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Another Wee Story: By Tom Campbell

Tom sends us another gem from his wealth of anecdotes, about a time inhabited by characters of the like not seen today, but still fondly remembered. 

Close your eyes, you’re on the bus, and the auld fella is telling a story while the druver tries to find a cd that works… 

 

I was back in Glasgow on holiday from Canada, and enjoying it.  The weather was perfect for once and Celtic, drawn in the same League Cup section as Rangers, were making progress.  Years before, I would have been petrified at meeting Rangers twice at the start of the season but with Jock Stein as Celtic’s manager (and a Celtic side brimming with confidence) there was little to worry about.

 

Two weeks ago Celtic had gone to Ibrox and won by 2-0 with Willie Wallace scoring the goals.  Not only that but it was Rangers who looked nervous and on edge as if the occasion was just too much for them.  Both Celtic goals came after laughable mistakes by Rangers’ defenders, most notably by John Greig.

 

And now the ‘return match’ was at Celtic Park, and I was looking forward to it … but one little thing was preying on my mind.  I had arranged to see the match with my cousin, Tommy, and he wanted to meet me at the Quo Vadis on Paisley Road West.  Fair enough, but at eleven o’clock in the morning and for a three o’clock kick-off! 

 

It promised to be a long day… too long for me

 

It was time to employ some strategy and I called upon my limited background as a Latin student under Mr MacDonald, always and affectionately known as ‘Tosh’.  Mr MacDonald taught at St Gerard’s and was the most patient teacher alive; his hero, I think, was Quintus Fabius Maximus, the Roman general who had eventually defeated Hannibal, elephants and all.  This general specialized in delaying tactics (Fabian, in other words) and by avoiding too many direct confrontations with the enemy in the end defeated him.

 

 So, I footered around the house till well past eleven o’clock, and walked to the pub rather than take the bus; I arrived at about noon; the place was crowded by then, but I managed to find my cousin – along with some of his pals.  I gathered, as I had suspected, that he had started his day without me.

 

I joined the party and quickly had a pint in my hand, and that was where it was intended to stay.  I hadn’t come all the way back from Canada to see  Celtic beat Rangers twice inside two weeks and find that I was seeing things through a glass darkly.  No, I wanted to savour the occasion … and celebrate later.

 

My cousin, though, had other ideas.  He explained that two of his brothers-in-law would be joining us, and that they would be driving to the game … “So, we all have time for a few more pints.”  The brothers, both in their late 20s arrived, had a quick pint, looked around the Quo Vadis and pronounced it ‘a morgue’.  If it was a morgue, there were quite a few hyper-active zombies throwing themselves around! 

 

And they were the drivers.

 

Off we went, in their station wagon and in the general direction of Govan (where we had by the way ‘to pick up Michael’.  The thought crossed my mind that literally we might have to pick up this Michael.  The two pubs in Govan we visited before finding Michael were noisy and cheerful, packed with Celtic supporters and the beer flowed.  I managed another pint, saving myself undue attention by buying a round in my turn. 

 

Gloomily, I made the effort to count ‘the dead soldiers’:  Tommy had probably had about six pints by then, the brothers-in-law (both of whom looked and sounded like Sean Fallon) had had four that I saw … but how many before that, and which one was driving?  Michael, exhausted and dehydrated by waiting so long, was close to incoherent… I, unfortunately, was close to perfectly sober. 

 

The long day had started…

 

Pints drunk, songs sung, toilets visited, and station-wagon found roughly where it had been parked … and eventually we were off again.  No great problem driving through the semi-deserted streets of Govan towards Paisley Road Toll, unless you count the skirmish with the Rangers Supporters’ Bus at a set of traffic lights. 

 

This bus had been right behind us for several hundred yards, and the din and singing from it was deafening – well, annoying at any rate.  It probably was just too much to expect our car-load of Tims to quietly ignore the enemy, even a bus-ful.  We stopped at a traffic light and waited for the light to change; two policemen were in the vicinity; the bus was behind us; ‘The Sash’ reverberated … the light changed, but our station-wagon did not move forward as expected.  Engine trouble? Stalled?  Not bloody likely!  The seconds passed, the bus inched forward behind us, Tommy in the back of the wagon started to wave his green-and-white scarf, the bus driver became more and more agitated, his passengers stopped their singing and started to hurl abuse at us, the policemen – somewhat reluctantly, I thought – started to stroll towards the lights.

 

Eventually, the lights started to change to red … and our vehicle shot forward; the bus behind us was too late and, aware of the policemen, remained there, having to wait for the next light.  Joy in the station-wagon, a minor triumph, a good start to the day…

 

Past Paisley Road Toll, and heading towards Glasgow Green and Bridgeton Cross,  We commented on the queues at the bus-stops, having noticed the Corporation busses driving past, full to the gunnels with dozens standing.  We came to a railway bridge, dark under its sooty roof.  The driver had a generous thought:  “Do we have room for any merr?  Can we squeeze them in?”  He braked some yards past a bus–stop, leaned on his horn, and opened the doors.  A minute later with four more passengers added, we were off – with no more stops planned – in the direction of Celtic Park and emerging from the gloom of the railway bridge. 

 

Introductions were being made in the back of the station-wagon; three more Celtic supporters who had been standing at the bus-stop for almost an hour … and they were grateful.

 

Things were a bit different in the front, and I had a perfect view.  Between the two Sean Fallon look-alikes sat a small man, a bit bigger than a jockey, dressed reasonably neatly in a brown suit, and a matching bunnet … a man about 40, happy to be given a lift … until he had a closer look at his two companions in the front seat.  He glanced to his left and saw Patrick in profile, a man with a map-of-Ireland face,  and an Irish tricolour badge in his lapel; he took another look to his right, and saw the same face, but with a Sacred Heart badge in his lapel … 

 

A shade too late, he tried to cover up his red-white-and-blue scarf under his jacket.

 

I’m sure I heard him moan or groan.  We had only gone about four hundred yards from the bridge.  Adam’s apple prominent, he managed to utter a few words: “If it’s O.K. , I can get out here, an’ walk the rest.”

 

The driver growled in reply: “You won’t be walkin’ anywhere.”  His brother (Seamus) nodded in agreement. 

 

Another groan, just audible, from the wee man, now recognized by all of us as a Rangers’ supporter, a Hun.  He mopped his brow, raised his hand to his mouth, put his hand inside, took out his false teeth, and slipped them into his pocket – all of which was noted.

 

Patrick, ever the gentleman, started the conversation:  “Did you see the first match at Ibrox?”

 

“Aye.’

 

“Yur defence was awful shaky.” 

 

“Aye.”

 

Seamus took up the challenge of conversation: “We let you back in the gemme the second hauf.  You could have got something out of the match.  We were a wee bit jammy.”

 

A longish pause, and the answer came back in a rush:  “Naw, naw.  You were all over us; you should have won by mair than two.  Definitely. You outplayed us.”

 

A thoughtful silence descended in the front seat, as the brothers digested this diplomatic exchange; the five of us in the back brooded on it … the silence continued right up the London Road, until we reached Boden Street and somehow found a place to park.

 

Tommy was busy in the back of the wagon:  “Something for the driver, boys.  How about 50p each?”  and with a nod in the direction of the toothless one, “And maybe a pound from you?”  Agreement all round was swift, but there was one more question to be asked:  “Efter the gemme, Jimmy, dae you want a lift back?”

 

The offer was declined but with thanks, and the brothers, watching ‘Jimmy’ scuttle away and joining the hordes on London Road, pondered the situation. 

 

Patrick broke the silence:  “Funny wee man!  Why the hell did he take his teeth out?”

 

 

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Dziekanowski's nightclub child
7 years ago

Can we get this as a spoken book as I have my eyes shut as instructed! 🙂

pappnase01
7 years ago

Great story, maybe he took his teeth out to enable him to look like a real hun, as far as I know none of them have any teeth.

John McCloy in tasmania
7 years ago

Hi tom another great tale.i well remember the quo vadis.pub.i got unceremoniously chucked out not long after it opened for spreading my dinner all over the brand new carpet.i only had six pints of lager so I don’t know what their problem was.i was heading for the toilet for I could feel my mouth filling with saliva as it does when you are going to chunder but I didn’t make it.they propped me up against the window and left me to my own devices.i woke up on the edge of the pavement some time later.i,d fallen over and rolled a bit banging my head in the process ending up with a large egg on my forehead.then I had to stagger home to pollok. happy days eh.HH

Katanes
7 years ago

Crackin story…… I was two weeks old when this happened, having been born the day of the first leg….10/8/68. 🙂

Rebus67
7 years ago

Tom,

You have the gift! Your characters are so real that I can visulise them as I read.

Rebus

Devoy45
7 years ago

Tom, any chance of a book with these gems in it. It would sell tens of thousands and spark lots of memories. Glasgow has changed so much that “their like will not come again…” Many thanks pal.

John A
7 years ago

Great stuff Tom

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