Celtic 3 Kilmarnock 0
26th May 2001
match report

Hail Hail Gang

“We’re on the road again, we’re on the road to Paradise”. The song endlessly echoed inside my head as our bus hovered above the surface of the M74 on its way to the national stadium. The song’s “Paradise” that neared was obviously not the Parkhead temple itself but rather a paradise that can be entered wherever eleven of our Celtic gladiators congregate and perform in front of their fanatic worshippers. I was all the more eager to reach this nirvana after being exiled in Tenerife recently and having to make do with an Irish bar’s satellite television as my own means of devotion. The bus snaked its way through junctions and crossroads as the feeling of excited anticipation rose. Today was the first opportunity for a trophy to be lifted in the O’Neill era. The excitement was slightly tempered by the intervention of the club’s resident ‘water-tank anorak’ Mr Peter Connelly, who had spotted yet another of his installations at the side of the road. For those individuals not accustomed to the delights of travelling with the Carluke supporters bus, there is sadly not a single ground in Scotland that can be reached, without the opportunity for Mr Connelly to proudly direct our attention to yet another water-tank that he, as quote unquote “senior water tank installation engineer” has installed for a company. Most passengers take these opportunities as an ideal time to catch up on some sleep on the way to a game.

On being ejected from the bus we immediately joined in a game of Scottish football cat-and-mouse. Upwards of 2 players can play this game and it involves collecting a carry-out from an off-licence and then attempting to find a hideout to consume the contents before being approached by Strathclyde’s finest. The role of the police in this game is to enforce the outside drinking ban and make supporters pour away their nectar, while the supporters try to predict the police arrival and nonchalantly walk away from the dropped bottles. It’s an enthralling game played throughout the country and on finding an isolated haulage container, we were sure we had cracked today’s encounter. Unfortunately, other supporters had witnessed our success and pretty soon our quiet, secluded spot resembled a teaming nightclub. A resident of a nearby tenement then participated in the game by promptly phoning the constabulary, much to the chagrin of our David Mooney who was adamant the resident was breaking the rules of the game. And so we headed for the ground. Painted faces, jester hats, huge flags and banners all signalled the status of today’s game as a cup final. The sun broke through the clouds and warmed the chilled streets below. A fan made his way along the crowded road with a fake Henrik Larsson type tongue hanging past his chin. “Have you got that foot and mouth disease?” enquired the passenger of a passing car.

I took my seat in the much derided, and deservedly so, national stadium. The usual nonsense of cheerleaders, sponsor banners, pop music and inflatable men were all on show as the tacky fingerprints of football’s money men were pawed all around the ground, smudging the genuine stamp of true supporters. Fans’ singing and counter-singing was almost muffled by blaring rock music as the stadium headed towards an atmosphere more akin to an American football match. Thankfully the madness subsided as the two sets of players headed out, to allow the true madness of a football match to take over. Both Chris Sutton and Bobby Petta had been included in the starting eleven, a sign that O’Neill would gamble their inclusion before international matches would allow further rest. However as the starting whistle was blown, it was obvious that Bobby Williamson and Co. were intent on Petta resuming his rest a lot earlier than planned. Already missing the wide men of Agathe and Thompson, Kilmarnock quickly ensured the withdrawal of Petta as well. Three wild challenges were put in on Petta, before the ref’s whistle had fallen back around his neck. As predicted by Kilmarnock, all of these assaults passed unpunished by referee Hugh Dallas in the opening minutes and pretty soon the stretcher arrived as the only protector of our player. This disgustingly cynical plan made for the rather lacklustre play of the first period as Celtic’s width was compromised and direct attacks through the middle were called for.

Stephen Crainey was put on in place of Petta and did well throughout the game, although never being an obvious replacement for a winger’s method and purpose. Replacing the previously sadly injured Petrov was Colin Healy who performed rather well, not only replacing the tackling tenacity of Petrov but also attempting to replace the width on the right of the cup-tied Agathe. Healy combined with Moravcik on several occasions and put in a few decent crosses, although sometimes followed by some very poor crosses that were easily picked up by Marshall. His predecessor Petrov was warmly hailed throughout this match by the fans and hopefully this adoration will aid the young Bulgarian’s recovery. As already said this first half was pretty much a non-event. Several things conspired to cause this, over and above the already described scything of our winger. Firstly there was the combination of Kilmarnock’s continuing assaults on our players, together with the almost blinkered allowances of the referee. The challenges eventually got so bad that even the infuriating Dallas had to call a halt and booked four Killie players. Secondly, was the continually exasperating decisions being given against Sutton. Attack after attack was formed and would be pushed towards our holding striker, who would then go through the motions of being literally mauled by a Kilmarnock defender before incredibly being labelled the culprit rather than the victim. Lastly, taking on some self-criticism of our team’s actions, our midfield was simply not performing. Taking into account the officials-aided assaults, our midfield was still not taking on its own responsibilities. Too many tackles were won by Killie, too many second balls were picked up by the opposition, and too many times were Ayrshire players allowed freedom to roam into attack. Thankfully for all their superiority in midfield, Kilmarnock did not make this count and had barely a single shot on goal. I vaguely remember once where Gould had to gently pick up a long, slow shot from midfield. It was not only the ineptitude of Kilmarnock’s imagination in attack but also the solid brilliance of our back line who more than made up for any midfield short-comings. Mjalleby would coolly take the ball, round an attacker and then send our team forward; Vega endlessly jumped and headed clear almost every single cross; and Valgaeran neatly cleared any probing ball with sheer simplicity. All this enabled Gould to have a very easy day at the office.

Moravcik was fairly ineffectual, except from a few combinations with Healy. This lack of threat only complemented the seeming absence of his midfield compatriots Lambert and Lennon. Up front Sutton and Larsson combined with cute flicks, holds, one-twos and chips and tormented the Killie defence, albeit to a lesser extent than normal. If anyone thought that today would be a quiet Larsson day, they would soon be put right in the second half. Three minutes after the break a corner was sent into the box. The entire north stand rose in front of me and hid the identity of our player that headed the ball back into the danger area. I quickly adjusted myself to peer through the throng and was awarded by the sight of our Swedish sensation taking the first of his hat-trick. Like a deadly cobra, Henrik slid into some free space. He then coiled and spun 180 degrees, lashing the ball on the volley with venom, smashing it into the net, before darting out of the area and thrusting his tongue past his fangs into the air.  

More attempts followed as Celtic grew in strength and confidence. Lambert and Lennon were back to their usual, commanding balls and zones and the middle of the park. Moravcik also grew to his normal stature and played the most delightful pass for Celtic and Larsson’s second. From the left side of the pitch, the Slav floated in a pass that hung tantalisingly over the heads of the back pedalling Killie defence and then dropped just in front of the on running Swede on the right hand side. Aiming for the far left corner, Henrik’s smash was deflected by a diving leg, which turned the ball high over the arms of the despairing keeper. Number two. This goal had been scored when Celtic had only ten men on the pitch, one being removed by ref Dallas who wrote another chapter in his torrid love affair with the Celtic support. After being the perennial victim of the entire game, Chris Sutton lunged into a 50/50 challenge with the similarly lunging Gary Holt. With the two players colliding, Dallas strolled in and incredulously held a red card to Sutton. A mixture of outrage and disbelief numbed many fans into inaction, before gathering themselves to both barrack the ref and applaud the departing striker. “Nae wonder the Tallys wanted to mug you Dallas!” roared a nearby fan, in reference to Hugh’s recent exploits in endearing himself to AC Milan.

If Larsson had been aided in his second, he took the third cleanly and all by himself. From the half way line he glided past 3 Kilmarnock players and went on a lung-bursting run towards goal. With defenders in hot pursuit, the keeper advanced and extended himself. Henrik rolled his right foot over the top of the ball and gently caressed it into the path of his left, which he used to stroke it caringly into the net. Game over. His tongue was replaced in his mouth and both teams played out the end of the game knowing that barring the whistle, it was all over. O’Neill’s charges erupted with delight when the whistle came and celebrated the first rewards for their season’s efforts. Kilmarnock collected their runners-up medals and disappeared. Their fans, who had laughably demanded half of the stadium’s tickets then pathetically failed to even fill their reduced quota, also vanished quicker than a dot com company. The officials collected their bounty to hails of derision and also disappeared, leaving the house free for a Celtic party. After cup and medals were raised and collected, the victorious heroes made their way onto the pitch. The breaking sun glinted off the silver trophy, scarves rained down upon the players, then all remaining scarves were held aloft to the deafening anthem of “Walk on” in tribute of the circling heroes.

We exited the stadium and made our way along the busy streets passed thousands of smiling faces. Amidst a line of a hundred buses one coach stood out, not only for its bright purple colour but because its occupants had the entire vehicle bouncing on its suspension by singing and dancing within. Our own chariot was in full swing on my return and I spotted amidst the celebrations, at the rear of the bus directing the festivities, one of the club’s legends: Mr Willie McLean. It has been widely reported that Oor Wullie has had a statue erected in his honour by the monks of Buckfast Abbey, in recognition of his substantial investment in the monks’ delicate tonic wine. This author’s own brother David has established close ties with this nefarious character and indeed his own drinking habits are now such that he has been hailed as the “next big Willy”. In his defence, David’s drinking habits appear to be the lasting effects of his famous on-air Radio Clyde debate with the alleged journalist Hugh Keevins – a heated encounter that to this day is re-enacted and discussed over campfires and at supporters clubs’ functions. Not far from Mr McLean, sat yet another of the club’s fabled protagonists: Johnny Mackay. Fluent in several tales and songs of Scots-Irish revolutions and diaspora, a stranger’s lasting impression of our esteemed historian Mr Mackay, would be his eternal wearing of his black leather jacket. Some have suggested that the jacket’s zip has been spot-welded to prevent it from ever being removed. The myth goes that if the jacket should ever be removed, it would release powers and mysteries not seen since the opening of Pandora’s box. More haggard readers will know that I have described several of the club’s legends in many previous reports. Characters such as the Dunn’s, the Creaney’s and the McKeever’s of this world. An entire encyclopaedia could in fact be created to catalogue our club’s members but for this report I shall make space for only one more individual.

While the raucous hymns were being lifted into the air at the back of the bus – air that bore a striking similarity to an Amsterdam coffee shop – onto the front of the bus swaggered the endomorphic frame of one Jim McGraw. Like a tsunami bearing down on an isolated island, Mad McGraw took his seat that had been respectfully left empty by other passengers, in the same way that a wise traveller would leave a grizzly bear’s cave untouched. No sooner had his ample frame assumed its position, than he erupted into his customary criticism of players and events. This Hamilton town bhoy has a deep and personal grudge against one Bobby Petta, who he endlessly lambastes - even when Petta isn’t playing. The mere mention of Petta’s name sends him into a myocardial diatribe that raises every vein on his ageing head. Psychiatrists that have analysed his antics have actually coined the phrase “heez goat his Hamilton heid oan again”, when referring to a disturbed patient that is running amok. 

Mr McGraw loudly moaned into the night and we were on the road again. Messrs McLean and Mackay waxed lyrically about agrarian revolutions and insurrections and we were on the road again. Songs were sung, conversations started and we were on the road again. Passing buses and fellow comrades were waved at, as we were on the road again. A trophy had been collected and further steps to a treble had been taken and we were on the road again, on the road to Paradise………

Yours in Celtic,
Ricky Swan
carlukeshamrock.com

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