were going into the unknown. I scored in that game as we got a 1-1 draw and went through 3-1 on aggregate. We knew we could win in Kiev if we got a break.’

Unfortunately, the bounce of the ball, quite literally, was against Celtic in the return. Bobby Murdoch, so influential and so important in the engine room of the team, was dismissed by Italian referee Antonio Sbardella for throwing the ball to the ground after yet another strange decision from the match official. Murdoch had already been booked in the first-half for dissent and Sbardella looked as though he couldn’t wait to punish him further just before the hour mark as he hastily pointed to the dressing room.

EARLY EXIT…Tommy Gemmell and Co had no luck against Kiev Dynamo.

Bobby was crestfallen,’ recalled Gemmell. ‘He burst into tears and was inconsolable for hours afterwards. We reminded him that it was an Italian who had been put in charge and maybe he was an Inter Milan fan. He certainly acted like it in Kiev. Billy McNeill had the ball in the net and it looked okay to everyone, but it was ruled out. Big John Hughes came in for Stevie Chalmers that night and he netted after one of those mazy dribbles of his, but the ref called it back and awarded Kiev a free-kick for some unseen infringement. A Steward’s Enquiry might have come in handy around this time. One thing was certain – most of the 85,000 fans in the ground that night weren’t complaining about the ref’s performance.’

Remarkably, Celtic went ahead only two minutes after Murdoch’s ordering-off when Lennox levelled the tie on aggregate, snapping a free-kick delivery from Auld beyond a startled Ivan Zanokov. But Celtic still needed another because the goals away counting double rule had been introduced by UEFA at the beginning of that season. So, 2-2 would still have seen Jock Stein’s men topple out of Europe.

The fates were conspiring against them. With one minute remaining, Celtic, who had dominated even with a man short for half-an-hour, earned a corner-kick. Gemmell said, ‘There was nothing else for it but for everyone to pile into their box. At that stage we knew we were out, so we had nothing to lose. They left one player, Byshovets, on the centre spot as they came back to defend the award. He was on his own, every Celtic player, barring Ronnie Simpson, of course, was in the Kiev penalty box. The ball came over, was hacked clear and, unfortunately, went straight to Byshovets. Honestly, it could have gone anywhere.

But a wild boot out of the box turned into an inch-perfect pass. We all chased wildly back, but it was a lost cause. He tucked the ball behind Ronnie and that was that. I’m not being churlish or unsporting, but, in truth, we had played Kiev off the park for three of the four halves over the two games. Make that three-and-half. They didn’t contribute much more than the twenty-five minutes in the first leg that were to prove so crucial. Yet we were out and they were through. We paid a very heavy price for a wee bit of hesitancy early in the game at Parkhead.

‘I remember Big Jock was very positive after the match. He realised he couldn’t have asked for anything more from his players in Kiev. The referee was dodgy, no doubt about it. Whether something untoward was going on or he was just rank rotten, we will never know, but he gave everything to our opponents that night. Jock knew it. We knew it. So, we travelled home, at least, with the consolation we had not been hammered out of sight by far superior opponents. Big Jock also understood he would have to get our heads up for our games against Racing Club of Buenos Aires with the first leg due at Hampden in a fortnight’s time. He said, “If we can’t be European Cup winners again, let’s be the best team in the world.” That uplifted all our spirits. It was an appealing thought.’

Unfortunately, ‘appealing’ was not the word anyone around Celtic was using after three brutal confrontations against an odious bunch of thugs masquerading as footballers in the officially-named Inter-Continental Championship trophy. It was the so-called reward for the European champions to meet their South American counterparts to decide who would be acclaimed as the World Club winners.

‘It was the night fitba’ went oot the windae,’ was the way Jimmy Johnstone remembered the shocking first leg against the unscrupulous Argentines. He didn’t need to be too eloquent, but those nine little words summed up with sublime perfection that night in Glasgow on 18 October.

‘The Wee Man nailed it,’ said Bertie Auld. ‘No-one could have put it better. Listen, I can take someone kicking me. When you can play in the Scottish Junior football as a teenager, there is nothing left to frighten you on a football pitch. As a kid, I was told my leg would be broken in so many places  by so many hulking brutes in my short time at Maryhill Harp. Sometimes it was my jaw or my neck or my arm or my back or my nose. It didn’t bother me one bit. As long as they could take it back!

ARGY BARGY…Billy McNeill and his Celtic mates faced a whole new ball game against Racing Club.

‘But I defy anyone to accept someone spitting in your face. Where I came from in Maryhill you sorted out your problems with your fists. No-one would ever have even thought of spitting. That would have been seen as cowardly and, yet, it seemed completely acceptable to the guys who wore Racing Club’s colours in our three games against them. I still find it difficult to call them players. They would wait until the ball was fifty yards or so away with the referee and his linesmen following play and they would sidle up and gob in your face. Then they would run away leaving you to wipe their spittle off your face. If they did that to you in the street you would be after them to sort them out. But they hid on the football pitch where they were protected by a gullible referee.

‘They were sleekit, yes, that’s the word, to disguise what they were doing. The fans would miss the initial reaction and then spot your retaliation. Look, I loved my football, still do, and I thoroughly enjoyed most of it as a player and as a manager, but I never dwell on those encounters. The entire episode from start to finish was just a nightmare. Unfortunately, we couldn’t handle it and eventually cracked in the play-off in Uruguay. We were only human, after all, and there is just so much we could tolerate, so many times you can turn the other cheek for some cretin to spit on it.

‘Manchester United, following their European Cup triumph the year after us, got the same treatment in their games against Estudiantes. I had warned my pal Paddy Crerand to watch them carefully. He might have thought I had been exaggerating until he telephoned one night after their two meetings with that particular rancid gang of Argentines and said, “My God, Bertie, you weren’t kidding, were you?” Later on Ajax, Bayern Munich and Nottingham Forest declined to participate against their South American opponents. What was the point of seeing the likes of Johan Cruyff, Franz Beckenbauer and Trevor Francis putting their careers on the line to win any title?

‘Who was running the show, anyway? FIFA, the world’s governing football body, presided over the tournament, but UEFA, the European wing of the organisation, didn’t seem to be too involved. I found that strange. We were representing Europe, after all. Certainly, they didn’t even have match observers at our three games against Racing in Scotland, Argentina or Uruguay. You can be certain, though, that they would have helped themselves to a hefty percentage of the gate money from the Hampden game. Maybe if they had sent a representative along to the first match they might have deemed it wise to lobby FIFA about considering scrapping these crazy confrontations.

‘Someone took the decision to make the occasion a one-off final at a neutral venue in 1980 and that format remained in place for decades. If that had been the case in 1967, I have no doubt Celtic would have been acclaimed as world champions. No-one, by fair means, could have beaten us. We came back from South America knowing we were the best team in the world. Sadly, we didn’t have a trophy to show for it.’

What should have been a showpiece spectacle for global football to embrace was, in truth, a shambles. Once again, Celtic had to play the first match in Glasgow and that didn’t work in their favour, either. If the games ended in a tie, the play-off would be held in South America. Neither goal difference nor goal average would come into it. It was on a points system based on league formats; two points for a win, one for a draw, zero for a loss.

Racing Club were offered the choice of three referees – an invitation that was also extended to Celtic in Argentina – and, as a Spanish-speaking nation, they, unhesitatingly, went for an official called Juan Gardeazabal, who happened to be a Spaniard. Sadly, for Celtic, he didn’t speak a word of English. Auld recalled, ‘During the game in Glasgow we could hear him conversing with their players, but all we got were shrugs and gestures when we tried to query anything. It didn’t help much, either, that he frowned on heavy tackles that were perfectly legal and something we did every matchday in Scotland. He understood the Latin-style of play and that certainly favoured Racing Club when, on that rarest of occasion, they were quite happy to kick the ball and not an opponent.’

A crowd of 83,437 turned up at Hampden Park to witness what had been billed the biggest club game ever staged in Scotland. Prime Minister Harold Wilson was in the VIP seats. Stein rarely tinkered with his defence and was satisfied to go with the Lisbon Five: Simpson; Craig, McNeill, Clark and Gemmell. Murdoch and Auld again got the nod to patrol the midfield and do most of the link-up play. The trickery of Johnstone and the pace of Lennox, he knew, would give the Racing Club defence problems if they were allowed to play. That turned out to be a big ‘if’.

THE LONG WALK…John Hughes sent off against the Argentines.

Wallace, who could look after himself, was in, too, so it was now a straight choice between European Cup matchwinner Stevie Chalmers or John Hughes with the latter getting the go-ahead. Stein liked to keep pre-match routines as normal as possible. After going through the tactical work that had been detailed the previous evening at the hotel on the Ayrshire coast, he appeared to be spending an inordinate amount of time as the clock ticked down to the kick-off going over ground he had already covered.

As John Clark said, ‘He rarely repeated himself.’ Now, though, he was telling the players for the umpteenth time, ‘Don’t let them put you off your natural game.’Or ‘Don’t get drawn into any feuds.’ Or ‘Don’t retaliate. That’s what they will want you to do.’ Or ‘If you lose your discipline, you’ll lose the game.’ Or ‘Let the world see how to win the Celtic way.’ Auld recalled, ‘There was a genuine concern from The Boss. He must have been exhausted just going through his team talk. Big Jock was meticulous, as everyone knew, but he just seemed a wee bit more cautious than normal on this occasion.’

Within minutes, the Celtic players realised why their manager was fairly apprehensive about the conduct awaiting them out on that football pitch. Jimmy Johnstone was the target. With just about his first touch of the ball he was sent spinning into the air after a crude lunge from Juan Rulli. With the outside-right still coming back to earth, he was met with another so-called challenge from Oscar Martin. Johnstone went down in a heap. Auld remarked, ‘I thought they were trying to volley the Wee Man over the stand and out of the ground. I looked at the referee and wondered what action he would take. He didn’t even admonish either of the villains. My heart sank.’

The Racing Club players immediately realised Senor Gardeazabal was a weak referee. He had opened the door for Scotland’s national stadium to become a clogger’s dream, a hacker’s paradise. The Argentines took full advantage. They set about abusing their opponents from that moment on with Johnstone feeling the full brunt of their punishment. It seemed their priority was to put the Celtic player in hospital that evening.

Jim Craig observed, ‘People often talked about the undoubted skills of the Wee Man. One thing quite often overlooked was his courage. He would be scythed down, bumped, thumped, kicked, punched, elbowed, knocked about like a rag doll, but he always came back for more. Jinky gave you the impression an Elephant Gun might be required to stop him and keep him down, but I doubt if that would have worked, either. He was unbelievably brave.’

Opportunities were at a minimum against a defence that was happy enough to give away fouls anywhere within a thirty-five yard radius of their goal. They got a fright, though, ten minutes after the turnaround when Auld slung over a beautifully-judged deadball effort and Billy McNeill’s header bashed against woodwork. The Celtic skipper had better luck when Hughes swung over a right-wing corner-kick later on. McNeill had been blocked and jostled any time he had come forward for corners or free-kicks.

‘That happened in every game and I was used to it,’ said McNeill. ‘They were a bit more sly or cunning than anything I had encountered in our game at home, but I always kept my concentration. Their aim was to distract you and I wasn’t going to let that happen.’ Hughes flighted over ball just off centre of the goal about twelve yards out. Unbelievably, McNeill found himself with a yard or so of freedom. He leapt, made solid contact and watched in expectation as the ball almost lazily arced away from stranded keeper Augustin Cejas and high past Jinky’s pal Martin into the net.

‘We all ran to congratulate Caesar,’ said Auld. ‘He broke off his own celebrations to have a quick word with Alfio Basile, who would later manage the Argentinian international side. Basile had tried to rough up our skipper time after time and it is to Caesar’s credit he refused to take the bait. Later I asked my pal, who could actually speak a little bit of Spanish, what he had said to the Racing Club defender. He was the picture of innocence when he replied, “You know, Bertie, I can’t quite remember.” I assumed he wasn’t asking him out for a drink afterwards!’

McNeill, however, did recall Basile’s reactions at the end of the game. ‘You get guys making all sorts of daft gestures as you head for the tunnel,’ he said. ‘Most of the Racing Club’s players were at it. Silly threats that are supposed to be menacing, but it is best to smile at these guys. They hate that. Show fear and you are a dead man in the next match. I remember Basile motioning with an imaginary knife that he was going to cut my throat. And, do you know, if he had carried out that threat on the pitch at Hampden that night there is every chance the referee wouldn’t even have booked him.’

There was a moment of honesty from left-back Juan Diaz afterwards when he was being interviewed by a South American journalist. He was quizzed about what he thought about playing against Johnstone. He answered in a rush of Spanish. Afterwards, the press man was asked for a translation by his Scottish counterparts. Diaz had said, ‘I tried to tackle him fairly at the start, but I realised this would be impossible for the entire game. I elected to kick him when he came near me after that. He would have destroyed me.’

Astonishing, then, at no time during the game did match official Gardeazabal elect to have a word with Diaz. Even more revealing, in a game riddled with fouls, is the fact that not one single player was booked. Maybe the good senor had left his little black book in Spain. Johnstone, sturdy individual of body and mind though he may have been, was in no fit state to play in the next game, a 4-2 league win over Motherwell.

The great South American adventure continued with the trip to Buenos Aires that lasted twenty-one hours with stops in Paris, Madrid and Rio. There was the usual obstructions that Celtic were now becoming to expect. The hotel was a wreck, the training facilities were a disgrace and the locals were hostile. Just a year beforehand, England manager Alf Ramsey had branded Argentina’s players ‘animals’ after their 1-0 World Cup quarter-final win over them at Wembley. Geography, along with football etiquette, was clearly not a strength in this part of the universe. England and Scotland appeared to be one and the same country according to most of the Buenos Aires population and it was a bit too late to argue the case.

Eventually, Celtic moved their HQ to the Hindu Club about thirty miles or so from the city centre. They were greeted with the sight of four policemen carrying machine guns. There were another twenty armed cops with shoulder holsters dotted around the complex and there was a twenty-four hour watch on the grounds. Auld said, ‘Did someone tell them we were there to start a revolution instead of play a game of football? It was all very surreal.’

Auld was forced to miss the game after injuring an ankle in the 5-3 League Cup Final victory over Dundee the day before the team flew out. He said, ‘I was desperate to play, but I knew Big Jock wouldn’t select me unless I was 100 per cent fit. I accepted that wouldn’t have been fair to my team-mates. As we were driven in our coach through Avellaneda, I have to say I was depressed at some of the sights we passed on the way.

‘Buenos Aires looked affluent enough, but we witnessed an awful lot of poverty and deprivation on the hour-long trip to the ground. Crumbling wooden shacks that were homes to some poor unfortunates, children wandering around on their own and dogs foraging for morsals of food on the streets. Now we understood why their players would run over children’s bodies to get their promised bonus of £1,500-per-man to lift the trophy. That would have been a fortune in that part of Argentina.’

Mr VERSATILE…Celtic’s unsung hero Willie O’Neill.

Celtic’s coach had to avoid several hundred Racing Club fans with obvious death wishes as they tried to postpone the journey by putting their bodies in front of the vehicle and pushing, shoving and rocking it from side to side at every set of red lights. The driver, obviously a local who had seen all this before, ignored the obstacles and steered a steady path. If someone wanted to headbutt his bus that was their problem. Eventually, the coach reached its destination, the monstrous oval-shaped, grey-walled Avellaneda Stadium.

Outside, cops, with massive sabres, on horseback pushed back supporters. There were other policemen with leather lashes who weren’t slow to use them if they thought the fans were getting a bit too excited. Cops with guns patrolled outside of the ground. Gemmell, like everyone else in the Celtic party, wasn’t too impressed. ‘It wasn’t even close to kick-off and they were already baying for blood,’ he said. ‘A few stared through the windows of our coach and made all sorts of weird gestures. They were all pulling hideous faces with gargoyle-like expressions. I began to wonder if we were still on earth. I don’t suppose they mentioned any of this in their travel brochures!’

Willie O’Neill, a left-back or midfield enforcer, got his pal Auld’s position in the team and Chalmers, his speed a vital factor, came in for Hughes from the team that had won at Hampden. Auld took his place in the stand alongside Hughes and Joe McBride. As they settled in, the three thought they felt a slight drizzle of rain. Warm rain. Auld looked up to the tier that ran directly above the Celtic party. ‘There was a group of disgusting lowlifes urinating on us. When one was finished, another would take his place. We were stuck right underneath them and couldn’t move in a packed stadium. Spat on in Glasgow and peed on in Avellaneda. I was beginning to agree more and more with Alf Ramsey.’

Celtic had also been warned the Uruguayan referee Esteban Marino was ‘not strong’. But just moments after the match official had led the teams out of the tunnel, the occasion was veering to what could have turned into a full-blown riot. Marino might not have a game to control, after all. Ronnie Simpson was felled by an object thrown at him as he went out to check his nets before the kick-off. There were massive wire fences behind both goals and it looked virtually impossible for an individual to throw something over it and down with any degree of accuracy. A more sinister thought was that the keeper had been assaulted by someone posing as a photographer or a character with an official pass hovering around the touchline behind the goal.

SHOCKER…Ronnie Simpson had to be replaced after being hit on the head by a missile.

After treatment, it was reckoned that Simpson had been hit by something heavy like a metal bar. Yet, a search of the immediate area only moments after he went down, failed to discover anything of the nature that could have caused such damage. Nothing nearby such as a brick or a bottle could be found. Clearly, whatever it was had been removed. By whom? No-one ever did find the mystery object. The trackside security later admitted they had failed to search the photographers’ camera cases. You could have got a bazooka in some of those enormous holdalls back then.

Robert Kelly hadn’t welcomed the thought of fulfilling the return leg obligation after the unacceptable behaviour of the Racing Club players in Glasgow. As you might expect, Auld was rightly concerned, as were the other players stranded alongside him in the stand, rows and aisles away from the Celtic officials. ‘If our chairman had called the players off the pitch at that point, then God only knows what would have happened next.

‘I don’t scare that easily, but I looked around me and all I could see were these ugly faces screaming and screeching abuse. We might just have made it to the sanctuary of the dressing room, but I genuinely doubt if we would have got out of that ground unscathed. I have been in the thick of all the emotions that run high in an Old Firm game, but the Glasgow derbies were tea parties compared with this. Everywhere you looked people were gesticulating and threatening, snarling and spitting. Welcome to hell.’

After a hasty confab between Kelly and the Celtic directors, they agreed, albeit reluctantly, to allow the game to go ahead, fifteen minutes late. In those most extreme of circumstances, there seemed little alternative. John Fallon took over from Simpson in goal. Astoundingly, in the midst of all the madness, Celtic were awarded a penalty-kick in the twentieth minute.

Auld said, ‘As you might expect, it was an absolute stonewaller. Jinky wriggled through and was sent clattering to the ground by their keeper Cejas. It was a clear goalscoring opportunity and, these days, would have brought an automatic red card for the keeper. Now that would have been interesting. I still shudder to think how the fans would have reacted to that.’

Gemmell placed the ball on the spot. ‘The Racing Club players were, as usual, doing everything they could to distract me. You would never have detected it at the game or on the television, but they were throwing little pieces of dirt or flicking stones at me and the ball. On the run-up, a clump of something or other went scudding across my path. I ignored it. I recall one game where I was about to take a penalty-kick and a shinguard was thrown at the ball. Didn’t bother me. I scored then and I scored against Racing. I enjoyed giving the ball an almighty whack at the best of times and here I was only twelve yards from goal with just the keeper to beat. I reckoned if I hit the ball as hard as I possibly could and got it on target then there was a good chance I would score.

‘There was little point in a keeper trying to second-guess me when I didn’t know which way it was going, either. Seemed a reasonable formula. I took a lot of pens, but I think I only missed two or three and I believe I hit the keepers with those efforts! I was always confident I would score, so the antics of the Racing players didn’t put me off one jot. I hammered it and the effort thundered past Cejas, who had advanced to about the six-yard line by the time I struck the ball. If he had saved it, I wonder if the referee would have been strong enough to order a retake? Doubt it.’

Alas, the lead lasted a mere thirteen minutes when Humberto Maschio, a tricky midfield customer, picked out Norberto Raffo, all on his own in the Celtic penalty area, and he looped a header over the stranded Fallon. Sweeper John Clark, who made such an exemplary job of controlling the back four, is convinced the goal shouldn’t have stood. ‘He was yards offside when the ball was played to him. Not just a shade off, but yards.’

  BAFFLED…John Clark couldn’t believe the ref allowed Racing’s first goal to stand.

McNeill added, ‘Blatantly offside. No argument.’ Auld said, ‘From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see how he could be onside. I agree with John, he was in oceans of space and our back lot never afforded anyone that luxury. If you see photographs of that goal, you will notice that Raffo is completely on his own. However, after the referee had awarded us a penalty-kick, he was hardly like to rule out a goal by that lot, was he?’

The winning goal of the evening arrived shortly after the turnaround when Juan Carlos Cardenas, one of the rarities in this Racing line-up who seemed to genuinely want to play football, thumped one past the diving Fallon. The keeper had no chance. Racing, in front of their own howling banshee of a support, then retreated back into defence. For the next forty minutes or so they were rarely tempted across the halfway line.

Chairman Robert Kelly, in fact, didn’t want Celtic to play in the third game. However, Billy McNeill said, ‘Yes, we were all sick at the way we had been treated, but, deep down, we knew Big Jock was eager to show everyone we were the best club side in the world. He also believed the players might get better treatment in a neutral country. I think that’s what persuaded the board to go ahead with the game.’

Celtic requested the same referee, Esteban Marino, for the third game. It made a bit of sense, considering he was a Uruguayan and he would be officiating in his homeland. FIFA disagreed and awarded the game to Rodolfo Cordesal, a Paraguayan who was still to blow out the candles on the cake for his thirtieth birthday. Who was it who said common sense isn’t that common? The world’s footballing body seemed hell bent in wrecking their own blue riband climax to the planet’s biggest club competition.

Thankfully, Fallon had come through the Buenos Aires experience without any mishap and Auld had recovered from his injury to return in place of O’Neill. Chalmers also made way with Wallace moving into the main striking role and Hughes taking over at outside-left. When rookie referee Cordesal, who had just turned twenty-nine, put the whistle to his lips to signal kick-off at the Stadio Centenario in Montevideo no-one, not even Nostradamus, could have predicted what would happen next.

GROUNDED…John Fallon in action.

The first twenty minutes passed without any calamity or consternation although left-back Nelson Chabay, who had replaced Diaz, appeared to want to get inside Johnstone’s shirt at times. Diaz the honest man making way for Chabay the hatchet man. Seemed about the norm for Racing’s way of thinking.

Unfortunately, Cordesal didn’t twig that the Argentines seemed to have drawn up a rota to kick Johnstone. Chabay would hack him. Next time it would be someone else, who would be replaced by another until it came round to Chabay’s turn again. The crowd of around 60,000 weren’t quite as animated or intimidating as they were at the Avellaneda and that might have been down to the fact that 2,000 plain-clothed riot police mingled among them. The Uruguayan authorities were resolute in their policing of the game.

There would be no trouble on the terracings; pity they couldn’t do anything about the events on field. The match official awarded twenty-four fouls against Celtic in the first-half. Auld observed, ‘That was about as many as we gave away in an entire season at home!’

The fuse that had been lit in Glasgow burned all the way to Montevideo and was about to ignite another explosion of fireworks. Up it went just eight minutes before the completion of the first-half. Astonishingly, the first Celtic player to be sent off was Lennox, the same Lennox who could go through season after season without so much as a word in the ear from a referee. There was yet another melee and, once the torsos of both sets of players had been disentangled, Basile, the guy who threatened to cut McNeill’s throat, was being ordered off. As ever, he protested his innocence as he rubbed his jaw, as though he had been punched.

What happened next just up about entirely summed up the sorriest chapter in Celtic’s history. The match official had a word with the Racing player, Basile pointed to Lennox and the ref went over and signalled for the protesting Celt to leave the field. He had been banished, too. Lennox looked mystified. ‘Me? What have I done?’ he asked. Either Cordesal didn’t speak English or was hard of hearing, but he simply dismissed the protestations and walked away. Lennox made his way to the touchline, but was waved back on by Jock Stein. There had to be some mistake. Lennox about-turned and noticed that Basile was also still engaged in ‘discussions’ with the ref. He pointed at an injured colleague who was lying on the ground. Apparently, he wanted the crocked player to take the blame and go off in his place.

Lennox walked back on, Cordesal sent him off again. The Celtic player, still wearing a puzzled expression, trudged to the touchline where he was met by Stein once again. The Celtic manager, stopped his player, turned him around and propelled him back onto the pitch. The referee signalled to the sidelines and two soldiers with swords came on.

MARCHING ORDERS…Bobby Lennox was ordered off in Montevideo.

Lennox said, ‘The soldier was only a couple of feet away from me. He told me to get off. I looked at his sword. I headed back to the touchline. I could risk the wrath of our manager, I wasn’t going to argue with a soldier with a sabre. I headed straight for the dressing room.’ The argumentative Basile also thought the better of continuing his debate with the match official and beat a hasty retreat when another soldier, armed with a sword, headed in his direction.

Gemmell observed, ‘I was standing there with my arms folded wondering what the hell was going on. Bobby Lennox sent off? There had to be some mistake. He may have been a bandido on the golf course, but he wouldn’t say boo to a goose on the football pitch. Around this time, I could see that my colleagues, as well as myself, had had just about enough of this nonsense. We had now had to endure two-and-a-half games – fifteen minutes short of four hours – of the Racing players spitting on us, kicking us, pulling our hair, nipping us, och, basically going through the whole repertoire of dirty tricks.

‘They had picked on the wrong bunch of guys. I looked at Bertie, Bobby, Billy and the rest of the lads. John Clark was a cool customer, but he looked about ready to erupt. We weren’t going to accept any more abuse in the second-half. We knew we would not get any protection from a decidedly ropey referee. He had lost the plot, probably lost it around the time of the kick-off.

‘We were all getting frustrated at the ridiculous treatment of Jinky. The Wee Man could look after himself, but you do feel a bit helpless when you see your colleague being used as a football by a bunch of louts. Soldiers with drawn swords escorting one of our players off the field was not in the script, either. It wasn’t what we signed up for when we won the European Cup and then genuinely looked forward to playing against Racing Club. How naive can you get? We thought they might be honourable sportsmen. What a laugh. What a preposterous notion. Mind you, we realised that about two minutes into the game at Hampden when two of their defenders tried to play keepy-uppy with Jinky.’

Shortly after the interval, Johnstone, much sinned-against throughout, was dismissed, again in remarkable circumstances. Martin tried to remove his shirt once more and the player tried to wrestle free. His elbow appeared to hit the defender on the chest, but Martin went down clutching his face. That was enough for the ref to race over and point once again to the dressing room.

Auld said, ‘I caught the Racing players looking at each other. They were delighted. They were terrified of Jinky and the referee had come to their aid; they wouldn’t have to face him again. To a man, we knew we would not get justice that day. On a personal note, I was getting sick and fed up of players spitting on me. I wiped my hair at one stage and it was covered in spittle. You have to be an extraordinary individual blessed with the patience of a saint if you can accept that sort of behaviour from anyone.’

The mood didn’t get any better when Cardenas, who had scored the goal to take the game to Montevideo, rifled in a long-range effort for what turned out to be the winner in the fifty-sixth minute. Jock Stein later blamed stand-in keeper Fallon for not saving the thirty-five yard drive, but Auld jumped to his colleague’s defence. ‘I don’t think he had much of a chance. The ball swerved and dipped before it flew past him. Believe me, like our manager, I was a serial critic of goalkeepers, but I don’t think Fallon was culpable on that occasion.’

The game descended into anarchy with Racing now determined to do anything they had to do to hold onto their lead. The referee, who would probably never recover from this experience, couldn’t control the Racing players as they continually put the boot in. John Hughes was next to see red. He followed a passback to Cejas, in the days when the keeper could pick up the ball. The Argentine could simply have lifted it, but, to waste time, he collapsed on the ball.

As he lay there, Hughes tried to kick the object out of his hands. A definite foul, it must be admitted. What happened next, though, should have earned Cejas, who had been fairly theatrical throughout, a stick-on Oscar for Best Actor. He rolled around as though the Grim Reaper himself was in attendance. Off went Hughes and back to his feet got Cejas. A career in Hollywood beckoned.

Years later, Auld could laugh. ‘I asked Big Yogi what on earth was he thinking about.’ He replied, “I didn’t think anyone was looking.” Just the rest of the world!’ Hughes admitted, ‘Aye, I did say that and it has to come back to bite me for years. It seemed a reasonable thing to do at the time.’

Unfortunately, the TV cameras did catch another incident when play had stalled yet again. There was the usual posse of players from both teams arguing the toss over something when Gemmell came into the director’s shot to the left of the screen. Raffo, adept at the sneaky foul, was standing a few yards from the latest melee. The Celtic left-back raced forward at full speed and booted the Argentine up the backside. ‘That was inexcusable, I accept that,’ said Gemmell. ‘At the time I wasn’t thinking straight. Who would in the midst of all we had gone through? I can tell you that one of their players, I think it was their No.11, went along our back four of Jim Craig, Billy McNeill, John Clark and myself and spat in our faces immediately after the start of the game.

‘We had played these hooligans three times inside two weeks and everyone has a breaking point. Mine came in that moment. I looked at Raffo and he was obviously fairly pleased with himself. He was very clever. He jumped out of every tackle and we couldn’t catch him. He had got away with murder and not one of the three referees had even spoken to him. I decided to mete out a little bit of justice myself. Yes, I gave him a dunt up the rear end. It could have been worse – he could have come off that pitch with three Adam’s Apples!

‘It was only when I got home that I realised the entire incident had been caught on the telly. It’s a pity the TV editors weren’t  quite as diligent in capturing the antics of our opponents, but they were a wee bit better in disguising their kicking of us. The game, in fact, was edited by the BBC in their London studios and they seemed to dwell on everything the Celtic players did and ignored what Racing were getting up to. It looked like extremely biased editing – maybe that old Scotland v. England thing – and I can tell you Big Jock was livid when he saw the edited tape. I don’t think he spoke to the BBC for about a year which was a bit harsh when you consider the lads in Scotland had no control over the final film.’

It was long overdue, but even Rulli couldn’t escape for three full games and, with five minutes to go and after another foul, he, too, was required to leave proceedings. A couple of minutes later, Auld clattered into one of the many culprits who had been dishing it out and down went the Racing player. The referee signalled for the Celtic midfielder to join team-mates Lennox, Johnstone and Hughes in the dressing room.

Auld said, ‘I shrugged my shoulders and basically told him I didn’t speak Spanish, so I hadn’t a clue what he was indicating. I looked him straight in the eye and realised he was in a state of panic, if not shock. He looked genuinely startled. I wasn’t arguing with him. I just wasn’t going off. I simply refused to move. What happened next surprised even me – he restarted the game with a free-kick to Celtic!’

MISTAKEN IDENTITY…Bobby Murdoch “sent off” against Racing.

Bobby Murdoch was surprised to later discover he had been sent off in the game, according to the referee’s official report. ‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Bobby. ‘Somehow he got me mixed up with John Hughes. I don’t know if Bertie was ever in any report. That incident was laughable. The bold Bertie just stood his ground and the ref crumbled. Och, that bloody guy couldn’t get anything right.’

The misery continued for the Celtic players when they discovered the board of directors had decided to fine every player £250. ‘That was our bonus for our League Cup win over Dundee,’ said Gemmell. ‘The club said they weren’t happy with our conduct and announced they would be withdrawing the cash and giving it to charity. We had been subject to the most degrading stuff from a shower of animals – yes, I agree with Alf Ramsey, too – and now we were being fined for our troubles. It was like all our nightmares had come at once.’ Gemmell, with that knowing smile, added, ‘Lisbon will live forever, though.’

Glasgow, Lisbon, Kiev, Buenos Aires, Montevideo. Yes, 1967 had been quite a year of discovery.

* TOMORROW: JOCK v RANGERS. The real story behind the scenes of the Celtic manager’s thoughts on the men from Ibrox – and the incredible Old Firm battlesin another dramatic and exclusive instalment from Alex Gordon’s ‘CELTIC: The Awakening’ – only in your champion CQN.

    The post CELTIC: THE AWAKENING: THE SECOND BATTLE OF THE RIVER PLATE first appeared on Celtic Quick News.

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[justaboywithaonemanshow]

My first Ed Sheeran Concert / Argentina / May 2017

I know nobody reads my blog and I’ve got literally 5 followers and this is going to be a long post but I really need to write this down ❤️

So last Saturday was my first ever Ed Sheeran show (and first ever proper concert experience) and I’ve got to say...IT WAS THE BEST FUCKING DAY OF MY ENTIRE LIFE!!! I’ve lived a pretty decent amount of years and had experienced some beautiful, unique things through out my time on earth but OH MY GOD THIS WAS SO AMAZING, I just can’t get over it, it’s been a week and I’m still super excited about it (I’m also a pain in the ass for everyone who knows me because I just can’t shut up, I’ve literally been talking about it non stop since Saturday) 

I arrived to La Plata at 10:30 am, I live in a small town 620 miles away from it, on the northeast of the country so I had to take a really really REALLY long 13 hour bus ride to get there. I rushed to the hotel, quickly changed my clothes and went to the stadium. My cousin/god-daughter was already queuing with her older brother who was saving my spot. All this madness actually started because of her, in September she’s turning 15 and when the tour dates were released I knew this was the most perfect present for her (she loves Ed). Long story short, at first I wasn’t going with her, her brother was (he’s not keen on Ed), I had to work plus I’m doing a master’s degree that should be finished by the end of may so things were complicated, but then I though fuck it, you only live once! and decided to join her. By the end of march I surprised her with the tickets (which I kept secret for a whole month) and our Ed Sheeran journey began.

I got to the stadium at 11:30am, we had general admision ticket (the front section) so we had to queue to get good spots, when I arrived there were like two blocks of people queuing, some of them arrived on Tuesday and were camping outside for 3 days! We started chatting with some girls who were next to us and spend the whole afternoon together, we were like 6 girls and a dad, laughing and having fun, talking about Ed and stuff, it was so nice to get to know them ❤️ We even heard Ed doing the soundcheck and started screaming like maniacs (Argentinean people scream a lot hahaha)

By 4pm the queue started moving and we were slowly entering the stadium in groups, we ran like crazy (while screaming, obviously) even though the guards kept telling us NO RUNNING! When I entered the stadium I was so shocked by how huge it was and how close we were to the stage! I had no hopes of being close since I was arriving on the date of the show, I even brought my glasses because I thought it would be so hard to see him but, to my surprise, we ended up like 6 or 10 people away from the barricade, we were so so happy we send a voice message to our family screaming in joy. 

And then the wait and torture began, we were literally compressed, I coudn’t even move my arms and sometimes it was really hard to breathe, my cousin ended up a little bit further away from me because I went to get merch when we arrived but I kept an eye on here most of the time. The first oppening show (a local singer) was pretty good, a bit boring. Then it was Antonio Lulic’s turn, he was super charismatic and fun but I was so uncomfortable I just wanted to go, there was a point where I though “this is awful, I’m never getting general admision tickets again” How wrong I was.

It was a really cold day, 9º and it rained a few times, by the time Antonio was done and we were waiting for Ed it started pouring heavily, but we where so hot and pushed together that it was a relief. At 20:30 exactly the screens were lit, we where like 40,000 people inside the stadium, and boom there he was, in all his ginger glory, playing Castle on the Hill with his small guitar sporting a red hoax t-shirt over a flannel (I was hysterical about the flannel lol I just missed them so much) and those lovely tight jeans. And at that moment I knew, everything was worth seeing him, the wait, the cold, the rain, the pain, the pushing, the hair of the girl in front of me in mouth, he was there, a few meters a away from me. It was surreal, seeing him there, I’ve watched so many videos, and I was seeing him live so clearly, he was incredibly beautiful, he had the warmest smile I’ve ever seen, his hair bright orange and the red suited him perfectly, his eyes bright and excited. 

As usual, when he arrived people screamed to the top of their lungs and the Ed Sheeran party began, we were so so loud, and he was so so impressed. After Castle on the Hill he said “Hello, this is amazing” and told us he was looking forward to coming back to Argentina because he remembered how loud we were, and dared us to be even louder than the whole european tour (we were).

The rest of the night was pure magic, I was still uncomfortable but it was so worthy, I kept moving from different spots because people literally dragged me, sometimes I was closer to the stage, sometimes not so much. I sang, jumped, cried and scream through the almost 2 hour show. Apart from being amazingly talented as always and his voice just as sweet, beautiful and powerful, he was super happy to be there. That was the best part, seeing him enjoying the experience as much as we were. 

He kept moving closer to the edge of the stage and I was swooning every time he did, you can literally hear me in the videos sighing “ahhh”.

He sang Castle on the Hill, Eraser, The A Team, Don’t / New man, Dive (which he asked us to sing the loudest while it was raining heavily), Bloodstream (one of my favourite to hear live, because of the energy that performance has and the heavy guitar action), Galway Girl, Feeling Good / I See Fire, Barcelona (every time he sang the lyrics in spanish he smirked, he knew we would scream even louder, Perfect, Happier (where he asked us to turn the lights on, the view was beautiful), Thinking out loud, Photograph (I cried through the whole song, you can hear me sobbing while singing in my video) and then something amazing happened. In between songs we, the people in the general admission area, started screaming “Give me love, give me love” to which he answered “Try next time”. After Photograph, he grabbed his guitar, looked at us while we kept screaming “Give me love” and asked Trevor to bring any guitar that was on tune and HE STARING SINGING GIVE ME LOVE, we were hysterical, we asked, he did it, it lasted nearly 9 minutes, it was breath taking, he even set up a chorus in the crowd, dividing us in Higher Harmony, Lower Harmony and asking to sing non-stop, no matter what happened while he sang and directed us like an orchestra (you must have seen the video by now) It was magnificent. Then came Nancy Mullingan (he asked us to sing the nanananana instrumental part) and Sing (we jumped and screamed like psychos, it was super fun and energetic). He then run to change and came back with the Argentinean football t-shirt, I have to admit I was one of those people who thought it was silly when singers do that, and I didn’t understand the excitement of it, but when he came back I nearly peed in my pants hahahahaha it suited him so nicely, bringing out the blue in his eyes 🎵 Shape of you began, we where all dancing and jumping, and for closure, You need me I don’t need you, where he got all excited moving and running trough the stage like crazy while waving an argentinean flag. (overly excited Ed in YNMIDNY is my favourite Ed) And then he was gone.

I took a few pictures, almost all of them awful (I’m really bad plus my phone is crap) and videos where you can hear the crowd (and me) more than you can hear Ed hahahaha I tried to enjoy the show through my eyes rather than my phone, and I’m so glad I did.

Since december I’ve been strugling with a lot, went through something I thought I’d never had to deal with that got me really really down. The person I loved the most, that I thought would never hurt me, crushed me into pieces and the last 6 months were awful. I was depressed, didn’t leave the house, didn’t showered, lost weight, cut contact with all my friends and family but then the latin american tour was announced and I bought tickets for my god daughter. By the end of march I made the decision to go with her and from that exact moment things got better, I was finally looking forward to something, dreaming about the experience, smiling once again.  Ed’s music lifted me up in a way I tought it was not possible. The moment I saw him my heart was pounding so much. He was there, he was real. People tell me “If you didn’t go you’d have regreted it so much”. Now, being aware of what this type of experience is, what it makes you feel, I would never forgive myself if I decided to stay. I literally never imagined it would be THIS GOOD. 

20.05.17 is, by far, the best day of my life, I’ll never forget it. Thank you singer songwriter Edward Christopher Sheeran. You’re a magical human being.

*Sorry for my english but as you might have guessed is not my first language.

#ed sheeran #teddy sheeran #ed sheeran argentina #divide tour #divide tour latin america #my ed sheeran experience #my first concert ever #ed sheeran live #best day of my life #will never forget this

[celticnoise]

TODAY CQN brings you the twelfth EXCLUSIVE extract from Alex Gordon’s book, ‘CELTIC: The Awakening’, which was published by Mainstream in 2013.

The book covers the most amazing decade in the club’s history, the Sixties, an extraordinary period when the team were transformed from east end misfits to European masters.

THIRTEEN days after Lisbon, Celtic provided the opposition for the legendary Alfredo di Stefano at his glittering Testimonial Match at the Bernabeu Stadium. This was to be no friendly occasion.

Bertie Auld recalled, ‘Big Jock took me aside and told me, “Real Madrid are desperate to do us. We’ve just won the European Cup, but they still think they are best team in Europe. Amancio is their main player – do your utmost to keep him quiet. Keep an eye on him. I want to win this one.”

‘John Cushley was reserve centre-half to Billy McNeill at the time and he was one those rarities, a well-educated footballer! He could read and speak fluent Spanish and he told us what Real Madrid were saying about us in the national press. Basically, they were informing everyone that Celtic had merely borrowed the European Cup from Real for a year. Oh, yeah?

‘When we turned up at the Bernabeu the place was a 135,000 sell-out, everyone in Madrid appeared to want to see the great Alfredo for the last time in that famous all-white kit of Real. He was forty-years-old at the time, but still looked incredibly fit. He kicked off and lasted fifteen minutes before going off to the sort of hero’s accolade he undoubtedly deserved after such an incredible career. However, when he disappeared up the tunnel, the real stuff kicked in. Now we would see who was the best team in Europe.

JIMMY JOHNSTONE…marvellous in Madrid.

‘Wee Jinky was unbelievable that night. He was simply unstoppable. It looked as though he wanted to put on a special show for Di Stefano who, along with England’s Stanley Matthews, was Jinky’s idol when he was growing up. The Real players were queuing up to kick our little winger, but he was simply too good for them. They just could not get the ball off him. Even I felt like applauding at times. Honestly, it was an awesome array of talent Wee Jinky provided that night. That wasn’t in the script.

‘This was supposed to be Alfredo’s Big Night and here was this wee bloke from Viewpark, in Uddingston, stealing the show. While he was going about his business, Amancio and I were getting ‘acquainted’ in the middle of the pitch. He didn’t like the attention I was paying him and we had a couple of wee kicks when no-one was looking. Nothing too serious, but enough for him to realise I was there to do a job for Celtic that night. Friendly? After Alfredo said his farewells, I don’t recall anyone, and I do mean anyone, pulling out of a tackle.

‘They were absolutely determined to hammer us and, equally, we were just as committed to the cause to show we were worthy European champions. Just borrowed the European Cup? It was just unfortunate for them we had a bloke who could read the lingo.

‘Amancio and I were still going at it when, suddenly, there was a 50/50 ball and we both went for it. Crunch! There was a bit of a fracas. He threw a punch and I felt the need to return the compliment. The referee was far from amused. If he thought he was turning up that night to simply swan around the place taking charge of a routine friendly, then he must have been in for a real shock. Here were two teams going at it hell for leather. But they would be doing so without any more input from me or my friend Amancio – we were both sent off. To be honest, it was a fair decision because we were both as bad as each other. As I walked past Big Jock in the dug-out, I looked over and said, “Problem solved, Boss.” He had the good grace to laugh.

‘It was Jinky’s night, though. He was at his elusive best. I recall one of their defenders, I think it was a so-called hardman called Grosso, coming out to the right to give the Wee Man a dull one. He clattered into him and down went Jinky. The Real player then turned his back and returned to the penalty area to take up his position to defend the resultant free-kick. He must have been alarmed when he looked round and saw Jinky back on his feet and preparing to take the award.

‘He was irresistible. Maybe he thought he had to make up for Lisbon where he stuck to the team plan. In Madrid, though, he had the freedom of the pitch. It was apt that we won 1-0 and Jinky – who else? – set up the winner. He took a pass from Tommy Gemmell on the left, skipped past a couple of tackles in that effortless style of his and slid the ball in front of his great mate Bobby Lennox. Bang! Ball in the net. Game over.

‘Even the Real Madrid players must have admitted we were true masters of European football after that exhibition. To be fair to their support, they started to applaud Celtic and, obviously, Jinky, in particular. He would sweep past one of their own players and the fans would shout, “Ole!” It was a night for our wee magician to display his tricks and flicks. He didn’t let Alfredo down.’

SEEING RED…Bertie Auld dismissed in Di Stefano’s Testimonial Match.

The serious European business kicked off again on 20 September and Jock Stein fielded the same line-up that had won in Lisbon in the opening defence of the trophy against the tough Soviets of Kiev Dynamo. Sadly, Celtic made some unwanted history on this occasion as they became the first holders of the trophy to go out of the tournament in the opening round. It was also Celtic’s first defeat in Glasgow in European competition.

The timing that was impeccable in Lisbon deserted them in Glasgow four months later. Unfortunately, too, the first leg would be at home. The psychological advantage was already with the Russians. There was an unusual slackness in Celtic’s early play as they faced Kiev that evening. The 55,000 fans, obviously still on a high and anticipating another wonderful European adventure on the club’s newly-found magic carpet, chanted, ‘Attack! Attack! Attack!’ for a full fifteen minutes before kick-off and continued raucously as the game made its early progression. By half-time, there was silence and concern with the Soviets two goals ahead through efforts from Valentin Pusach and Anatoly Byshovets.

Gemmell, hero of Lisbon, admitted, ‘I don’t think we got caught up in the atmosphere or anything like that. We were used to that sort of thing. Aye, we were aware the fans were shouting, “Attack” over and over again, but that was the way we always played, anyway. As I recall, I got down the wing in the first minute or so and fired a shot into the sidenetting. Another couple of inches to the right and who knows? Certainly, it had beaten their keeper. However, we left ourselves open at the back and they took full advantage.

‘Bobby Lennox pulled one back in the second-half and we piled forward, still taking risks at the back. It ended 2-1, but I can tell you we were convinced we would get back into it over there. We had already played Kiev in Tiblisi two years earlier, so it wasn’t like we were going into the unknown. I scored in that game as we got a 1-1 draw and went through 3-1 on aggregate. We knew we could win in Kiev if we got a break.’

Unfortunately, the bounce of the ball, quite literally, was against Celtic in the return. Bobby Murdoch, so influential and so important in the engine room of the team, was dismissed by Italian referee Antonio Sbardella for throwing the ball to the ground after yet another strange decision from the match official. Murdoch had already been booked in the first-half for dissent and Sbardella looked as though he couldn’t wait to punish him further just before the hour mark as he hastily pointed to the dressing room.

EARLY EXIT…Tommy Gemmell and Co had no luck against Kiev Dynamo.

Bobby was crestfallen,’ recalled Gemmell. ‘He burst into tears and was inconsolable for hours afterwards. We reminded him that it was an Italian who had been put in charge and maybe he was an Inter Milan fan. He certainly acted like it in Kiev. Billy McNeill had the ball in the net and it looked okay to everyone, but it was ruled out. Big John Hughes came in for Stevie Chalmers that night and he netted after one of those mazy dribbles of his, but the ref called it back and awarded Kiev a free-kick for some unseen infringement. A Steward’s Enquiry might have come in handy around this time. One thing was certain – most of the 85,000 fans in the ground that night weren’t complaining about the ref’s performance.’

Remarkably, Celtic went ahead only two minutes after Murdoch’s ordering-off when Lennox levelled the tie on aggregate, snapping a free-kick delivery from Auld beyond a startled Ivan Zanokov. But Celtic still needed another because the goals away counting double rule had been introduced by UEFA at the beginning of that season. So, 2-2 would still have seen Jock Stein’s men topple out of Europe.

The fates were conspiring against them. With one minute remaining, Celtic, who had dominated even with a man short for half-an-hour, earned a corner-kick. Gemmell said, ‘There was nothing else for it but for everyone to pile into their box. At that stage we knew we were out, so we had nothing to lose. They left one player, Byshovets, on the centre spot as they came back to defend the award. He was on his own, every Celtic player, barring Ronnie Simpson, of course, was in the Kiev penalty box. The ball came over, was hacked clear and, unfortunately, went straight to Byshovets. Honestly, it could have gone anywhere.

But a wild boot out of the box turned into an inch-perfect pass. We all chased wildly back, but it was a lost cause. He tucked the ball behind Ronnie and that was that. I’m not being churlish or unsporting, but, in truth, we had played Kiev off the park for three of the four halves over the two games. Make that three-and-half. They didn’t contribute much more than the twenty-five minutes in the first leg that were to prove so crucial. Yet we were out and they were through. We paid a very heavy price for a wee bit of hesitancy early in the game at Parkhead.

‘I remember Big Jock was very positive after the match. He realised he couldn’t have asked for anything more from his players in Kiev. The referee was dodgy, no doubt about it. Whether something untoward was going on or he was just rank rotten, we will never know, but he gave everything to our opponents that night. Jock knew it. We knew it. So, we travelled home, at least, with the consolation we had not been hammered out of sight by far superior opponents. Big Jock also understood he would have to get our heads up for our games against Racing Club of Buenos Aires with the first leg due at Hampden in a fortnight’s time. He said, “If we can’t be European Cup winners again, let’s be the best team in the world.” That uplifted all our spirits. It was an appealing thought.’

Unfortunately, ‘appealing’ was not the word anyone around Celtic was using after three brutal confrontations against an odious bunch of thugs masquerading as footballers in the officially-named Inter-Continental Championship trophy. It was the so-called reward for the European champions to meet their South American counterparts to decide who would be acclaimed as the World Club winners.

‘It was the night fitba’ went oot the windae,’ was the way Jimmy Johnstone remembered the shocking first leg against the unscrupulous Argentines. He didn’t need to be too eloquent, but those nine little words summed up with sublime perfection that night in Glasgow on 18 October.

‘The Wee Man nailed it,’ said Bertie Auld. ‘No-one could have put it better. Listen, I can take someone kicking me. When you can play in the Scottish Junior football as a teenager, there is nothing left to frighten you on a football pitch. As a kid, I was told my leg would be broken in so many places  by so many hulking brutes in my short time at Maryhill Harp. Sometimes it was my jaw or my neck or my arm or my back or my nose. It didn’t bother me one bit. As long as they could take it back!

ARGY BARGY…Billy McNeill and his Celtic mates faced a whole new ball game against Racing Club.

‘But I defy anyone to accept someone spitting in your face. Where I came from in Maryhill you sorted out your problems with your fists. No-one would ever have even thought of spitting. That would have been seen as cowardly and, yet, it seemed completely acceptable to the guys who wore Racing Club’s colours in our three games against them. I still find it difficult to call them players. They would wait until the ball was fifty yards or so away with the referee and his linesmen following play and they would sidle up and gob in your face. Then they would run away leaving you to wipe their spittle off your face. If they did that to you in the street you would be after them to sort them out. But they hid on the football pitch where they were protected by a gullible referee.

‘They were sleekit, yes, that’s the word, to disguise what they were doing. The fans would miss the initial reaction and then spot your retaliation. Look, I loved my football, still do, and I thoroughly enjoyed most of it as a player and as a manager, but I never dwell on those encounters. The entire episode from start to finish was just a nightmare. Unfortunately, we couldn’t handle it and eventually cracked in the play-off in Uruguay. We were only human, after all, and there is just so much we could tolerate, so many times you can turn the other cheek for some cretin to spit on it.

‘Manchester United, following their European Cup triumph the year after us, got the same treatment in their games against Estudiantes. I had warned my pal Paddy Crerand to watch them carefully. He might have thought I had been exaggerating until he telephoned one night after their two meetings with that particular rancid gang of Argentines and said, “My God, Bertie, you weren’t kidding, were you?” Later on Ajax, Bayern Munich and Nottingham Forest declined to participate against their South American opponents. What was the point of seeing the likes of Johan Cruyff, Franz Beckenbauer and Trevor Francis putting their careers on the line to win any title?

‘Who was running the show, anyway? FIFA, the world’s governing football body, presided over the tournament, but UEFA, the European wing of the organisation, didn’t seem to be too involved. I found that strange. We were representing Europe, after all. Certainly, they didn’t even have match observers at our three games against Racing in Scotland, Argentina or Uruguay. You can be certain, though, that they would have helped themselves to a hefty percentage of the gate money from the Hampden game. Maybe if they had sent a representative along to the first match they might have deemed it wise to lobby FIFA about considering scrapping these crazy confrontations.

‘Someone took the decision to make the occasion a one-off final at a neutral venue in 1980 and that format remained in place for decades. If that had been the case in 1967, I have no doubt Celtic would have been acclaimed as world champions. No-one, by fair means, could have beaten us. We came back from South America knowing we were the best team in the world. Sadly, we didn’t have a trophy to show for it.’

What should have been a showpiece spectacle for global football to embrace was, in truth, a shambles. Once again, Celtic had to play the first match in Glasgow and that didn’t work in their favour, either. If the games ended in a tie, the play-off would be held in South America. Neither goal difference nor goal average would come into it. It was on a points system based on league formats; two points for a win, one for a draw, zero for a loss.

Racing Club were offered the choice of three referees – an invitation that was also extended to Celtic in Argentina – and, as a Spanish-speaking nation, they, unhesitatingly, went for an official called Juan Gardeazabal, who happened to be a Spaniard. Sadly, for Celtic, he didn’t speak a word of English. Auld recalled, ‘During the game in Glasgow we could hear him conversing with their players, but all we got were shrugs and gestures when we tried to query anything. It didn’t help much, either, that he frowned on heavy tackles that were perfectly legal and something we did every matchday in Scotland. He understood the Latin-style of play and that certainly favoured Racing Club when, on that rarest of occasion, they were quite happy to kick the ball and not an opponent.’

A crowd of 83,437 turned up at Hampden Park to witness what had been billed the biggest club game ever staged in Scotland. Prime Minister Harold Wilson was in the VIP seats. Stein rarely tinkered with his defence and was satisfied to go with the Lisbon Five: Simpson; Craig, McNeill, Clark and Gemmell. Murdoch and Auld again got the nod to patrol the midfield and do most of the link-up play. The trickery of Johnstone and the pace of Lennox, he knew, would give the Racing Club defence problems if they were allowed to play. That turned out to be a big ‘if’.

THE LONG WALK…John Hughes sent off against the Argentines.

Wallace, who could look after himself, was in, too, so it was now a straight choice between European Cup matchwinner Stevie Chalmers or John Hughes with the latter getting the go-ahead. Stein liked to keep pre-match routines as normal as possible. After going through the tactical work that had been detailed the previous evening at the hotel on the Ayrshire coast, he appeared to be spending an inordinate amount of time as the clock ticked down to the kick-off going over ground he had already covered.

As John Clark said, ‘He rarely repeated himself.’ Now, though, he was telling the players for the umpteenth time, ‘Don’t let them put you off your natural game.’Or ‘Don’t get drawn into any feuds.’ Or ‘Don’t retaliate. That’s what they will want you to do.’ Or ‘If you lose your discipline, you’ll lose the game.’ Or ‘Let the world see how to win the Celtic way.’ Auld recalled, ‘There was a genuine concern from The Boss. He must have been exhausted just going through his team talk. Big Jock was meticulous, as everyone knew, but he just seemed a wee bit more cautious than normal on this occasion.’

Within minutes, the Celtic players realised why their manager was fairly apprehensive about the conduct awaiting them out on that football pitch. Jimmy Johnstone was the target. With just about his first touch of the ball he was sent spinning into the air after a crude lunge from Juan Rulli. With the outside-right still coming back to earth, he was met with another so-called challenge from Oscar Martin. Johnstone went down in a heap. Auld remarked, ‘I thought they were trying to volley the Wee Man over the stand and out of the ground. I looked at the referee and wondered what action he would take. He didn’t even admonish either of the villains. My heart sank.’

The Racing Club players immediately realised Senor Gardeazabal was a weak referee. He had opened the door for Scotland’s national stadium to become a clogger’s dream, a hacker’s paradise. The Argentines took full advantage. They set about abusing their opponents from that moment on with Johnstone feeling the full brunt of their punishment. It seemed their priority was to put the Celtic player in hospital that evening.

Jim Craig observed, ‘People often talked about the undoubted skills of the Wee Man. One thing quite often overlooked was his courage. He would be scythed down, bumped, thumped, kicked, punched, elbowed, knocked about like a rag doll, but he always came back for more. Jinky gave you the impression an Elephant Gun might be required to stop him and keep him down, but I doubt if that would have worked, either. He was unbelievably brave.’

Opportunities were at a minimum against a defence that was happy enough to give away fouls anywhere within a thirty-five yard radius of their goal. They got a fright, though, ten minutes after the turnaround when Auld slung over a beautifully-judged deadball effort and Billy McNeill’s header bashed against woodwork. The Celtic skipper had better luck when Hughes swung over a right-wing corner-kick later on. McNeill had been blocked and jostled any time he had come forward for corners or free-kicks.

‘That happened in every game and I was used to it,’ said McNeill. ‘They were a bit more sly or cunning than anything I had encountered in our game at home, but I always kept my concentration. Their aim was to distract you and I wasn’t going to let that happen.’ Hughes flighted over ball just off centre of the goal about twelve yards out. Unbelievably, McNeill found himself with a yard or so of freedom. He leapt, made solid contact and watched in expectation as the ball almost lazily arced away from stranded keeper Augustin Cejas and high past Jinky’s pal Martin into the net.

‘We all ran to congratulate Caesar,’ said Auld. ‘He broke off his own celebrations to have a quick word with Alfio Basile, who would later manage the Argentinian international side. Basile had tried to rough up our skipper time after time and it is to Caesar’s credit he refused to take the bait. Later I asked my pal, who could actually speak a little bit of Spanish, what he had said to the Racing Club defender. He was the picture of innocence when he replied, “You know, Bertie, I can’t quite remember.” I assumed he wasn’t asking him out for a drink afterwards!’

McNeill, however, did recall Basile’s reactions at the end of the game. ‘You get guys making all sorts of daft gestures as you head for the tunnel,’ he said. ‘Most of the Racing Club’s players were at it. Silly threats that are supposed to be menacing, but it is best to smile at these guys. They hate that. Show fear and you are a dead man in the next match. I remember Basile motioning with an imaginary knife that he was going to cut my throat. And, do you know, if he had carried out that threat on the pitch at Hampden that night there is every chance the referee wouldn’t even have booked him.’

There was a moment of honesty from left-back Juan Diaz afterwards when he was being interviewed by a South American journalist. He was quizzed about what he thought about playing against Johnstone. He answered in a rush of Spanish. Afterwards, the press man was asked for a translation by his Scottish counterparts. Diaz had said, ‘I tried to tackle him fairly at the start, but I realised this would be impossible for the entire game. I elected to kick him when he came near me after that. He would have destroyed me.’

Astonishing, then, at no time during the game did match official Gardeazabal elect to have a word with Diaz. Even more revealing, in a game riddled with fouls, is the fact that not one single player was booked. Maybe the good senor had left his little black book in Spain. Johnstone, sturdy individual of body and mind though he may have been, was in no fit state to play in the next game, a 4-2 league win over Motherwell.

The great South American adventure continued with the trip to Buenos Aires that lasted twenty-one hours with stops in Paris, Madrid and Rio. There was the usual obstructions that Celtic were now becoming to expect. The hotel was a wreck, the training facilities were a disgrace and the locals were hostile. Just a year beforehand, England manager Alf Ramsey had branded Argentina’s players ‘animals’ after their 1-0 World Cup quarter-final win over them at Wembley. Geography, along with football etiquette, was clearly not a strength in this part of the universe. England and Scotland appeared to be one and the same country according to most of the Buenos Aires population and it was a bit too late to argue the case.

Eventually, Celtic moved their HQ to the Hindu Club about thirty miles or so from the city centre. They were greeted with the sight of four policemen carrying machine guns. There were another twenty armed cops with shoulder holsters dotted around the complex and there was a twenty-four hour watch on the grounds. Auld said, ‘Did someone tell them we were there to start a revolution instead of play a game of football? It was all very surreal.’

Auld was forced to miss the game after injuring an ankle in the 5-3 League Cup Final victory over Dundee the day before the team flew out. He said, ‘I was desperate to play, but I knew Big Jock wouldn’t select me unless I was 100 per cent fit. I accepted that wouldn’t have been fair to my team-mates. As we were driven in our coach through Avellaneda, I have to say I was depressed at some of the sights we passed on the way.

‘Buenos Aires looked affluent enough, but we witnessed an awful lot of poverty and deprivation on the hour-long trip to the ground. Crumbling wooden shacks that were homes to some poor unfortunates, children wandering around on their own and dogs foraging for morsals of food on the streets. Now we understood why their players would run over children’s bodies to get their promised bonus of £1,500-per-man to lift the trophy. That would have been a fortune in that part of Argentina.’

Mr VERSATILE…Celtic’s unsung hero Willie O’Neill.

Celtic’s coach had to avoid several hundred Racing Club fans with obvious death wishes as they tried to postpone the journey by putting their bodies in front of the vehicle and pushing, shoving and rocking it from side to side at every set of red lights. The driver, obviously a local who had seen all this before, ignored the obstacles and steered a steady path. If someone wanted to headbutt his bus that was their problem. Eventually, the coach reached its destination, the monstrous oval-shaped, grey-walled Avellaneda Stadium.

Outside, cops, with massive sabres, on horseback pushed back supporters. There were other policemen with leather lashes who weren’t slow to use them if they thought the fans were getting a bit too excited. Cops with guns patrolled outside of the ground. Gemmell, like everyone else in the Celtic party, wasn’t too impressed. ‘It wasn’t even close to kick-off and they were already baying for blood,’ he said. ‘A few stared through the windows of our coach and made all sorts of weird gestures. They were all pulling hideous faces with gargoyle-like expressions. I began to wonder if we were still on earth. I don’t suppose they mentioned any of this in their travel brochures!’

Willie O’Neill, a left-back or midfield enforcer, got his pal Auld’s position in the team and Chalmers, his speed a vital factor, came in for Hughes from the team that had won at Hampden. Auld took his place in the stand alongside Hughes and Joe McBride. As they settled in, the three thought they felt a slight drizzle of rain. Warm rain. Auld looked up to the tier that ran directly above the Celtic party. ‘There was a group of disgusting lowlifes urinating on us. When one was finished, another would take his place. We were stuck right underneath them and couldn’t move in a packed stadium. Spat on in Glasgow and peed on in Avellaneda. I was beginning to agree more and more with Alf Ramsey.’

Celtic had also been warned the Uruguayan referee Esteban Marino was ‘not strong’. But just moments after the match official had led the teams out of the tunnel, the occasion was veering to what could have turned into a full-blown riot. Marino might not have a game to control, after all. Ronnie Simpson was felled by an object thrown at him as he went out to check his nets before the kick-off. There were massive wire fences behind both goals and it looked virtually impossible for an individual to throw something over it and down with any degree of accuracy. A more sinister thought was that the keeper had been assaulted by someone posing as a photographer or a character with an official pass hovering around the touchline behind the goal.

SHOCKER…Ronnie Simpson had to be replaced after being hit on the head by a missile.

After treatment, it was reckoned that Simpson had been hit by something heavy like a metal bar. Yet, a search of the immediate area only moments after he went down, failed to discover anything of the nature that could have caused such damage. Nothing nearby such as a brick or a bottle could be found. Clearly, whatever it was had been removed. By whom? No-one ever did find the mystery object. The trackside security later admitted they had failed to search the photographers’ camera cases. You could have got a bazooka in some of those enormous holdalls back then.

Robert Kelly hadn’t welcomed the thought of fulfilling the return leg obligation after the unacceptable behaviour of the Racing Club players in Glasgow. As you might expect, Auld was rightly concerned, as were the other players stranded alongside him in the stand, rows and aisles away from the Celtic officials. ‘If our chairman had called the players off the pitch at that point, then God only knows what would have happened next.

‘I don’t scare that easily, but I looked around me and all I could see were these ugly faces screaming and screeching abuse. We might just have made it to the sanctuary of the dressing room, but I genuinely doubt if we would have got out of that ground unscathed. I have been in the thick of all the emotions that run high in an Old Firm game, but the Glasgow derbies were tea parties compared with this. Everywhere you looked people were gesticulating and threatening, snarling and spitting. Welcome to hell.’

After a hasty confab between Kelly and the Celtic directors, they agreed, albeit reluctantly, to allow the game to go ahead, fifteen minutes late. In those most extreme of circumstances, there seemed little alternative. John Fallon took over from Simpson in goal. Astoundingly, in the midst of all the madness, Celtic were awarded a penalty-kick in the twentieth minute.

Auld said, ‘As you might expect, it was an absolute stonewaller. Jinky wriggled through and was sent clattering to the ground by their keeper Cejas. It was a clear goalscoring opportunity and, these days, would have brought an automatic red card for the keeper. Now that would have been interesting. I still shudder to think how the fans would have reacted to that.’

Gemmell placed the ball on the spot. ‘The Racing Club players were, as usual, doing everything they could to distract me. You would never have detected it at the game or on the television, but they were throwing little pieces of dirt or flicking stones at me and the ball. On the run-up, a clump of something or other went scudding across my path. I ignored it. I recall one game where I was about to take a penalty-kick and a shinguard was thrown at the ball. Didn’t bother me. I scored then and I scored against Racing. I enjoyed giving the ball an almighty whack at the best of times and here I was only twelve yards from goal with just the keeper to beat. I reckoned if I hit the ball as hard as I possibly could and got it on target then there was a good chance I would score.

‘There was little point in a keeper trying to second-guess me when I didn’t know which way it was going, either. Seemed a reasonable formula. I took a lot of pens, but I think I only missed two or three and I believe I hit the keepers with those efforts! I was always confident I would score, so the antics of the Racing players didn’t put me off one jot. I hammered it and the effort thundered past Cejas, who had advanced to about the six-yard line by the time I struck the ball. If he had saved it, I wonder if the referee would have been strong enough to order a retake? Doubt it.’

Alas, the lead lasted a mere thirteen minutes when Humberto Maschio, a tricky midfield customer, picked out Norberto Raffo, all on his own in the Celtic penalty area, and he looped a header over the stranded Fallon. Sweeper John Clark, who made such an exemplary job of controlling the back four, is convinced the goal shouldn’t have stood. ‘He was yards offside when the ball was played to him. Not just a shade off, but yards.’

  BAFFLED…John Clark couldn’t believe the ref allowed Racing’s first goal to stand.

McNeill added, ‘Blatantly offside. No argument.’ Auld said, ‘From where I was sitting, I couldn’t see how he could be onside. I agree with John, he was in oceans of space and our back lot never afforded anyone that luxury. If you see photographs of that goal, you will notice that Raffo is completely on his own. However, after the referee had awarded us a penalty-kick, he was hardly like to rule out a goal by that lot, was he?’

The winning goal of the evening arrived shortly after the turnaround when Juan Carlos Cardenas, one of the rarities in this Racing line-up who seemed to genuinely want to play football, thumped one past the diving Fallon. The keeper had no chance. Racing, in front of their own howling banshee of a support, then retreated back into defence. For the next forty minutes or so they were rarely tempted across the halfway line.

Chairman Robert Kelly, in fact, didn’t want Celtic to play in the third game. However, Billy McNeill said, ‘Yes, we were all sick at the way we had been treated, but, deep down, we knew Big Jock was eager to show everyone we were the best club side in the world. He also believed the players might get better treatment in a neutral country. I think that’s what persuaded the board to go ahead with the game.’

Celtic requested the same referee, Esteban Marino, for the third game. It made a bit of sense, considering he was a Uruguayan and he would be officiating in his homeland. FIFA disagreed and awarded the game to Rodolfo Cordesal, a Paraguayan who was still to blow out the candles on the cake for his thirtieth birthday. Who was it who said common sense isn’t that common? The world’s footballing body seemed hell bent in wrecking their own blue riband climax to the planet’s biggest club competition.

Thankfully, Fallon had come through the Buenos Aires experience without any mishap and Auld had recovered from his injury to return in place of O’Neill. Chalmers also made way with Wallace moving into the main striking role and Hughes taking over at outside-left. When rookie referee Cordesal, who had just turned twenty-nine, put the whistle to his lips to signal kick-off at the Stadio Centenario in Montevideo no-one, not even Nostradamus, could have predicted what would happen next.

GROUNDED…John Fallon in action.

The first twenty minutes passed without any calamity or consternation although left-back Nelson Chabay, who had replaced Diaz, appeared to want to get inside Johnstone’s shirt at times. Diaz the honest man making way for Chabay the hatchet man. Seemed about the norm for Racing’s way of thinking.

Unfortunately, Cordesal didn’t twig that the Argentines seemed to have drawn up a rota to kick Johnstone. Chabay would hack him. Next time it would be someone else, who would be replaced by another until it came round to Chabay’s turn again. The crowd of around 60,000 weren’t quite as animated or intimidating as they were at the Avellaneda and that might have been down to the fact that 2,000 plain-clothed riot police mingled among them. The Uruguayan authorities were resolute in their policing of the game.

There would be no trouble on the terracings; pity they couldn’t do anything about the events on field. The match official awarded twenty-four fouls against Celtic in the first-half. Auld observed, ‘That was about as many as we gave away in an entire season at home!’

The fuse that had been lit in Glasgow burned all the way to Montevideo and was about to ignite another explosion of fireworks. Up it went just eight minutes before the completion of the first-half. Astonishingly, the first Celtic player to be sent off was Lennox, the same Lennox who could go through season after season without so much as a word in the ear from a referee. There was yet another melee and, once the torsos of both sets of players had been disentangled, Basile, the guy who threatened to cut McNeill’s throat, was being ordered off. As ever, he protested his innocence as he rubbed his jaw, as though he had been punched.

What happened next just up about entirely summed up the sorriest chapter in Celtic’s history. The match official had a word with the Racing player, Basile pointed to Lennox and the ref went over and signalled for the protesting Celt to leave the field. He had been banished, too. Lennox looked mystified. ‘Me? What have I done?’ he asked. Either Cordesal didn’t speak English or was hard of hearing, but he simply dismissed the protestations and walked away. Lennox made his way to the touchline, but was waved back on by Jock Stein. There had to be some mistake. Lennox about-turned and noticed that Basile was also still engaged in ‘discussions’ with the ref. He pointed at an injured colleague who was lying on the ground. Apparently, he wanted the crocked player to take the blame and go off in his place.

Lennox walked back on, Cordesal sent him off again. The Celtic player, still wearing a puzzled expression, trudged to the touchline where he was met by Stein once again. The Celtic manager, stopped his player, turned him around and propelled him back onto the pitch. The referee signalled to the sidelines and two soldiers with swords came on.

MARCHING ORDERS…Bobby Lennox was ordered off in Montevideo.

Lennox said, ‘The soldier was only a couple of feet away from me. He told me to get off. I looked at his sword. I headed back to the touchline. I could risk the wrath of our manager, I wasn’t going to argue with a soldier with a sabre. I headed straight for the dressing room.’ The argumentative Basile also thought the better of continuing his debate with the match official and beat a hasty retreat when another soldier, armed with a sword, headed in his direction.

Gemmell observed, ‘I was standing there with my arms folded wondering what the hell was going on. Bobby Lennox sent off? There had to be some mistake. He may have been a bandido on the golf course, but he wouldn’t say boo to a goose on the football pitch. Around this time, I could see that my colleagues, as well as myself, had had just about enough of this nonsense. We had now had to endure two-and-a-half games – fifteen minutes short of four hours – of the Racing players spitting on us, kicking us, pulling our hair, nipping us, och, basically going through the whole repertoire of dirty tricks.

‘They had picked on the wrong bunch of guys. I looked at Bertie, Bobby, Billy and the rest of the lads. John Clark was a cool customer, but he looked about ready to erupt. We weren’t going to accept any more abuse in the second-half. We knew we would not get any protection from a decidedly ropey referee. He had lost the plot, probably lost it around the time of the kick-off.

‘We were all getting frustrated at the ridiculous treatment of Jinky. The Wee Man could look after himself, but you do feel a bit helpless when you see your colleague being used as a football by a bunch of louts. Soldiers with drawn swords escorting one of our players off the field was not in the script, either. It wasn’t what we signed up for when we won the European Cup and then genuinely looked forward to playing against Racing Club. How naive can you get? We thought they might be honourable sportsmen. What a laugh. What a preposterous notion. Mind you, we realised that about two minutes into the game at Hampden when two of their defenders tried to play keepy-uppy with Jinky.’

Shortly after the interval, Johnstone, much sinned-against throughout, was dismissed, again in remarkable circumstances. Martin tried to remove his shirt once more and the player tried to wrestle free. His elbow appeared to hit the defender on the chest, but Martin went down clutching his face. That was enough for the ref to race over and point once again to the dressing room.

Auld said, ‘I caught the Racing players looking at each other. They were delighted. They were terrified of Jinky and the referee had come to their aid; they wouldn’t have to face him again. To a man, we knew we would not get justice that day. On a personal note, I was getting sick and fed up of players spitting on me. I wiped my hair at one stage and it was covered in spittle. You have to be an extraordinary individual blessed with the patience of a saint if you can accept that sort of behaviour from anyone.’

The mood didn’t get any better when Cardenas, who had scored the goal to take the game to Montevideo, rifled in a long-range effort for what turned out to be the winner in the fifty-sixth minute. Jock Stein later blamed stand-in keeper Fallon for not saving the thirty-five yard drive, but Auld jumped to his colleague’s defence. ‘I don’t think he had much of a chance. The ball swerved and dipped before it flew past him. Believe me, like our manager, I was a serial critic of goalkeepers, but I don’t think Fallon was culpable on that occasion.’

The game descended into anarchy with Racing now determined to do anything they had to do to hold onto their lead. The referee, who would probably never recover from this experience, couldn’t control the Racing players as they continually put the boot in. John Hughes was next to see red. He followed a passback to Cejas, in the days when the keeper could pick up the ball. The Argentine could simply have lifted it, but, to waste time, he collapsed on the ball.

As he lay there, Hughes tried to kick the object out of his hands. A definite foul, it must be admitted. What happened next, though, should have earned Cejas, who had been fairly theatrical throughout, a stick-on Oscar for Best Actor. He rolled around as though the Grim Reaper himself was in attendance. Off went Hughes and back to his feet got Cejas. A career in Hollywood beckoned.

Years later, Auld could laugh. ‘I asked Big Yogi what on earth was he thinking about.’ He replied, “I didn’t think anyone was looking.” Just the rest of the world!’ Hughes admitted, ‘Aye, I did say that and it has to come back to bite me for years. It seemed a reasonable thing to do at the time.’

Unfortunately, the TV cameras did catch another incident when play had stalled yet again. There was the usual posse of players from both teams arguing the toss over something when Gemmell came into the director’s shot to the left of the screen. Raffo, adept at the sneaky foul, was standing a few yards from the latest melee. The Celtic left-back raced forward at full speed and booted the Argentine up the backside. ‘That was inexcusable, I accept that,’ said Gemmell. ‘At the time I wasn’t thinking straight. Who would in the midst of all we had gone through? I can tell you that one of their players, I think it was their No.11, went along our back four of Jim Craig, Billy McNeill, John Clark and myself and spat in our faces immediately after the start of the game.

‘We had played these hooligans three times inside two weeks and everyone has a breaking point. Mine came in that moment. I looked at Raffo and he was obviously fairly pleased with himself. He was very clever. He jumped out of every tackle and we couldn’t catch him. He had got away with murder and not one of the three referees had even spoken to him. I decided to mete out a little bit of justice myself. Yes, I gave him a dunt up the rear end. It could have been worse – he could have come off that pitch with three Adam’s Apples!

‘It was only when I got home that I realised the entire incident had been caught on the telly. It’s a pity the TV editors weren’t  quite as diligent in capturing the antics of our opponents, but they were a wee bit better in disguising their kicking of us. The game, in fact, was edited by the BBC in their London studios and they seemed to dwell on everything the Celtic players did and ignored what Racing were getting up to. It looked like extremely biased editing – maybe that old Scotland v. England thing – and I can tell you Big Jock was livid when he saw the edited tape. I don’t think he spoke to the BBC for about a year which was a bit harsh when you consider the lads in Scotland had no control over the final film.’

It was long overdue, but even Rulli couldn’t escape for three full games and, with five minutes to go and after another foul, he, too, was required to leave proceedings. A couple of minutes later, Auld clattered into one of the many culprits who had been dishing it out and down went the Racing player. The referee signalled for the Celtic midfielder to join team-mates Lennox, Johnstone and Hughes in the dressing room.

Auld said, ‘I shrugged my shoulders and basically told him I didn’t speak Spanish, so I hadn’t a clue what he was indicating. I looked him straight in the eye and realised he was in a state of panic, if not shock. He looked genuinely startled. I wasn’t arguing with him. I just wasn’t going off. I simply refused to move. What happened next surprised even me – he restarted the game with a free-kick to Celtic!’

MISTAKEN IDENTITY…Bobby Murdoch “sent off” against Racing.

Bobby Murdoch was surprised to later discover he had been sent off in the game, according to the referee’s official report. ‘Aye, that’s right,’ said Bobby. ‘Somehow he got me mixed up with John Hughes. I don’t know if Bertie was ever in any report. That incident was laughable. The bold Bertie just stood his ground and the ref crumbled. Och, that bloody guy couldn’t get anything right.’

The misery continued for the Celtic players when they discovered the board of directors had decided to fine every player £250. ‘That was our bonus for our League Cup win over Dundee,’ said Gemmell. ‘The club said they weren’t happy with our conduct and announced they would be withdrawing the cash and giving it to charity. We had been subject to the most degrading stuff from a shower of animals – yes, I agree with Alf Ramsey, too – and now we were being fined for our troubles. It was like all our nightmares had come at once.’ Gemmell, with that knowing smile, added, ‘Lisbon will live forever, though.’

Glasgow, Lisbon, Kiev, Buenos Aires, Montevideo. Yes, 1967 had been quite a year of discovery.

* TOMORROW: JOCK v RANGERS. The real story behind the scenes of the Celtic manager’s thoughts on the men from Ibrox – and the incredible Old Firm battlesin another dramatic and exclusive instalment from Alex Gordon’s ‘CELTIC: The Awakening’ – only in your champion CQN.

DON’T miss ‘Celtic: The History Bhoys’, the celebration of Brendan Rodgers’ two treble-winning seasons at the club – PLUS the clean sweep years of Jock Stein, 1966/67 and 1968/69, and Martin O’Neill, 2000/01. Buy last season’s production and get a 16-page update on the Hoops’ second successive unforgettable campaign absolutely FREE! That’s a 116-page glorious souvenir of the club’s most unforgettable seasons. Written by ALEX GORDON and crammed with over 150 photographs and all the statistics of all five of the most spectacular years in Celtic’s proud heritage. Priced at only £6.95 plus £3.95 postage and packing, you can order your copy at:

http://www.langsyneshop.co.uk/celtic-the-history-bhoys?filter_name=History%20bhoys

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