The Celtic fans crammed into the Beach end of Aberdeen’s Pittodrie Stadium roared as Celtic cranked up the pressure on the Aberdeen defence. It had been a tight game, full of snarling challenges and no quarter given by either side. The first half had ended goalless and the Celtic fans tuned into their radios knew Hearts were ahead at Tannadice. Given they already had a five-point lead on Celtic, it was vital that the men in green claimed the points at fortress Pittodrie. A place where they had stumbled a few times in recent seasons. ‘Need a goal here, George,’ Tony said to his long-time friend, ‘if we go any further behind the league will be over.’ George Toner nodded, ‘aye, Hearts don’t look like losing these days but we just need tae keep winning and make them work for it.’ As they refocused on the game, Owen Archdeacon took a quick throw to Mo Johnston who swivelled away from his marker. As another Aberdeen defender rushed to close him down, the quick-thinking striker unleashed a hard, low shot which flew past the goalkeeper and into the net. The Beach end exploded with joy! Celtic had their break through and they weren’t going to let it slip now. The coach pulled into Stonehaven, where it seemed every bar was filled with Celtic fans. The police moved them out of Aberdeen as soon as the game was over and many supporters’ clubs had pre-arranged to stop in the small fishing town just off the A92 for a few beers. In truth, most stayed till closing time and trundled into Glasgow at 2am. Local pub owners were glad of a full house and the as their supporters’ bus drew up outside the Ship Inn, bus convenor, Charlie Devine stood up and addressed the fans in his own inimitable style. ‘Right, listen up. We aw remember the trouble we had in this toon last year when some daft basturt robbed the condom machine in the bog. I want yer best behaviour in here! Nae taking the pish oot their accents or any other fuckwittery. Be warned! Baws will be kicked!’ There was a loud cheer as the door of the coach opened and they piled into the bar. The few locals already there smiled when the sixty thirsty Celtic fans besieged the bar. Once George had bought a couple of pints he sat with Tony in the corner, watching the banter and laughter unfolding in the bar. ‘A good win that today. Huns lost at Clydebank but Hearts won at Tannadice so still five points behind.’ Tony sighed, ‘do ye think we can still win this league?’ George shook his head, ‘four games left. Ye have tae say it’s Hearts league to lose now.’ As Tony took a long drink of his beer his friend looked at him. ‘Are you serious aboot that bet ye put oan wi that walloper, Dixon?’ Tony nodded, ‘cannae get oot of it noo. After the 4-4 game at Ibrox, he said Celtic had no chance of winning the league. I told him we still would and he said, ‘if Celtic win this league, I’ll run through the streets naked.’ George grinned, ‘and if we don’t, you’ll dae it?’ Tony exhaled, ‘No way tae avoid it.’ George laughed, ‘so let me get this straight; you bet that big currant bun that if Celtic win the league, he has tae run through the scheme bollock naked? If they don’t, then you have tae dae the streak?’ Tony nodded, ‘aye, that’s aboot the size of it.’ George laughed even louder, ‘the whole fuckin scheme will be seeing the size of it if Celtic don’t pull aff a miracle.’ Tony laughed with him, seeing the funny side of things. George sipped his beer, ‘I hope tae fuck Celtic spare your blushes. They’ll be lining the streets tae see wan of you two dafties streaking.’ Tony sipped his beer hoping it wouldn’t be him. A week later, Celtic, inspired by Roy Aitken beat Hibs 2-0 at Celtic Park. Hearts, looking nervous, drew 1-1 with Aberdeen. The gap was four points with Celtic having played a game less. Dundee was then defeated 2-0 at Celtic Park, before Celtic played their game in hand away to Motherwell. They laid siege to the Motherwell goal for much of the game before again winning 2-0. It had all come down to the last game of the season. Celtic were away to St Mirren and Hearts travelled to Dens Park. The mathematics were simple; Celtic had to defeat St Mirren by at least 3 goals and hope that Hearts lost at Dundee. It was a long shot but as long as there was hope, the team would keep fighting. George Toner sat beside Tony on the coach as it climbed up onto the M8 for the trip to Paisley. ‘This is it,’ he smiled at Tony, ‘we’re playing well and I think we’ll win. It’s all aboot wit Dundee dae against Hearts. They were hopeless at Celtic Park last week but they’re chasing Europe so they’ll be up for it.’ Tony gazed out the bus window, ‘a draw does Hearts though. It’s gonnae be a long afternoon.’ As the coach queued in traffic in Paisley, George pointed to a restaurant. ‘See that place there? I see it’s called ‘Pierre’s brasserie.’ Tony looked at him, a tad confused, ‘and?’ George met his gaze, ‘if Celtic don’t win this league, you’ll be opening one called ‘Tony’s Bare-arsery.’ He guffawed with laughter at his own joke as Tony shook his head. ‘Sometimes you’re a total fud, Georgie boy!’ There are certain moments when football becomes an art form and transcends its masculine, combative nature and becomes something beautiful. As George and Tony watched, mesmerised, such a moment arrived in the unlikely setting of St Mirren’s love Street stadium on a damp May Saturday in 1986. Veteran defender, Danny McGrain, facing his own goal, played the ball delicately over his own head to Murdo MacLeod. The stocky midfielder played it back to McGrain, who instantly fed Paul McStay. The Maestro turned his marker beautifully and slipped the ball to Roy Atken, without a pause, Aitken fed the overlapping McGrain who in turn slipped the ball forward to Brian McClair. McClair nutmegged the centre half before racing towards the box and firing in a low cross to the onrushing Johnston, who gleefully smashed the ball into the net. In took Celtic just seven passes and 16 seconds to sweep the ball from one end of the field to the other and score a goal of breathtaking beauty. They now led 3-0. It was up to Dundee to make or break Celtic’s day A few days after Celtic’s astonishing league win at Love Street, George and Tony saw the imposing figure of big Ian Dixon walking towards them in the street. ‘When are you getting the kit aff, Fannybaws? A bet’s a bet,’ Tony smiled. The large, bearded man, grimaced and fished a photograph out of his inside pocket before handing it to Tony. ‘Already done it. Jammy fuckin’ tarriers.’ Tony and George stared at the polaroid instamatic image and laughed out loud. It showed a fairly distant shot of a bulky, naked man running up a deserted Sauchiehall Street, his white buttocks shining in the street lights. ‘Looks like a full moon that night eh,’ smiled George. The bigger man was not amused and walked past them muttering, ‘Albert fuckin Kid.’
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