Stranraer 1 Celtic 4
28th January 2001
match report

Hail Hail Gang

The winter shutdown experienced by the Scottish Premier League has handed out many presents. It gifted some injured players the time and chance to recuperate. It presented a welcome break and sunshine holiday to players who hadn’t rested because of Euro 2000. It gave managers the opportunity to chat to out of contract players. Unfortunately, it also gave Celtic supporters a horrifying preview of just how miserable and frustrating the summer break is going to be. After experiencing a new season of glory days and happy times, brought to us by Messiah O’Neill, we now found ourselves lost and shut out of Paradise. The doors were locked and the bhoys were abroad. Purchasing several newspapers at once and scouring for any tiny titbits of Celtic news; flicking Sky channels to see a glimpse of any interviews or discussions; feeling happiness tinged with jealousy as we read reports of fans who had made it to Florida, in order to keep their season completely unbroken; even breaking out old videos in an attempt to pretend that all was continuing as normal come Saturday. All of this fanatic desperation painted the predicted picture of how life will be, come the end of May – a football wilderness with no European or World championships to distract us. Buchanan Street will be humming with the muffled groans of men unwillingly dragged out shopping; DIY and wallpaper shops will see their profits boom as ladies prepare huge lists for their men to follow; thousands of sad men will pathetically walk down one side of a street and knowingly nod to other men walking by on the other, as they are dragged by the arm of their female partners like some sedated patient having their every move directed. Scarves put away, tops hung up, stadium turnstiles creaking in the wind from under use. A bleak picture indeed. A bleak picture that was instantly torn up and forgotten as a saviour with the surname of ‘Creaney’ issued six sweet words: “I’ve got you a Stranraer ticket”. No greater words could have been given at that dark moment, not by lottery firm Camelot themselves.

With meticulous planning, the Carluke troops regrouped in the Crown Inn at around 12’o’clock. With the game kicking off in Stranraer at 6, we obviously wanted to display a high level of preparation. Some outsiders have mistaken this zeal as an excuse to spend more time at the bar. The minibus arrived and the hordes squeezed inside like an array of clowns attempting to fit into a circus car. A nearby wall was used to delicately pour the contents of vodka bottles into plastic Cola bottles, with a hint of Cola added for colour and effect. Nuclear biochemists could not have shown more focus and aptitude in this process. Once we realised that there was one body more than the number of available seats in the bus, some head scratching ensued while others calmly acquired a stool from the bar and placed it on the bus floor. I’m not sure how the explanations would have went, if we had been questioned by any police officers but somehow it all seemed to make perfect sense at the time. The door was slammed shut, CDs were inserted, bottle tops hissed open and the expedition party rolled towards the horizon. The inside of the bus took on a cramped carnival atmosphere as we jostled between urination stops heading south-west. A solid wall of travellers relieving themselves at well-positioned car park stops, was the cultural sight enjoyed by many passing tourists. Eventually, the ticking bomb that was our travelling party, was detonated in the unsuspecting town of Ballantrae. The ‘Kings Arms’ being the unfortunate epicentre.

With military precision, the shock troops entered the hostelry and spread out in different units to command and conquer. In the blink of an eye the lounge was besieged, pool tables captured and bar staff were rounded up to deliver supplies. One soldier bravely toyed with the idea of ordering from the £12.95 menu etched on the wall. However, after being unable to say “medallions of monkfish, with vermouth and mushroom sauce”, he gave up and wisely ordered “a burger an chips”. Snacks were devoured and glasses emptied, as staff were interrogated about their family profiles, particularly daughters and/or nieces. The clock struck five and we retreated to the bus. We had after all only stopped out of consideration to the weary driver and it was now time to move on. On our departure from Carluke, word had gone out that all carry-outs should be finished a couple of miles outside of Stranraer, for fear of being checked by police. Unfortunately, in our haste to comply, all stocks had been drained about 15 miles too early. The bus trundled past fields and farms and then suddenly the beautiful panorama of the sea opened up before us. The contrast with the usual landscape of high-rise flats normally enjoyed on London Road, reminded us that tonight was an away leg. A respectful calm fell over the bus, as our eyes took in the sights of the rolling seas. The majestic Ailsa Craig stepping out of the water, prompted a few guesses from the onlookers. Bass Rock, Tinto Hill and K2 were all offered as poor suggestions. Our geographical location was eventually put right and the loud madness of our party immediately returned.

The remainder of our journey involved negotiating narrow roads, the streets of a tiny town and then two solitary turnstiles into the miniscule Stair Park. You would expect these to be difficult obstacles to encounter, and yet the Stranraer authorities controlled the matter in a fashion that would make more than a few SPL clubs blush. Arrangements were made for several buses at a time to be pulled over and then escorted into town by police vehicles. Scheduled stops were then organised right outside the ground for supporters to easily depart before their buses were guided on again. Marshalled lines and friendly police then guided people to their destination and quickly through the turnstiles. I hope that the Dundee and Edinburgh clubs are taking notes! The turnstiles acted like cosmic gateways. Once on the other side, we had been transported back in time, to a place where stadiums still had the wonderful terracings, as opposed to the cold and lifeless, plastic seated stands. Two of our companions got caught up in the nostalgia and proceeded to mix bravery with foolhardiness, by stripping to the waist and dancing behind the goals. As the cold sea air swept over them, one admirer commented: “You could hang a wet duffel coat off those nipples!”. The surroundings were warmly embraced and cries of “Bring back the jungle” were shouted into the night air. The half-time sight of a huge line of fans urinating into the bushes at the back of the terracing, led you to believe that the jungle had indeed returned. Only the sight of a boy selling macaroon bars and chewing gum was missing.

With the ground packed, both teams were ushered on to the pitch. The low angled viewpoint made it difficult to watch anything over the half-way line and we spent most of the early minutes cheering on Mjalleby, Lambert and Moravcik as they warmed up in front of us. The tightness of the pitch made for a very stifled game with Celtic trying to forge their way through the hyped up Stranraer defence. A mish-mash of forgettable plays and counter plays followed, before the game was slowly grabbed by the neck by the likes of Lennon. It was Lennon who eventually initiated our first goal. From wide on the left, he swung in a free kick to the back post. Vega leapt and headed it back across goal for Valgaeran to somehow bundle the ball over the line. This was the second time that Vega had leapt in the air. The first was an incredibly theatrical jump in the air, about a week after being caught by a defender in the box. He may have expected his own supporters to blindly back his penalty claim but the extreme nature of his antics only led to a huge roar of wild laughter going up. Imaginary scoreboards were then raised in the air to jokingly mock his performance. Welcome to sarcastic Scotland, Mr Vega.

A first goal is usually welcomed as a relief but if the Celtic support got any more relaxed about this encounter, some could have slipped into comas. It was not so much an air of arrogance – God knows we still bear the scars of Caley Thistle – it was just such an away game carnival atmosphere for the fans, and Martin O’Neill was making sure that his charges didn’t display the same relaxed temperament as their followers. With Larsson teasing the back line at every turn and our huge defenders causing all sorts of panic at corner kicks, things were well under control. Stranraer would huff and puff in midfield around the heels of Lennon and co. but the only real threat was coming from their right-sided winger who was managing to hit the line at almost every time of asking. With the training ground atmosphere of the game, the supporters turned to other matters of amusement.

One of our platoon had been instructed by his son to take his flag and hang it over the advert sidings, so that he could see it on Sky Sports. He duly obliged and then contacted his son by mobile. While getting his son to check the tv screen at home, a steward approached him with the news that a local businessman was none too pleased at having his advert obscured in such a high profile match. A comical scene was now in motion, as our man ‘Ed’ grappled with the steward and flag with one hand and tried to converse with his son on the mobile in the other. When his son enquired, “Is that my flag getting lifted Dad?” and “hold on, Mum wants to talk to you”, our man with the plan quickly retrieved the flag and headed back into the throng. We are still unsure as to whether the greatest threat came from the advancing police patrol, or the involvement of our man’s better half. Whatever the answer, this was the first and last mistake made that night by the jobs-worth steward. From that moment on and for almost the entirety of the match, the entire Celtic end mercilessly taunted Mr Yellow Overcoat. If any Sky viewers were puzzled about the taunts of ‘82’, I can assure you that there was no player with such a high squad number on his jersey. This was in fact the number worn by our suffering steward friend. The praising tune of “Martin O’Neill” was quickly swapped to a chorus of “Oh 82, you’re on the broo. 82, you’re on the broo”. On and on, ad infinitum. This was one of the more polite taunts that the poor chap endured during a game that must have lasted an eternity for him. The space behind the goals was now being closely watched by police, who seemed to spend most of their time chuckling at the expense of the steward. This half-hearted confrontation and the sight of our half-naked Red Indian rain-dancers, made for quite a surreal setting. Wasn’t there supposed to be some kind of a football match on tonight? The half-time whistle turned our heads and confirmed that there was indeed a match being played. I wonder if the players were enjoying their night as much as us.

We were marginally more focused for the start of the second period and the sight of Stranraer’s winger once again making it to the line, was slightly worrying. This worry was forgotten in a few minutes, when Larsson skilfully cut a pass through the defence for the onrushing McNamara to hammer the ball into the net. Not long after, Jackie nearly got another when he ran into the box to collect a cross ball, only to be beaten by a head-bandaged Stranraer player who collected the own goal. Three up and the Celtic team started to become as relaxed as the support. The most relaxed was Alan Thompson, who was easily dispossessed outside the box, which allowed Stranraer to steal through and grab an honourable reply goal. The loss of the goal was disappointing but not unsettling. Shortly before the end, the result was sealed when Moravcik squirmed in the box and hit a shot that was caught by the keeper and then embarrassingly let through, to dribble over the line. Our departure from the ground and town was as well organised as our arrival and we were soon heading along the dark, seaside roads trying to tune in to the draw for the next round. A combination of poor equipment, the isolated location and a drunken operator, gave us a radio reception that picked up the draw, a shipping forecast and a foreign broadcast, all in one. “Scorchio scorchio……5 and a half knots westward……St.Johnstone or Dumfermline”, was the first confused announcement we received. “Voila monsieur……off the coast of Shetland……will play Celtic” was the other part of the jigsaw.

Although we had consumed more alcohol than a distillery open day, it was a long journey and more supplies were required. Two poor women stood behind the counter of a small ‘Spar’ shop and quietly discussed Coronation Street, before all hell broke loose around them. Our minibus had just managed to park before a huge coach of another club’s supporters pulled up, and both parties emptied the shop with all the panache of a Los Angeles riot. Bottles, cans, crisps, sandwiches and many other provisions were hoarded as the shop’s tills rang busier than their entire year’s business combined. Most of our bus had retaken their seats and concern started to grow as one of our party did not appear amongst the throng of departing shoppers. “He was using the microwave when I saw him last” a voice kindly offered. Then Michael appeared and the reason for his delay was immediately obvious. Carrying a meat dish, which resembled a banquet pig with an apple in its mouth, he struggled under the weight of his snack into the front of the bus. It may have been a trick of the light but I could swear he also set up a small salad bar and silver service table on the dashboard. By the time he had wiped the remains of the slaughtered animal from his cheeks, we were back in Carluke two hours later. Some brothers headed into the darkness trying to remember their way home, while a small core returned to the pub, purely for post-match analysis you understand. As a comrade and I collected some kebabs, we exclaimed our relief that such a day’s expedition was now at an end. The sight of our taxi driver explaining to some police officers that his taxi had just been stolen from outside the pub, warned us that the day’s exploits were not quite over……

Yours in Celtic,
Ricky Swan
carlukeshamrock.com

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