I read the news today oh boy. About a lucky man who made the grade, and though the news was rather sad. Well I just had to laugh. I saw the photograph. Saw, took and had legions of tims fondle my camera in the hope of capturing for me a moment I had been looking forward to for quite some time. In fact if truth be told I had thought of nothing else for the last three weeks since it was confirmed it would be happening. It was something that in all my twenty plus years supporting Glasgow Celtic Football Club I had dreamed of, no, prayed for. I was taking my father to Ibrox for a Glasgow derby. A derby Celtic had to win. The stars were aligned, the gods on our shoulders and the Huns at our mercy. What could possibly go wrong?

I’ll spare you the mundane footstep after footstep details of our trip but will try to give as vivid a picture of this monumental trip as I possibly can without boring the bejesus out of you.

The starting point would have to be the reason this trip had come about for myself and my father. Late in January I received a phone call from my sister in North Carolina suggesting a joint gift for the auld fellas sixtieth birthday which was but two weeks away. She suggested we buy him a trip to see a match. Given that he’s impossible to buy for I thought the idea was great and it was being left to me to sort it out. Needless to say I was straight away trying to find out how we could get to see Celtic as soon as possible. Then it hit me, the Huns game was only three weeks after his birthday, we were going to that, end, of, story! My mother made the ludicrous suggestion that she accompany him on the trip. That was a non runner, that was the Shergar of non runners. We were going to the home of  discrimination and as the date drew near the importance of the fixture became more evident to us both. Add into that the one off appearance (I’d like to be more optimistic on that but lets be real people) of Robbie Keane and we had ourselves a wee bit of history to remember and share. He was up for it, I was up for it and no doubt the team would be up for it.

So on the Friday evening I made my way from Dublin to West Belfast, leaving my family and picturing Keane arms opened wide soaking up the fans stood in the Broomloan Road stand. His script was written and I was picking up the Oscar for ‘Best Hunskelping In A Romance Picture.' The jitters had set themselves up base camp in the very fabric of my genetic code during the week and the closer we got to kick off the more fierce they chain-sawed at my nerve endings. Myself my mother and Mr Sixty himself enjoyed a nice meal and a few drinks on the Friday night before bedding down with thoughts of victory to entertain the sandman when he arrived.

Saturday morning and the trip was on. A champions breakfast for the travelers dished up by my mother and one last check on the passports and match tickets. The rest of our stuff was unimportant. We’d have gone round Glasgow in stolen rags with him the image of Fagan and I the Artful Dodger but we were not going to forget our tickets, no way.

We were off. Belfast City Airport was the gateway to a land of football fables we had known and followed all our lives. McStay, Johnston, Stein, McNeill, McGrain and Larsson. Names we spoke with nothing short of awe in their tone. One thing that had slipped our minds though was that this particular airport was smack bang in the heart of East Belfast. Spitting distance from the home of Glentoran FC in Dee Street, we know because we tried spitting. East Belfast, where they grow Huns like rhubarb, delicately but with a strong flavour you’ll either take to or despise. So like two unwise kings following a helicopter beam to Bethlehem to visit Frankenstein, bearing gifts of old pence and fur we waltzed into what I can only describe as a Hun fest. I mean there where Huns everywhere, not exactly crawling the walls like roaches but if the plane had have been bigger that could have easily been the case. Apart from one guy with hoops in the queue for coffee there was not one single Celtic supporter you could identify without standing up and belting out a big Hail Hail. Said guy was being watched like rabid monkey ready to pounce, Huns don’t like to think they might contract a level head and forward thinking, it scares them.

So we crammed ourselves into the rickety Ryanair 737, did our best to avoid any Huns, watched as Stranrear appeared underneath us and we began what the pilot describe as our descent into Prestwick International Airport. In truth it felt like he was trying to recreate Biggles Last Stand as he nosedived us WW2 style towards the snowy peaks of South Ayrshire and landed us roughly on the tarmac before he set off the little jingle Ryanair use to notify the passengers of a) they’ve landed on time and b) everyone on board is still alive.

Being the kind of son that is slowly turning into my father I had gone ahead and done the research on the train that was to get us from Prestwick to Glasgow. Another spanner in the works awaited us though. The train was down so the idea of boarding the furthest carriage from the ogres was scuppered and instead we boarded the complimentary bus, again we were special guests in the traveling Hun show. I’ll quickly tell you of the Hun I helped out at the train station before I move on. He’d lost his wife as she was clearly thick as champ and had walked full circle around the station platforms looking for the exit to the street. He being of equal mental ability had zero knowledge of how to exit the station either. I having the capable peripheral vision and decent education had taken note of their pickle and took pity on these match made morons as I went out of my way to go and inform her of where the bus was and where her Hun was. I’m a nice guy me. They were bigots in trouble and I’m a humanitarian.

A hop, skip and a jump later we were packing our stuff into a small wardrobe and heading out for afternoon pints and whatever football match was showing in the pub down the street. So we laid a wager in the bookies on the Man City v Chelsea match. A wager I ballsed up by taking a draw when I thought I’d taken a City win. I’m not a gambler and bookies scare me. But I digress. We clinked our pint classes at 12:45pm on a cold Glasgow afternoon and enjoyed each others company until we were oiled enough to venture down to Bairds Bar.

Ah, Bairds Bar. A stronghold of Celtic faith. A place that every Celtic supporter should visit at least once and will no doubt wake up the next day with an overpriced polo shirt, a hand full of badges he can’t remember buying and a message on his phone from someone he’s certain he’s never met. Ah, Bairds Bar. A place you’d swear opens at 7 am given the amount of truly steaming people bouncing off the walls to the sound of the rebel duo belting out the finest tunes two Falls Road bhoys like ourselves could ever wish to sing along to. This was my fathers first time in Bairds and he marveled at the decor and spotted something different every time he looked at the ceiling and walls covered in scarves, pictures and flags. We enjoyed the music as we talked football with other punters and enjoyed the endless broadcast of Celtic goals and greats on the two big flat screens, twas heaven. But when the band broke into the song I had requested for my father I was storing the memory second by second in order to play it over again in my head. ‘This is a song for Tom, this is The Ballad Of Joe McDonnell,' I and every other Tim in the bar began to well up and by the last verse we had our arms around each others shoulders and our fists pumping with a defiance we would take to Ibrox ten fold. I cried, he cried and then we all stood for Amhrán na bhFiann before it was time for us to get a few hours kip in preparation for our night time foray to the world famous Brazen Head.

So after two hours rest and with a hangover we had developed on the same day we had gotten drunk we ate some dinner and found a nice Tim to take us to the Brazen Head in The Gorbals area. I’d never been and neither had he so we were both looking forward to yet more Celtic festivities and it was not a let down. It is however not as crystal clear a memory in my mind as I’d like. My recollection is pints, a good rebel band, a good nights talking football and politics with a local couple we spent the evening drinking with. Gerry and Carol thank you for keeping us entertained and thanks for the pints, look forward to doing it again next time. Before the night was through we had our hands on the European Cup, the shining jewel in all of Celtic history. In fairness there’s no way of knowing how many European Cups are floating round Glasgow but nevertheless with enough alcohol in you and enough people in hoops around you, you are Cesar in Lisbon for a brief moment and it’s always a treat.

Sunday!! This was it, this was D-day! We ate a hearty breakfast in preparation for battle and downed a few headache tablets to reduce the chance of brain damage when the singing started. On our way to breakfast we had to endure what I’m sure is the slowest elevator in the modern world. I mean slower than a week in jail. It would not have surprised me to find two pensioners operating a pulley system at either end of this thing it was that slow. Add into that the fact we shared this elevator jail term with two massive, all in blue, tattoos on what little neck they had and Tim sniffing expert Huns. These guys knew we where tims and the silence was deafening. I was almost about to make a ‘Jesus this lift is slower than Davie Weir’ gag when the door opened and we were free.

To Ibrox we took a nice Tim friendly taxi and witnessed a coming together of more Huns than I have ever seen in my life. I’ve been on the Shankill Road and never seen this many Huns. The sheer volume of Huns was breathtaking and just served to ramp up the patriot in myself and my birth comrade. Luckily we bumped into an old friend from my days living in the good ole US of A and had a we chat about old times. Then we and everyone around us gathered round my phone as Harper texted me the team. I was the man at that point and everyone was over my shoulder. I felt like the man. That is until it became clear that Harper in all his wisdom had sent me the wrong line up. Darren O’Dea was not playing left back and in a flash my brothers dispersed. Telling all new apostles of Harpers team news ‘He’s got the wrang team.' Good man Harper. I collected my free tricolor streamers and we made our way into the belly of the beast. As I made my way out into the stand I did what I knew I would always do when I came here.......I threw up both middle fingers, flipped the bird with double barrels as if it was my contract. I conducted a few vox pops with the fans around our seats and watched as the peace loving Huns wheeled the biggest union jack I have ever seen out onto the centre circle. They really know how to season up a crowd for rioting. The teams emerged and a sonic cacophony was presented to my ears. Unreal!

I saw a film today oh boy. The English Army had just won the war. A crowd of people turned away but I just had to look. Having read the book. We’ve all read this book many times. But I won’t go on about the game because that’s what the blogs are for. But I will say that two things stick in my mind. One is the sight of Robbie Keane after being again cut down by Mad-Yin Bougherra standing with his hands on his head in total amazement of the Reveree’s decision to wave play on. Two was the two Scandinavian guys to my left, clearly not regular tims, with stunned looks on their faces at some the decisions. They knew what was going on and I’d wager my house this was their first time at an SPL game never mind a Celtic game. The vox pops were done pre match and half time but by the time the whistle went people had made swift approaches for the exits and I was in no mood to talk to anyone. I was sick, totally sick!

I really just wanted to go home. The dream was shattered, the script had been rejected without so much as a pilot episode and now we had the pain of trying to get into the city centre to be with our own and lick our wounds. We met a good friend of mine and Harpers, the one and only Barry Renwick outside and boarded a city bus. Unknown to us the bus was to take us through hunville and needless to say we got abuse from all angles through the windows. It didn’t help that Barry was wearing an illuminous green hat. This thing was so iridescent it and the Great Wall Of China could both be seen from space. A quick word on hunville though. I like Glasgow but where Ibrox is and the road from there to the City Centre was lined with the dregs of society. 

Take away the Rangers gear, union jacks and loyalist paraphernalia and this was just a holding pen for The Jerry Springer Show. Wilder than Gorilla sex!

To cut the rest of this short we hit the Tim friendly bars McGinns, The Tollbooth and Bairds again with Barry. Surprisingly Bairds threw everyone out at 7:40pm and when I asked why, the bartender told me ‘It’s been a tough day pal.' Tough day?!! I was at Ibrox mate, I'll give you tough day. It was hopeless, we had to concede defeat. So we ate, bid Barry slán mo chara and headed for an early night. The buzz of alcohol having eased the hurt like a lotion.

The next day we headed back into our travels and bared the Hun fest that was the now functional train to Prestwick before trying to relax in the airport departure lounge with a coffee while watching the traveling Hun show attempt to drink the bar dry at 12:25pm on a Monday afternoon. Says it all really. We watched Stranrear once again pass beneath us and landed like Dumbo with his ears pinned in East Belfast. Made our way to my fathers house and I collected my car. Before I left we embraced and he told  me he had really enjoyed it. That was enough for me.

As I pulled on to the M1 Dublin bound I started speaking to myself. I said ‘Joe regardless of the result, when you’re lying on your death bed and your children are making plans to put you in you’re final resting place, be that above the fire or in the ground. You’ll remember this, you’ll remember the first time you and your da ever went to the Glasgow derby together. But there will be more, there will be more.'

Hail Hail Da!!

Joe McKenna