Glasgow, May 1979 Mick McGee pushed open the bar door and gazed through the haze of smoke. A group of young lads were crowding around the new jukebox as if it was some magical apparatus. The dulcet tones of Debbie Harry could be heard singing ‘heart of glass’ above the hum of chatter and laughter. A voice called to him, ‘O’er here, Micky boy. Don’t staun there like a spare prick at a wedding.’ Mick eased through the busy bar and playfully slapped his long-time friend Gaz, on the shoulder. ‘Alright, Gaz. I hope you’ve got me a Wilson Picket for this gem the night. Feckin’ walked miles there, wi these buses being on strike.’ Gaz nodded, ‘I sure did Mick, I got ye a pint as well but ye took so long tae get here, I tanned it.’ ‘I’ll get them in,’ Mick replied, ‘will I get wan for Barry?’ Gaz nodded towards the door, ‘speak of the devil and he shall appear.’ Mick turned to see Barry McGowan walking towards them. He was wearing an old Celtic shirt under his zipper which he swore Kenny Dalglish had given his old man, but then Barry was known to tell the odd fib. ‘Alright lads, sorry tae keep yeez, I had to go the long way roon wi Bridgeton full of that mob the night,’ he began. ‘Are we winning this league or what?’ Barry was nothing if not an eternal optimist. Even in the dark days of winter when Scottish football was snowed off for two months and Celtic were stuck in 8th place in the league; he was still confident they’d win it. The resumption of the league in March saw Celtic cram in an astonishing number of fixtures in the last ten weeks of the season. They had found form and rose inexorably up the table. In May, they had been forced to play 8 games in 20 days and had given it their all. Now, it was all down to their last match of the season; beat Rangers and they’d be champions. ‘The way I see it,’ Gaz said, handing his mates their pints, ‘I’d have bitten yer arm aff for a shot at the title like this. We were miles behind but before the snow and whatever McNeill did during the bad weather seems tae have got them playing again.’ Mick nodded his head, ‘that lot are aw power and muscle. That only gets ye so far. Match their tackling and we’ll do them.’ Barry was as equally confident, ‘Cooper apart, and maybe Bobby Russell, they full of hammer throwers. Get the first goal and they’ll fold like a cheap suit.’ As the three friends made their way along the Gallowgate towards Celtic Park, the streams of people heading for the stadium merge into a swaying, singing river of humanity. They cut down Camlachie Street where scores of men stood urinating against the walls on either side of the pot holed road. Discarded beer cans and broken wine bottles littered the street and grass verges, and everywhere the sound of singing filled the air. The excitement, mixed with tension was palpable as they turned onto Hollywell Street and saw the stadium before them. Groups of grim-faced cops stared at the fans as they passed. Mick joined the turnstile queue and joined in the song the waiting fans were singing. ‘When we score a barrowload, up the Copeland Road, we’ll be there!’ With his friends close behind him, he squeezed through the turnstile and into an already raucous stadium. ‘Jungle or Celtic end?’ Barry asked. ‘Celtic end,’ Gaz replied. ‘The Jungle will be packed tonight and I want a good view.’ Barry grinned, ‘Celtic end it is, short arse.’ Mick led them up the concrete stairs a feeling a real excitement building in him. When he topped the stair and saw the asymmetrical bowl of Celtic Park laid out before him, he smiled. ‘I fuckin’ love this place.’ They squeezed into the packed terrace behind the goal and allowed themselves to be swept up in the raw theatre of the whole occasion. At the far end, Rangers fans congregated and their songs were met with jeers and loud chanting from the Celtic fans, as the pre-match rituals played out. ‘This is it, boys, now or never!’ Barry grinned, his face flushed with adrenalin. At that moment the teams came out of the tunnel and were greeted by an enormous roar. ‘Come on Celtic!’ Mick shouted, ‘intae this mob!’ The game started and Celtic now had 90 minutes to snatch an unlikely title or go down trying. History was beckoning. Few games of football have ever been infused with such drama, passion and plot twists as the match played between Celtic and Rangers on that May night in 1979. Celtic began in traditional style and pushed their opponents back in the opening exchanges. Rangers seemed content to sit in, bide their time and wait for the chance to hit on the break. As Mick, Barry and Gaz watched in horror, Davie Cooper raced up the right wing and swept the ball across goal where the onrushing McDonald swept it home. It was like a punch in the gut to the Celtic support, but they continued to roar Celtic on, hope still strong that the men in green could turn things around. Celtic resumed their attacking and a header from Aitken smashed the bar. Half-time arrived in what seemed an instant with the score still 1-0 to the visitors. Mick shook his head, ‘how are they winning? They’re feckin’ gash, man.’ Barry, ever the optimist shrugged, ‘these games open up in the second half, they’ve been lucky so far, but we’ll still do them.’ Shortly after the second half began, a further body blow was delivered to the watching Celtic fans. Winger John Doyle got involved with Rangers’ Alex McDonald, who was lying on the ground at the time. Doyle aimed a petulant kick at him. It wasn’t a brutal assault, more of a ‘get up, ya dick’ type of flick with the boot, but the watching linesman raised his flag. The referee showed Doyle the red card and Celtic found themselves a man down and a goal down. ‘Jesus Christ, Johnny, wit did ye dae that for?’ Mick asked no one in particular. The game restarted and Celtic, like a boxer on the ropes who knows he needs a knockout, threw themselves at the Rangers defence with almost fanatical fervour. The crowd seemed to sense it and roared them on. In 66 minutes, Roy Aitken flicked the ball to the left wing and raced into the box. Provan crossed and the big midfielder smashed the ball home. Three sides of Celtic Park erupted, the noise was deafening. Celtic were level! The three friends behind the goal jumped for joy with thousands of others. It was still on! They could still win this title. Just 8 minutes later an Aitken shot was blocked and a gleeful George McCluskey fired the ball home. Celtic were leading 2-1. Nothing would stop them now would it? As the Celtic support celebrated McCluskey’s goal, Rangers, in a rare foray up field, won a corner. It was headed clear to the edge of the box where Bobby Russell fired a hopeful low shot. To Mick’s horror the ball zipped through a forest of legs in the Celtic box and ended up in the net. Mick looked at Barry in disbelief. ‘Jammy bastards!’ Even the ever-hopeful Barry wondered if it was going to be their night. ‘There’s still ten or twelve minutes to go. They’ll give it everything.’ As they watched the minutes tick past, Celtic swept towards the Rangers defence in waves. McCloy saved an Aitken shot and an increasingly desperate defence got deeper. Then with barely 5 minutes left, the skilful McCluskey cut in from the right and hammered the ball towards goal. McCloy threw himself to his right and parried the ball wide. To his horror it struck the onrushing defender, Colin Jackson, and spun into the net! ‘Yaaasssssss!’ roared Mick behind the goal. ‘We’ve done it! We’ve fuckin’ done it!’ He hugged his friends for all he was worth. Rangers seemed to sense the game was almost up and fired high balls towards the Celtic goal. As the clock read 90 minutes, a long clearance found Murdo MacLeod in space on the Celtic right, He drove towards the Rangers goal with thousands of Celtic fans urging him to smash it into the crowd as time was almost up. Mick watched mesmerised as MacLeod strode towards the Rangers penalty box and unleashed a fierce shot. The ball flew like a stone from a slingshot and flashed into the top corner of the Rangers net. The roar that greeted that goal was one made up of pent-up emotion, utter joy and maybe a hint of relief. They had done it! Despite the odds, the set-backs, the ordering off of Johnny Doyle, Celtic had risen to the challenge time after time. It was an astonishing night of drama, passion and emotion as the ten men of Celtic showed the guts, steel and indomitable spirit of Champions. After they sang themselves hoarse and celebrated with the team after the match, the jubilant army of Celtic fans left the stadium chanting, ‘we are the champions.’ Mick, Gaz and Barry headed back to the pub to see if they could still catch a pint before they headed home. As they walked into the bar, there was a cheer from those who hadn’t been to the game but had followed it on the radio. The three friends punched the air. ‘What are we?’ Mick shouted, ‘we’re the champions!’ Barry headed for the juke box and slid in his coin, before looking at the barman. ‘Nae Celtic songs on this machine, Jimmy?’ The man shrugged and shook his head. Barry scanned the song names before making his choice. As he headed back to join Gaz and Mick, the unmistakable intro of David Bowie’s latest song filled the air. Mick handed him a pint and joined in the song, which somehow seemed to hit the right note on this night of nights ‘Heaven loves ya, the clouds part for ya! Nothing stands in your way when you’re a bhoy!’
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