The beautiful game does not get more beautiful than this.

Colin Bell the King · Nov 30, 2004

Now I might be a die hard Man City fan, but Celtic have a place in my heart as I'm descended from Irishmen who all loved Celtic. This is one of the best articles I have ever read.

Subj: [Celtic] The long road to Seville Part 1
Date: 6/6/2003 4:07:17 PM GMT Daylight Time
From: j_henderson44@hotmail.com
Reply-to: celtic@topica.com
To: celtic@topica.com
Sent from the Internet (Details)

A journey of a 1000 miles begins with the first step. The final step of
the journey may be one of sadness, then again it may
be one of happiness. One thing is for sure - from the first until the
last step it is going to be an unforgettable
experience. At the end of it all there is the possibility that Celtic
will be holding one of the most coveted
trophies they have played for in my lifetime. However before we get to
the defining moment we must start at the beginning.

In the beginning God created heaven and earth. Sometime after that man
created vehicles to travel in the heavens and on the
earth. It was therefore no surpirse to find many Celtic supporters
choosing to travel via the heavens to reach the Utopia that
would be Seville. However there was a band of merry men that gave into
the temptation that was placed before them.
They realised there was a way you could get more drink into your system
if you travelled to Seville not by the air. And so the
journey of the Govan Emerald to Seville by BUS was born. It's not that
the supporters could not get flights it's that they wanted
to have the trip of a lifetime. I myself had a flight booked from London
into Madrid for 50 quid weeks before Celtic had beaten
Boavista. I was a believer and knew we were going to arrive at the
final. However as soon as details of the road trip was revealed then
there was no competition with the route I was travelling. My wife also
fancied this but with the new baby she didn't want to leave her
alone with the grand parents for more than a day. My wife was therefore
undecided on how to travel to the game. I told her she should
travel on a chartered flight in and out and enjoy the day. She asked if
I wanted to do the same but after counting the pennies I said
we would only have enough for the one of us. "You go on the charter
flight and enjoy a wee meal and some drink and transfers to the ground"
I said. "You deserve a bit of pampering" Then I slipped in how I would
travel: "I'll go via bus - I don't mind being uncomfortable for a few
days as long as I know you have a bit of luxury". "Are you sure?" my
wife asked. "Aye positive - I don't mind slumming it" It was
therefore agreed that I would leave on the Sunday and she would fly out
on the day of the game. I know she felt a little guilty at
getting the good part of the deal but I was happy. 6 days on a bus? Ya
Fcking dancer!!! We're all off to sunny spain. VIVA ESPANIA!!

The build up began on the Friday afternoon in London. Every day I have a
wee natter with the old fella selling the Evening Standard.
We mostly talk about football and he frequently asks me what teams are
good in Scotland for his weekly coupon. He is from Cork and is
always wanting my opinion on whether Celtic would catch Rangers. On this
Friday afternoon he knew it would be my last visit for
a few weeks so there he is standing in a Sombrero. Most of his other
customers are asking if he has just returned from holiday in Spain
and as I approach I hear him saying in his unique tone "No ma dear,
unfortunately I haven't but my heart will be in Spain all this week".
She is a well heeled customer and obviously doesn't understand what he
is referring to. I do. "Well son, this is it" he says. "You'll
be bringing us back a result and a trophy" he says. At this point I
hadn't actually given much thought to whether we'd return winners.
Yes I thought about Celtic and Porto's repective players and formations.
In my head I had Porto down as favourites.
I'd thought about how it'll amazing to see so many Tims in Seville.
However I hadn't actually paused to think of the mayhem back home
if we actually brought the trophy back to Scottish shores. At this point
my heart began to rule. "Yes no doubt about it" I told him.
"Hopefully the trophy will go to the fans that have the belief" He then
probed me for a tip for his coupon. "So shall I take Celtic
2-0?" he asks. At this point my head kicks in. Now even though he is
selling newspapers he likes a good flutter. His best win of the
season was 1400 quid after the Celtic beach-ball fiesta at Ibrox. So I
know he is talking decent money. "I'd probably favour Porto on
the coupon". It's an old trick of mine the reverse psychology.
Especially when it's not my money at stake. But all he does is looks up
and says
"Believe". He wishes me well and I'm on my way. I go home, pack the bags
get the wife and wean. Just as we are pulling away we notice the
construction work down the road. There is a massive crane carrying loads
and at the top of the crane something cathes my eye. No less
than a Tricolour flurling magnificiently in the wind. This only confirms
to me that the Celtic support is everywhere and that when I
eventually reach Seville something special is going to greet me. A
shiver goes down my spine as I think of the moment approaching
on the horizon.

Soon we are heading up the M1. Even though we are going in the opposite
direction we notice many other cars with Celtic supporters
preparing for their pilgrimage. The service stations show a few
sightings of the hoops as Celtic supporters make their way to either
Manchester or Birmingham airports. This is only Friday and the migration
has started. Later that night we eventually hit Glasgow.
The roads are surprisingly quiet. Almost like the calm before the storm.
I get to my bed late that night and sleep like a log. The
next night is not as relaxing. I'd spent all Saturday with the wife and
baby as I wouldn't see my daughter for almost a week. That night
I just could not sleep a wink. I was like a child who was waiting for
Santa and his sleigh, elves and reindeers to come for the first time.
I'd been told all year about his visit on Christmas Eve. I knew it was
coming but still couldn't control myself. Back then I
repeatedly told myself I had to go to sleep or Santa would not come.
Well now nearly 25 years later I was the same.
I had been regaled for years with stories of Lisbon 67. Now it was my
turn. I could not sleep for thinking about it. What will it be
like when Celtic run onto the park? How will I feel when Celtic form the
huddle in a European final. I was getting myself too excited.
Luckily my daughter decided to take advantage of me twitching like a
rabbits nose and decided she wanted fed. We went down the stairs
and I watched the Boavista game once again. She finished her bottle and
fell asleep and I returned to my bed also. As I put my daughter
into her cot I looked over at the table. There sat something that came
only a wee bit behind my wife and daughter in terms of importance.
The tickets to the biggest show on Earth. For the 205th time I made sure
they were ok. I kissed them, sorry I kissed my daughter and climbed
into bed. I don't know when but I fell asleep at some point. When I next
opened my eyes the journey to Seville would begin.

Everything in the car had been packed the night before and now it was
time to drive to Glasgow. Before leaving we weaved through
the streets of our town in Ayrshire. I was sitting with my sunglasses
and sombrero and was not hard to notice as the huns in the town
got ready to make their own journey that Sunday afternoon. They were
possibly going to win the league yet the look of utter dejection
as I passed by told me where they would prefer to be. Edinburgh and
Gorgie road - or Seville and the Stadio Olimpico? Need I go on.
We hit Glasgow and unload the car. The pub is already packed with people
arriving to see the bus off. There is still 3 hours to go and
during this time I decide to drive to Celtic Park for the new top. The
queues are all the way from the super store until the front door
of the stadium. I have no chance. Then I remember my moment with a fan
in Stuttgart. He approached me and asked for my top after the game.
I explained that I had worn it to every game so far in Europe and that I
now saw it as a lucky charm. He looked a bit down until I asked
for his address. I told him that I will wear it until we get to Seville.
I owe it to him to keep the lucky charm going to the final. I
get back to Govan and see that the pub is now full and spilling onto the
streets. Mothers, fathers, grandparents, children, and grandchildren
have filled the streets to see off their loved ones before the bus
leaves. This is a very special moment. I say goodbye to my wife and that
I'll see her in a few days by the Cathedral in Seville. I hold my
daughter as well. She is unaware of all the commotion - all she sees
are people laughing and smiling and she is giggling back not
understanding the significance of the day. One day in the future she'll
sit down on a winters night and hear the stories. But first that story
needs to happen. I hand her back to my wife and someone
comments that a similar scenario might be Lambert handing a trophy over
to Larsson. I point out that my daughter is probably
heavier than the UEFA Cup after all the milk she had the night before.
My wife gives me a kiss for luck and then I'm on the bus. This is it.

2400 Miles from Seville.

Now as you will know I have provided details of this supporters bus from
way back in the Barnes season. However as soon as
we reached the UEFA Cup Final the media wanted a slice of the action.
They wanted to experience the madness and chaos of the
Govan Emerald. Tony decided that the best place for them would be down
the stairs with what he thought were the more "sensible
members" of the bus. The journalist, Ewan Smith, and photographer, Kenny
were positioned at one table beside Tony and Spanish Joe
(more about him later). At the other table was myself and John Cadbury
with the famous Spenny and Chris, alias Young Guns,
sitting opposite us. Wait a minute Spenny and Young Guns beside the
journos? Dear oh fcking dear. As regular readers will know
Spenny and Young Guns have been mentioned quite a few times previously
over the years. However for the benefit of those who
don't know them I'll give you a few words on their backgrounds. Back in
Lyon Spenny awoke from a vodka session to be met by the
French Gendarme. "Fck sake it's the orange walk" he proclaimed on seeing
their tight jophurs and funny uniforms. Anyone
who knows Spenny from the Brazen will know his catch phrase is "I chased
the orange walk up Cumberland St" relating to an infamous
incident in the Gorbals a few years back. He also has a very famous song
"When I was just a little lad my mummy said to me...."
Unfortunately I can't print the rest of the song. Now while Tam
O'Shanter had a trusted crony in Souter Johnny,
Spenny had a sidekick in Young Guns. And what a lethal combination the
two of them can be. Forget mixing drink and drugs
for an explosive concoction - Spenny and Young Guns are the two halves
of a split atom. Trust me to have the pleasure of sitting
across from them.

The bus pulls off and the streets are full of cheering people. Imagine
the welcome if we win. I shiver briefly. Soon Spenny
is offering something to warm me up. "France first lad - and they'll not
have seen an invasion like this since the War" "Therefore
you'll need a VC" Not Victoria Cross but a real VC. However Spenny VC's
do not contain much coke. He tells me the coke dash is not
for taste but more a colouring in the vodka. As we leave the hun game
kicks off. There is only a little interest in their game and
when it is heard they are 1-0 up then all interest is lost. This is the
last time Rangers are mentioned on the trip.

We make the first stop of the trip - Birmingham and the Dubliner. The
bus is going radio rental and I can only imagine the
noise when we hit Seville in a few days time. As we move through the
streets of Birmingham the locals are pointing at the bus
and waving. It's as if England actually want us to win this trophy as
well. Surely Celtic cannot be having such an effect. The
bus cannot find a parking space so we disembark outside the pub. We are
surprised to find we are not the first
supporters to arrive. Inside are a dozen or so Tims travelling to
Seville on a National Express bus. You know the type of bus
where you are allowed no drink and has no stop overs. And some people
said we were crazy to go on our bus. Inside it is
a massive carnival. Sombreros are skimming across the room and people
are dancing on the stage. Surely we can't keep this
up all the way to Seville? Surely there'll be a few casualties. The stop
was only for an hour but somehow people prefer to
pay more for a pint at a bar than a whole crate of beer on the bus. As
you can imagine everyone is full of the drink. Spenny
and his crony Young guns have had a few too many vodkas. As Tony gets
the rest onto the bus I tell him I'll do a sweep of the pub
and get the stragglers. There are only too stragglers - Spenny and
Chris. I do Spenny the pleasure of letting him by me a drink:
"Son can a get you a vodka - please son". I quickly finish it though not
as quickly as Spenny and Chris. Then I wedge myself
between them and make for the door like Dorothy and the Lion and
Scarecrow on either side of her on her way to Kansas
city in the Wizard of Oz. While she was off to the Emerald City we are
off to the Orange City. "We're all off to Sunny Spain
ohhh VIVA..." FOR FCK SAKE WHAT THE FCKING HELL - I've now opened the
pub door and I'm quickly sobered up. NO FCKING BUS.
Instead of a stubbled shabby look Spenny now appears like someone
modelling Gillette razor products. He is alert
and sharp. Likewise Chris is like a rat on speed as the stituation hits
them. The bus is away and we are still here. Not even
off English soil and already the bus is three men down. We stand around
blaming each other for a few minutes. "That's your fault
Spenny - all because you are the uncle of John Spencer!!" I tell him.
I'm not going to let him off easily and he'll soon find out.
Just as I am frantically dialling a few numbers I suddenly believe in
destiny as the bus appears over the hill. Like the calvary
in the Wild West I can almost here a bugle heralding their arrival. The
bus parks the other side of the road and is rocking
from side to side as they sing songs about the daft bstards left in the
pub. However that is the least of my worries as I somehow
have to lift Spenny over the railings in the centre of the road. Think
of carrying about 20 bottles of vodka. Now think about pouring
those into a paddling pool and trying to lift a paddling pool up a
flight of stairs. This was my task and I had choosen to accept it.
Somehow I managed to do it and as we get back on the bus. Tony asks the
fck could we miss it. I tell him I was doing my good Samaritan
and look over at John Cadbury. There are three empty seats at his table.
"How the fck did you not say someone was missing?" I accuse him.
He is shocked I could blame him. "Wait a minute it was me that noticed
you 3 were missing" he responds. Only thing is that it
took him 5 minutes to notice.

Back on the bus and safely on the way to Dover. After the pub stop the
toilet is blocked and needs emptying. For the bus drivers one has
to press the release mechanism while the other has to watch his wing
mirrors to make sure no traffic is behind the bus. "Are you
ready?" shouts the driver emptying the toilet. "Aye..wait a minute".
However just as he is telling his colleague to wait the button has
already been released. Unknown to him a car had pulled into the inside
lane beside the bus. Whooosh as the lavvie was emptied the contents
bounced up off the ground and into the on coming vehicle. A few seconds
later I see a car a nice shade of brown pulling up beside the bus.
The middle aged driver isn't too happy as he waves his fists in the air.
A few lads are laughing at him and singing the old song from the
wilderness years "always look on the bright side of life" I suppose it
could have been worse - the bus could have been returning from
Seville rather than just going. A few hours later and the bus arrives at
Dover and we board the boat. The vodka has been finised a long
time ago and the first thing we do is hit the bar. Spenny is struggling
to keep his balance and moves from side to side. The sea
isn't doing any favours for him at all. God only knows what will happen
when the ferry actually leaves the dock and hits the open
sea. People split up and form their own groups all over the boat.

While I am sitting enjoying a few drinks with some of the older guys and
listening to tales of Lisbon one of the Young Team
approach laughing like a hyena on gas. Something has gone down and it's
not long until the details are revealed. Now it's
no secret the Young Team can't really handle their drink and instead
prefer a few smokes with Puff the Magic Dragon. Well it turns
out they had all raced up to the top deck as someone mentioned there was
bad fog. I think some of them thought this meant that
there was a hash party on the top deck. Unfortunately it was real fog.
Anyway while up there one of them could not resist some
mischief making. Hughsie, is known as THE LEGEND amongst the young team.
Quite how he got this name I do not know. He is weak, frail
and generally moves like some old codger you would find in a retirement
home. Whether this is the hash is anyones guess however Hughsie
is only in his early 20s so he still has the mind of a kid. And then it
all happened. There is a real older man standing on the top deck.
He is looking over the railings at the waves and does not hear the
skeletor character of Hughsie approaching. "Have you ever seen Jackass?"
Hughsie enquires to the old man. For any of you unfamiliar with Jackass
it is a TV programm were young 20 somethings do a series of stupid
stunts - be it riding down a flight of 40 stairs in shopping trolley, or
go swimming with baby alligators. Hughsie was about to
audition for it. "Jackass?" he enquired again. "Non monsieur" replies
the older man. Before the last of his french words are out his mouth
Hughsie has moved down and grabbed the older mans legs. He is now
pretending to throw him overboard. Now at this the old man gets the
fright of his life as the smell of garlic suddenly fills the air as his
breeks turn brown. He honestly thought he was going over - like the
rest of the onlookers. Rather worrying is that if he did go over Hughsie
is the type of character who would then go downstairs, light a joint,
and go for a sleep. Not a word would be mentioned. Fortunately the old
man is alert and allied with the weakness of hughsie the incident
is soon over. Or so Hughsie thinks. Just as Hughsie is releasing him the
old man gives him two deserving rapids to the chin. Watching one
old weak man hitting a young weak fragile man is enough to have anyone
in a fit of laughter. The old man is congratulated by the
rest of the Young Team and Hughsie is left to nurse his injuries. We are
rather lucky that Hughsie has some protection in the form of
his clothing. Yes off to Seville and Hughsie has a big Berghaus jacket
complete with lining. Sort of gear you would wear to climb Everest.
I think this came about when one of the Young Team said "Hughsie -
Celtic are going to scale new heights this season". But bearing in
mind his skeletor body maybe his faither came in from work and put his
work jaiket on Hughsie thinking it was a stand. Nonetheless
he was quite shaken over the confrontation with the Old French Rocky and
retreated for a sleep in the corner.

The rest of us start singing a few classic Celtic songs. Not the group
mentality songs but individual ones where you listen to the person
singing them and reflect on the words. I hear a few songs from those who
went to Lisbon I'd never heard in my life. Hopefully they
don't become lost with age and are passed on to the younger generations.
The mood is calm as we board the bus. The bus rolls off the boat
and we are now in our third country of the epic journey to Seville.
France is going to be Fantastic is the feeling!

Monday - Bhoys in Bordeaux
Click to expand...