Dundee Utd 0-4 Celtic (26th December 2000)

Match report by Ricky Swan

Hail Hail Gang

The combination of the words “confident” and “celtic supporters” has always been something of a literary misnomer that your English teacher would advise could not be included in the same sentence. The time may have come for some teachers to return to class themselves. Not too long ago, we had travelled to Dens Park to witness the rebirth of a team as true title challengers. We were now a few hundred yards down the road at Tannadice and we were witnessing the rebirth of an entire club. Its leaders, its staff, its team and its fans. Belief and optimism were being handed out like cheap Christmas cracker contents. As hosts, Dundee United could only stand at the window like Victorian paupers and enviously stare in at the Yuletide feast being devoured.

The day had started ominously for the Carluke Shamrock supporters club. Although kick-off was at 3pm and the game was only being played in Dundee, arrangements were made to meet in The Crown Inn for 9am. “Ach, it’s boxing day” and “it’s the last away game before the break” were offered as flimsy excuses as supporters escaped family functions to reunite with the emerald brotherhood. Pints of Guinness were passed over plates of sausages and toast, bud bottles clinked against cutlery as Christmas Day festivities were relived. Early morning carry-outs were purchased from shocked shop assistants and the bus lurched on its way north. The party omnibus crashed its way through town after quiet, snowy town. Tapes blaring, voices singing, drink swallowed. We stopped at a few hostelries, which we raged at for having the audacity to be closed on this early Boxing Day morning. After some clenched fists and cursing, we eventually came upon an unsuspecting pub which was foolish enough to be open for business. There were already a few revellers starting to struggle by this point. A sign announcing happy-hour heralded a mad rush of purchases from the bar. Two poor gentlemen sat on their bar seats in quiet disbelief as the entire pub was commandeered. Televisions were investigated until Sky Sports burst into life; toilet cubicles were camped out in; crisp packets were thrown around like snow flakes; tables and chairs were all rearranged to accommodate the visitors; dominoes and cards were obtained from the bar to set up small gambling cartels. Meanwhile, two elderly women were run ragged behind the bar, fearing to step out to collect glasses, in case the visitor named ‘Dunn’ would accost them again. By this point, his glazed, roving eyes had convinced him that these two grandmothers closely resembled Catherine Zeta Jones. A few rums later and the voracious Casanova was rendered unconscious, enabling the ladies to appear and quickly collect the empties before the beast awoke from his slumber.

Two of the club’s erstwhile elite had left earlier for the comfort of United’s hospitality suite. Coming across Tommy Burns at their table, they then took the foolish step of contacting their less well off comrades back in the pub. An inebriated Mr Creaney answered his mobile phone and proceeded to lambast our ex-player and ex-manager with screams of ‘Wassup!!!!’ before hanging up and heading for the bar again. One can only imagine the quizzical expression on Mr Burns’ face after his brief Carluke encounter. More rounds, more crisps, we eventually left the establishment to recover from its invasion. Some members by this point being carried to the bus, never to see the game itself.

Resembling a botched attempt by Leggo and Strathclyde Passenger Transport, to combine a mixture of bus shelters into a stadium, Tannadice greeted us to our cold, plastic seats behind the goal. The game kicked off with the sun trying to burn through the layers of freezing air, like the Celtic attack trying to burn through the tangerine defence. The traditional O’Neill out-of-the-gates start saw the rejoined Sutton and Larsson tearing at the opposing goal. Petta and Agathe tore at the wings, while Petrov and Lennon chipped away from the middle. Missed opportunities, good saves and some Hugh Dallas mind-boggling interventions all denied the tic their wanted goal – but not for long. A few sparse offerings from United were easily mopped up by the now towering Rab Douglas, who thankfully seems to have worked through his disappointing, adjustment spell to again become the keeper we all knew he was. Countless times he picked up cross balls with majestic ease. And talking of countless, it was soon yet another goal for that man Larsson. Up-ended in the box with a silly tackle from behind, the Swede stood back up and slid the ball under the keeper to open the scoring.

The game then moved into the now usual frame of a rampant Celtic only delaying their next goal, until they decide just how they would like it to be constructed. Lennon and Petrov were the solid backs of many moves. The young Bulgarian who has steadily blossomed since his arrival, has now formed himself as something of a stalwart in these last few weeks. Overdue praise of his name was sung several times during the game until his substitution near the end, which was made purely to allow him to enjoy a triumphal exit. The team was now charging as one unit. Every player fighting for his comrade, every man covering the back of his tackling team-mate, every runner making an option for the man on the ball. The green tide swept United away and before they knew it, the storm had passed and they were three goals down. Chris Sutton, who is now starting to mirror Larsson by struggling to play to his potential and yet failing to not score, grabbed a double. His first was a side-foot stroke inside the 6-yard box surrounded by United defenders, from a sweet pass from Petta who had glided past men into the box. This author is still thoroughly convinced that Petta is not the man for the job when the chips are down but his basic talents should be acknowledged in these less stressful encounters. Agathe also offered many roads to the Celtic attack from his side of the field. When Sutton took his second and Celtic’s third, he was in the air. He easily rose above his marker in the box and very skilfully headed the ball down into the very edge of the bottom right corner, inches past the hand of the diving Combes.

With three goals before the break, the game was pretty much all over, bar the horrendous hacking antics of Mr Charles Miller. The hateful ex-Rangers man chopped away at the legs of every hooped man that passed him. He was generously allowed to continue by Dallas, until a tackle on McNamara meant that even he couldn’t turn a blind eye any longer and produced a yellow card. Credit to Jackie, after the scything challenge he quickly brushed himself down and ran past the criminal Miller without a word, back to his position in the middle of the park to await the next Celtic onslaught. The second period started with what this author has now spotted as another pattern of an O’Neill team. While he uses his cohorts to mount a merciless challenge from the start of the first half, he appears to use the start of the second period  as a time for holding back the opposition. He seems to instruct the team to defend in numbers, soak up the pressure of the losing, angry opposition, and then to begin counter-attacks and then full attacks from then on. This tactic appears to frustrate, rattle, annoy and then fully depress the enemy before coldly putting them to the death with some final goals. The goal of death in this game came from Stan the man Petrov, who cheekily stroked the in-swung cross right into the side of the goal, while the rest of the box all waited for the cross to continue on its path.

This fourth goal suffocated the deathbed gasps of United who meekly gave in to the inevitable. With the regulation 90mins requiring the game to continue, the Celtic support turned their attention to the home fans who sat in abject silence. The whole stand rose to mockingly swing arms in the air and take on the persona of World War 2 singers. “We’ll meet again” sweetly sang the crowd as United fans turned to gaze at the noise; “don’t know where, don’t know when” – the tangerine army looked on quizzically; “but I know we’ll meet again some sunny day” – finally the penny dropped and anger exploded as they rose to the taunts of imminent relegation. Ah, the cruelty of a merciless, witty visiting support. This goading farewell was sung several times as minds switched from the game, to the fans, to the game, to the pie stall, to the game. And then, with about 10 minutes left, it happened.

To the tune of “with a four leaf clover on my breast”, a small band of hooped carol singers began to sing Martin O’Neill’s name over and over and over again. This tiny flame of praise soon ignited and swept across the entire stand. Fiery tongues of adulation roared and crackled as supporter after supporter stood to bellow their leader’s name. Try as it might, the freezing Dundee air could not dampen the now uncontrollable blaze. A tiny spark leapt across the pitch and the opposing stand was soon engulfed in the same inferno of adulation. Prompted by his fellow dugout colleagues, Mr O’Neill shyly raised an arm of acknowledgement. Instead of stifling the praise, this action only served to intensify it. The chorus got louder and louder. The home support, the stadium, even the teams on the pitch now became nothing more than bit parts to the centre stage performance of the Celtic support. O’Neill looked truly embarrassed as he was jokingly poked and prodded by his assistants as the endless chant rose in volume. He tried to focus on the game and took cover every now and then in the dugout or behind the backroom staff but the lavish praise continued unabated. It seemed as if every eye was on him and it seemed as if he was aware of it. With every Celtic supporter jumping and dancing and singing, we almost missed the final whistle being blown. The only reason we knew it had been, was because it allowed the humble O’Neill to run across the park towards the stand and applaud us. His troops followed suit before retiring to the far tunnel under the cover of the continuing chant. For a full 10 minutes this euphoric praise had been issued and it continued as we left for the exits. Inspiring, moving, joyful, exultant. All manner of dizzying emotions were felt at this match. There was also a very strange warm feeling that sat in the stomach and rose up the spine. This alien feeling was very much a new sensation. Someone suggested that it might be this new “confidence” stuff…

Yours in Celtic,
Ricky Swan
carlukeshamrock.com