The Road to Lisbon excerpt I
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The road to Lisbon. Several thousand Celtic supporters strung along it in clusters like beads on a rosary.
As I walk back to the Zodiac my attention is drawn by a growing growl of motor engines. It is a strand of the Celticade. We all rush over to the roadside to salute them. Iggy is waving a green-and-white scarf to identify us as fellow pilgrims. Suddenly my mood soars as the convoy thunders by; what a joyous sight it is to behold! They are waving, and shouting greetings and slogans to us. One phrase is repeated several times. It sounds like ‘swear-us-a-suit.’ I hear it again and again. ‘Swear-us-a-suit, swear-us-a-suit, swear-us-a-suit.’
Then I decipher it: ‘Suárez is oot.’
Luis Suárez Miramontes of Spain. Inter’s classy, intelligent midfielder. Unfit for duty. Undoubtedly a boost for our chances.
“The Celtic fans!” Rocky exclaims simply, once only a cloud of dust and fumes remains. The Celtic fans, indeed. The greatest supporters in the world. The salt of the earth.
In towns and villages in France and Spain, curious locals in white-painted squares are coming out to stare as every conceivable type and age of vehicle passes by, festooned in green-andwhite. Some of these motors look as though they would struggle to make it to the end of London Road, let alone to London, let alone to Lisbon. Most of these travellers haven’t been abroad before and for them a road adventure such as this is a true one-off. Boulogne, Rouen, Chartres, Tours, Angoulême, Bordeaux, Biarritz, San Sebastian, Burgos, Valladolid, Salamanca. Horns are sounded festively, cheers exchanged, songs sung.
We’ll be running round Lisbon when we come,
We’ll be running round Lisbon when we come,
We’ll be running round Lisbon,
Running round Lisbon, Running round Lisbon when we come!
Lisbon. A word so often used that it has already passed into folklore. Now less a place, more a concept, a state of being; a new mutual state of heightened being that has existed since the Dukla match in Prague.
Or a fictional, mythical place. Tir Na Nog, Narnia, Fairyland, Lisbon.
On and on they drive, that single destination in mind, and a single goal: to be there. To witness history. To witness the culmination of everything good about Celtic. They sense that this is the hour, that this is the time. And afterwards – in ways not yet fully revealed or comprehended – nothing will ever be the same again. A victory will draw a dividing line in the collective consciousness between everything that has occurred before and everything that will occur afterwards. For an entire community Celtic has always been about pride, about defiance. But to become the first club from northern Europe to win the ultimate prize in the game; that would make their sneers ring hollow for evermore.
As I walk back to the Zodiac my attention is drawn by a growing growl of motor engines. It is a strand of the Celticade. We all rush over to the roadside to salute them. Iggy is waving a green-and-white scarf to identify us as fellow pilgrims. Suddenly my mood soars as the convoy thunders by; what a joyous sight it is to behold! They are waving, and shouting greetings and slogans to us. One phrase is repeated several times. It sounds like ‘swear-us-a-suit.’ I hear it again and again. ‘Swear-us-a-suit, swear-us-a-suit, swear-us-a-suit.’
Then I decipher it: ‘Suárez is oot.’
Luis Suárez Miramontes of Spain. Inter’s classy, intelligent midfielder. Unfit for duty. Undoubtedly a boost for our chances.
“The Celtic fans!” Rocky exclaims simply, once only a cloud of dust and fumes remains. The Celtic fans, indeed. The greatest supporters in the world. The salt of the earth.
In towns and villages in France and Spain, curious locals in white-painted squares are coming out to stare as every conceivable type and age of vehicle passes by, festooned in green-andwhite. Some of these motors look as though they would struggle to make it to the end of London Road, let alone to London, let alone to Lisbon. Most of these travellers haven’t been abroad before and for them a road adventure such as this is a true one-off. Boulogne, Rouen, Chartres, Tours, Angoulême, Bordeaux, Biarritz, San Sebastian, Burgos, Valladolid, Salamanca. Horns are sounded festively, cheers exchanged, songs sung.
We’ll be running round Lisbon when we come,
We’ll be running round Lisbon when we come,
We’ll be running round Lisbon,
Running round Lisbon, Running round Lisbon when we come!
Lisbon. A word so often used that it has already passed into folklore. Now less a place, more a concept, a state of being; a new mutual state of heightened being that has existed since the Dukla match in Prague.
Or a fictional, mythical place. Tir Na Nog, Narnia, Fairyland, Lisbon.
On and on they drive, that single destination in mind, and a single goal: to be there. To witness history. To witness the culmination of everything good about Celtic. They sense that this is the hour, that this is the time. And afterwards – in ways not yet fully revealed or comprehended – nothing will ever be the same again. A victory will draw a dividing line in the collective consciousness between everything that has occurred before and everything that will occur afterwards. For an entire community Celtic has always been about pride, about defiance. But to become the first club from northern Europe to win the ultimate prize in the game; that would make their sneers ring hollow for evermore.
Excerpt II
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I am drawn through the searing heat by the sonorous tolling of the iron bell, the meadow seething with insects. Time is elastic now, or else the intervals between each peal are truly long, to signify the particular importance of the forthcoming Sacrament. Important for me, anyway, as I intend on taking the opportunity to pray for Celtic’s victory. I stop to turn 360 degrees, and I am flooded with a wave of joy as I regard the cheerful beauty that surrounds me. I unscrew the cap on the bottle of cola I am carrying and flick some of the contents into the air. Cartoon globules of black liquid rush upwards and explode ecstatically in the sunshine like an oil gusher. I gaze up into a vast sky, the perfect blue blemished only by the odd wisp of playful cloud, and by something else: vapour trails, slashed in glorious arcs across the stratosphere by jet planes purposefully, majestically negotiating the way westwards to Lisbon. The passengers will be merry with drink, enthralled by the novelty of the transportation, thrilled by the prospect of the match. Winking at the hostesses and singing.
We’ll be running round Lisbon when we come!
Here I stand in an obscure pasture in Spain, alone and mildly insane. Yet I feel as though I am momentarily occupying the kernel of the universe.
The Mass unfolds in its sacred poetry. It is in Latin, or perhaps it is Spanish. It seems to alternate between the two languages, depending on which one I am pondering at a particular moment, even though I have only a rudimentary knowledge of the latter.
The priest wears a chasuble that is of a most vivid jade, its silken patterns shifting and mutating, in rapture at their very greenness. This contrasts with the brilliant white of the deacon’s surplice. The vestments are billowing, alive. The altar screen is the colour of ivory, above which the ceiling is painted in gorgeous sky blue, with deep-crimson lettering: A Ω. For a minute the flow seems to go awry; one old woman’s face contorts and lengthens into that of a gargoyle, then melts back into its original form before mutating again into a new ghastly grotesque. The darkness. So I focus instead on the priest’s face; raven black, arched eyebrows; olive, weathered skin. His countenance is profoundly solemn as he focuses utterly upon the sublime rituals. The visual effects are phenomenal, all obeying a slow, rhythmic pulse. The crucifix expands, then retracts, then rotates slightly to the right, slightly to the left, then centres, then throbs majestically. The monstrance stretches into a golden ellipse, first vertically, then horizontally. The priest moves in and out of focus. The flames on the candles grow and grow into vast infernos, then instantly retract to pinpoints. My feet are swallowed up by the liquid floor. Every movement leaves a rainbow of tracers.
The priest and congregants make the ancient petitions in perfect unison. There is total precision to the narrative; symmetry, ceremony, focus. There is also communion; with one another, with the Almighty. We are unified in a single consciousness, bolted together in deep mystical contemplation.
Who is ‘we’? The priest, deacon, server, sacristan, a dozen Basque peasants, mostly elderly women… and Mark. Hadn’t noticed him. After the Eucharist he gazes heavenwards as though in ecstasy. Me, I can barely dare to think. I close my eyes and see an image of Billy McNeill, standing against a marble colonnade, like a gladiator in the Coliseum, his sweat-streaked face serious, etched with the magnitude of the moment, focused as he lifts up the greatest prize in club football. Savour this moment. Then a picture of my father’s face, smiling kindly, worn but handsome, his Donegal eyes still sparkling. I open my eyes and the tears are streaming down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. I’m not sobbing, it’s just a constant uncontrollable flow of water.
Outside.
“Mr Stein?"
Nothing.
“Mr Stein?”
A long pause. Then that heavy Scots voice, low and authoritative, coming out of the nothingness. Like someone dragging a heavy stone across gravel.
“Aye, lad.”
“How’s everything going?”
“Inter better be ready for us.”
“Why?”
“Because Thursday is the day.”
“What day?”
“The day that everything comes to pass. Everything I’ve worked for.”
“What will happen?”
“Something that the world has never seen before.”
“What?” I implore.
“We are going to attack them. Relentlessly. Attack after attack after attack. Inter won’t know what’s hit them. Catenaccio or no catenaccio. We are going to tear them to fucking shreds. They will talk about it for years to come. Forever.”
I feel my feet go cold, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a rush of ecstasy surge through my nervous system.
“Mr Stein.”
“Aye son.”
“I’m tripping out of my nut.”
“Just be, lad. Just be.”
I enter the forest. It is cool and shaded and endless. The little people hide in the deeper shadows. The darkness lives there. I kneel down and rip up some turf, raise it to my nostrils, drink deeply of its rich, soily odour. Life crying out for life. I want to become a part of it, a part of the forest, a part of nature, a part of the land. Another glade. I detect redcurrant blossom, it transports me back to a golden age, a kaleidoscope flickering with the sunshine of my infancy, 1947, two years after the trauma ended; austerity, yes, but relative safety and the imminence of the National Health, a braver, better world, the triumph of decency, maternal warmth and paternal protection; the odour of my father in his prime, pipe tobacco and fresh sweat, unthinkable without him. I meditate on him for a while. On my love for him. On his goodness. In further now. The ground gives way here, a sloped and shaded grove, the incline littered with grey-green rocks, angular and dry and cool. Elm trunks and boughs are verdant with lichen, and amid the carpet of moss, herbs and primeval fern sit Eddie and Angelu, their arms around one another, their heads resting upon each other’s shoulder, their eyes closed as though in a deep and restful sleep.
It is by the shore that I find it. A pearl of wisdom, utterly pure in its clarity and obviousness and simplicity: of course Rocky and Debbie had to be together. They were meant to be together. Anything else would be an obscenity, a crime against nature. What purpose would it serve for them to remain apart, simply to spare my feelings? I sit in my pleasant reverie and hear a voice calling me, perhaps in gratitude towards my revelation. After all, surely they all must know of it? Hasn’t this substance we have imbibed fused our consciousnesses?
It is Mark. Smiling, benign, beautiful. I call out to him.
“Your benevolence surrounds you like a halo!”
Without speaking he comes to me, smiling. We embrace, feel the life strength within each other’s bodies. He begins kissing me, my face. Tries my lips. I am not repelled, I do not rage; only laugh good-naturedly. I see things clearly now. There is no place for severity, no need for it; only understanding. Only love. “I can’t be like that for you. Ever.” I am smiling.
“I understand.”
He is smiling. But he wants to walk away. I won’t let him. I hold him. I make it okay. I understand things now. How the ego acts as a barrier between people. How we put up defences and question each other’s worthiness because we’re not sure of our own worthiness but right now I can see my own worthiness and everyone else’s.
Most of all I can see Delphine’s worthiness. Her gentleness, her vulnerability, the purity of her intentions. Her profound beauty as woman and as a person. For a moment I feel unworthy of her, then I tell myself: ‘You are worthy of her.’ And I believe it. I know it.
I look round; Mark has left. So I withdraw my sketch of her and gaze at it and then I ask it out loud, to the sea, to the rocks and the sand; the seabirds are my witnesses: “WILL I SEE DELPHINE AGAIN?”
And the birds and the forest and the waves and the sand and the sky all return together, on one single ecstatic communal beat: ‘YES YOU SHALL!’
The rhythm of nature. The ocean continues to gently lap the shore; relentless, eternal, cathartic. The interconnectedness of everything. The pure truth of beauty. The truth in the way things are; the meaning of things, under the surface of things. God-ness silently vibrating in every tissue of the universe.
The effects diminish. Still strong – still incredibly strong, but in relative terms less so. I am able to perform basic tasks: lighting a fire and positioning the pan, organising the camp, eating fried bread. The Rioja is a myriad of subtle flavours. It is like drinking liquid sunshine. I smell the salt and listen to the ocean swell in the Bay of Biscay. The rushes are mellower. I feel pleasant and at peace. The firewood crackles comfortingly. The shadows lengthen as the sunlight becomes lateral. The sky glows a slightly darker shade of cobalt.
But something is happening in the forest. Something terrible. The sound of the little folk making merry with some cruel sport. I enter. I can hear Iggy’s inane giggling and a violent sound of breaking glass. Then a thump, thump, thump sound of wood striking a metal panel. It takes me a few seconds to take in the scene. In a clearing at the end of the forest track are Iggy and Xalbador. They are both stripped to the waist like savages and smeared in places with black paint. Xalbador has a fence post gripped between his hands and is bringing it down in a violent rhythm upon the front end of a saloon car. Iggy is standing on the roof, leaping up and down like a monkey as he splashes the paint from a tin over the vehicle. The car is dark green with a white bonnet. Along the side are inscribed an emblem and two words. I take a moment to focus my eyes: GUARDIA CIVIL.
I fall to my knees, my stomach fills with fear, but worse than ever before, an insane dread, the dread of something evil and out of kilter with the rational universe. This cannot be happening. Why is this happening? Why did he have to do this? Why did he have to ruin everything? He is tripping, yes, but I can detect the madness in his eyes beneath the chemicals. The madness that got his wee brother killed, a tragedy that in turn awoke the same madness in Iggy like a genetic chain reaction. Sent him into a spiral of guilt and self-destruction, all hidden under the guise of the pursuit of fun and anarchy. Hidden from everyone but me, that is. I look at him giggling like an eejit, and a wave of the darkness descends; a living force, swelling within my limbs, mocking me with the extent of my friend’s ability to wreak self-havoc. And I feel a sickness, a terror in the pit of my being, the inability to contemplate my losing him. Suddenly he slips on the wet paint and falls on his arse, slides down the windscreen and lands on top of Xalbador in a heap. The two of them are hysterical with laughter. Eventually Iggy composes himself. I stand up and somehow manage to light myself a cigarette.
“It's the Miracle of Gorbals Cross all over again!” Iggy announces gleefully.
Xalbador is grinning like a devil, his beady eyes flickering beneath his stupid tinted spectacles. I could gladly go up and tear them off his face and stamp them into the dirt.
“Miracles don't strike twice ya balloon!”
“Don’t worry – Xalbador knows a joint where he’s gonnae dump it. Thump it – bump it – clump it – dump it.”
Machine-gun laughter from Xalbador as he glances up from daubing Basque slogans on the car, looking like a malevolent clown.
“Is this acid no amai-zing Tim?” enthuses Iggy. “I’m gonnae get a hold of some back in Glasgow. ’Cause it’s the FUCKING BERRIES!”
“Iggy. You’ve fucked us. You’ve really fucked us.”
“Come on Tim, the polis here are fascist bastards. We’ve made a political act! In fact – political art! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
I go over to Xalbador, grab him roughly by the shoulder.
“You, ya bampot. Did you put him up to this?”
“My friend –”
“DID YOU?”
“Oh f-f-f-f-f-fuck!” Mark too has followed the commotion to its source.
“You have surpassed yourself this time Iggy,” I say. “You have fucked it for us.”
“Fucked what?”
“Lisbon.”
My legs are turning to jelly. Thoughts suddenly spinning out of control, the darkness threatening to overwhelm me. I expect to see policemen and demons loom out of the shadows towards us.
“Oh, f-f-fuck,” says Mark, pacing up and down.
“Ach, give us peace,” says Iggy. “We can dump it further into the woods or off a cliff. They’ll no know it was us that knocked it.”
“Are you kidding? Five foreigners just happen to be in a wee village and a fucking polis car goes missing. They will read this with their eyes closed.”
“Oh, f-f-fuck,” says Mark.
“Will you stop fucking saying that!”
We congregate around the fire, the others drifting out of the woods like lepers. I tell Xalbador to get to fuck. I comfort Mark with whisky, coax him away from the darkness. A slight squall rises and we bed down, close our eyes, try to ignore the weirdness, and drift off to sleep.
We’ll be running round Lisbon when we come!
Here I stand in an obscure pasture in Spain, alone and mildly insane. Yet I feel as though I am momentarily occupying the kernel of the universe.
The Mass unfolds in its sacred poetry. It is in Latin, or perhaps it is Spanish. It seems to alternate between the two languages, depending on which one I am pondering at a particular moment, even though I have only a rudimentary knowledge of the latter.
The priest wears a chasuble that is of a most vivid jade, its silken patterns shifting and mutating, in rapture at their very greenness. This contrasts with the brilliant white of the deacon’s surplice. The vestments are billowing, alive. The altar screen is the colour of ivory, above which the ceiling is painted in gorgeous sky blue, with deep-crimson lettering: A Ω. For a minute the flow seems to go awry; one old woman’s face contorts and lengthens into that of a gargoyle, then melts back into its original form before mutating again into a new ghastly grotesque. The darkness. So I focus instead on the priest’s face; raven black, arched eyebrows; olive, weathered skin. His countenance is profoundly solemn as he focuses utterly upon the sublime rituals. The visual effects are phenomenal, all obeying a slow, rhythmic pulse. The crucifix expands, then retracts, then rotates slightly to the right, slightly to the left, then centres, then throbs majestically. The monstrance stretches into a golden ellipse, first vertically, then horizontally. The priest moves in and out of focus. The flames on the candles grow and grow into vast infernos, then instantly retract to pinpoints. My feet are swallowed up by the liquid floor. Every movement leaves a rainbow of tracers.
The priest and congregants make the ancient petitions in perfect unison. There is total precision to the narrative; symmetry, ceremony, focus. There is also communion; with one another, with the Almighty. We are unified in a single consciousness, bolted together in deep mystical contemplation.
Who is ‘we’? The priest, deacon, server, sacristan, a dozen Basque peasants, mostly elderly women… and Mark. Hadn’t noticed him. After the Eucharist he gazes heavenwards as though in ecstasy. Me, I can barely dare to think. I close my eyes and see an image of Billy McNeill, standing against a marble colonnade, like a gladiator in the Coliseum, his sweat-streaked face serious, etched with the magnitude of the moment, focused as he lifts up the greatest prize in club football. Savour this moment. Then a picture of my father’s face, smiling kindly, worn but handsome, his Donegal eyes still sparkling. I open my eyes and the tears are streaming down my cheeks. I can’t stop them. I’m not sobbing, it’s just a constant uncontrollable flow of water.
Outside.
“Mr Stein?"
Nothing.
“Mr Stein?”
A long pause. Then that heavy Scots voice, low and authoritative, coming out of the nothingness. Like someone dragging a heavy stone across gravel.
“Aye, lad.”
“How’s everything going?”
“Inter better be ready for us.”
“Why?”
“Because Thursday is the day.”
“What day?”
“The day that everything comes to pass. Everything I’ve worked for.”
“What will happen?”
“Something that the world has never seen before.”
“What?” I implore.
“We are going to attack them. Relentlessly. Attack after attack after attack. Inter won’t know what’s hit them. Catenaccio or no catenaccio. We are going to tear them to fucking shreds. They will talk about it for years to come. Forever.”
I feel my feet go cold, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, a rush of ecstasy surge through my nervous system.
“Mr Stein.”
“Aye son.”
“I’m tripping out of my nut.”
“Just be, lad. Just be.”
I enter the forest. It is cool and shaded and endless. The little people hide in the deeper shadows. The darkness lives there. I kneel down and rip up some turf, raise it to my nostrils, drink deeply of its rich, soily odour. Life crying out for life. I want to become a part of it, a part of the forest, a part of nature, a part of the land. Another glade. I detect redcurrant blossom, it transports me back to a golden age, a kaleidoscope flickering with the sunshine of my infancy, 1947, two years after the trauma ended; austerity, yes, but relative safety and the imminence of the National Health, a braver, better world, the triumph of decency, maternal warmth and paternal protection; the odour of my father in his prime, pipe tobacco and fresh sweat, unthinkable without him. I meditate on him for a while. On my love for him. On his goodness. In further now. The ground gives way here, a sloped and shaded grove, the incline littered with grey-green rocks, angular and dry and cool. Elm trunks and boughs are verdant with lichen, and amid the carpet of moss, herbs and primeval fern sit Eddie and Angelu, their arms around one another, their heads resting upon each other’s shoulder, their eyes closed as though in a deep and restful sleep.
It is by the shore that I find it. A pearl of wisdom, utterly pure in its clarity and obviousness and simplicity: of course Rocky and Debbie had to be together. They were meant to be together. Anything else would be an obscenity, a crime against nature. What purpose would it serve for them to remain apart, simply to spare my feelings? I sit in my pleasant reverie and hear a voice calling me, perhaps in gratitude towards my revelation. After all, surely they all must know of it? Hasn’t this substance we have imbibed fused our consciousnesses?
It is Mark. Smiling, benign, beautiful. I call out to him.
“Your benevolence surrounds you like a halo!”
Without speaking he comes to me, smiling. We embrace, feel the life strength within each other’s bodies. He begins kissing me, my face. Tries my lips. I am not repelled, I do not rage; only laugh good-naturedly. I see things clearly now. There is no place for severity, no need for it; only understanding. Only love. “I can’t be like that for you. Ever.” I am smiling.
“I understand.”
He is smiling. But he wants to walk away. I won’t let him. I hold him. I make it okay. I understand things now. How the ego acts as a barrier between people. How we put up defences and question each other’s worthiness because we’re not sure of our own worthiness but right now I can see my own worthiness and everyone else’s.
Most of all I can see Delphine’s worthiness. Her gentleness, her vulnerability, the purity of her intentions. Her profound beauty as woman and as a person. For a moment I feel unworthy of her, then I tell myself: ‘You are worthy of her.’ And I believe it. I know it.
I look round; Mark has left. So I withdraw my sketch of her and gaze at it and then I ask it out loud, to the sea, to the rocks and the sand; the seabirds are my witnesses: “WILL I SEE DELPHINE AGAIN?”
And the birds and the forest and the waves and the sand and the sky all return together, on one single ecstatic communal beat: ‘YES YOU SHALL!’
The rhythm of nature. The ocean continues to gently lap the shore; relentless, eternal, cathartic. The interconnectedness of everything. The pure truth of beauty. The truth in the way things are; the meaning of things, under the surface of things. God-ness silently vibrating in every tissue of the universe.
The effects diminish. Still strong – still incredibly strong, but in relative terms less so. I am able to perform basic tasks: lighting a fire and positioning the pan, organising the camp, eating fried bread. The Rioja is a myriad of subtle flavours. It is like drinking liquid sunshine. I smell the salt and listen to the ocean swell in the Bay of Biscay. The rushes are mellower. I feel pleasant and at peace. The firewood crackles comfortingly. The shadows lengthen as the sunlight becomes lateral. The sky glows a slightly darker shade of cobalt.
But something is happening in the forest. Something terrible. The sound of the little folk making merry with some cruel sport. I enter. I can hear Iggy’s inane giggling and a violent sound of breaking glass. Then a thump, thump, thump sound of wood striking a metal panel. It takes me a few seconds to take in the scene. In a clearing at the end of the forest track are Iggy and Xalbador. They are both stripped to the waist like savages and smeared in places with black paint. Xalbador has a fence post gripped between his hands and is bringing it down in a violent rhythm upon the front end of a saloon car. Iggy is standing on the roof, leaping up and down like a monkey as he splashes the paint from a tin over the vehicle. The car is dark green with a white bonnet. Along the side are inscribed an emblem and two words. I take a moment to focus my eyes: GUARDIA CIVIL.
I fall to my knees, my stomach fills with fear, but worse than ever before, an insane dread, the dread of something evil and out of kilter with the rational universe. This cannot be happening. Why is this happening? Why did he have to do this? Why did he have to ruin everything? He is tripping, yes, but I can detect the madness in his eyes beneath the chemicals. The madness that got his wee brother killed, a tragedy that in turn awoke the same madness in Iggy like a genetic chain reaction. Sent him into a spiral of guilt and self-destruction, all hidden under the guise of the pursuit of fun and anarchy. Hidden from everyone but me, that is. I look at him giggling like an eejit, and a wave of the darkness descends; a living force, swelling within my limbs, mocking me with the extent of my friend’s ability to wreak self-havoc. And I feel a sickness, a terror in the pit of my being, the inability to contemplate my losing him. Suddenly he slips on the wet paint and falls on his arse, slides down the windscreen and lands on top of Xalbador in a heap. The two of them are hysterical with laughter. Eventually Iggy composes himself. I stand up and somehow manage to light myself a cigarette.
“It's the Miracle of Gorbals Cross all over again!” Iggy announces gleefully.
Xalbador is grinning like a devil, his beady eyes flickering beneath his stupid tinted spectacles. I could gladly go up and tear them off his face and stamp them into the dirt.
“Miracles don't strike twice ya balloon!”
“Don’t worry – Xalbador knows a joint where he’s gonnae dump it. Thump it – bump it – clump it – dump it.”
Machine-gun laughter from Xalbador as he glances up from daubing Basque slogans on the car, looking like a malevolent clown.
“Is this acid no amai-zing Tim?” enthuses Iggy. “I’m gonnae get a hold of some back in Glasgow. ’Cause it’s the FUCKING BERRIES!”
“Iggy. You’ve fucked us. You’ve really fucked us.”
“Come on Tim, the polis here are fascist bastards. We’ve made a political act! In fact – political art! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
I go over to Xalbador, grab him roughly by the shoulder.
“You, ya bampot. Did you put him up to this?”
“My friend –”
“DID YOU?”
“Oh f-f-f-f-f-fuck!” Mark too has followed the commotion to its source.
“You have surpassed yourself this time Iggy,” I say. “You have fucked it for us.”
“Fucked what?”
“Lisbon.”
My legs are turning to jelly. Thoughts suddenly spinning out of control, the darkness threatening to overwhelm me. I expect to see policemen and demons loom out of the shadows towards us.
“Oh, f-f-fuck,” says Mark, pacing up and down.
“Ach, give us peace,” says Iggy. “We can dump it further into the woods or off a cliff. They’ll no know it was us that knocked it.”
“Are you kidding? Five foreigners just happen to be in a wee village and a fucking polis car goes missing. They will read this with their eyes closed.”
“Oh, f-f-fuck,” says Mark.
“Will you stop fucking saying that!”
We congregate around the fire, the others drifting out of the woods like lepers. I tell Xalbador to get to fuck. I comfort Mark with whisky, coax him away from the darkness. A slight squall rises and we bed down, close our eyes, try to ignore the weirdness, and drift off to sleep.
Taster III |
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The approach to the Estádio Nacional is wooded with eucalyptus trees. A pleasant mini-forest walk. The air is fresh here, strange for inside a city. I am wearing a crispwhite short-sleeved shirt I saved for the day, a fake-silk Celtic scarf, and I have a bottle-green V-necked jersey tied round my waist. I must look a sight; my bandages are crowned by the top hat I bought in Salamanca, replete with green-and-white ribbons. As we climb the slight ascent I look over my shoulder to witness the tide of humanity behind me, making the last leg of this great pilgrimage. The fans are too nervous to sing. But I feel kind of at peace.
“Do yous realise it’s a new cup?” asks Rocky. “I mean, the actual trophy itself. They let Real keep the original one last year.”
“Aye,” says Iggy. “It’s a new shape and everything. It’s ginormous.”
“I hope this heat isn’t gonnae affect our boys too much,” says Eddie.
“Aye, and Inter will be u-u-used to it,” says Mark, his brow furrowed. He nervously fumbles with a cigarette. I reach over and light it for him.
“Mark. It’s gonnae be okay.” He smiles thinly.
Iggy is wearing a kilt he scored out of Paddy’s Market. Christ alone knows what tartan it is. On his chest he wears a white T-shirt with the words JOCK STEIN scrawled in childish lime-green crayon. Eddie wears his suit with collar and tie, and is draped in our Eire flag. Mark is wearing a green-and-white hooped jersey, onto which is pinned a giant Celtic rosette. Rocky is wearing flannels and a green-trimmed tennis shirt he had saved for the occasion; his trilby and shades make him look like a movie star.
Iggy, Mark, Eddie, Rocky. I feel a wave of tenderness for them. Yet I feel a sense of sadness because our time together is passing. And then I remember what I had said to Eddie three days earlier, about Celtic always being there for us, as a focus for our love no matter how well or badly they are playing, providing us with a sense of identity no matter what else changes in our lives.
I think of the enormity of the task that faces us. Internazionale. La Grande Inter. The Nerazzurri. Their third final in four years. Twice winners.
But somewhere out of the darkness must come light. My generation coincided with Celtic’s worst period. Yet they still occupied a special place at the edge of my imagination, as a powerful, strange force that always somehow held the promise of a sense of meaning. And now, incredibly, that promise finally threatens to be delivered. So savour this moment. Remember this place. Remember the way it looks and sounds and smells. Remember the way the moment feels. Savour it when life gets tough. Because if this can happen – if a football team that contains Catholics and Protestants, a set of players who all hail from the Glasgow area, a club set up to feed the hungry children of despised immigrants – if they can become champions of Europe, then anything is possible.
I take out Barney’s St Anthony medal. Kiss it.
Estádio Nacional is downright odd. In fact, it is beautiful. An entire side of it is simply open space, but for a temporary stand erected for the occasion, making for a sense of the surrounding forest encroaching in. Beautifully manicured hedges and shrubs are landscaped into the arena. The ends sweep away majestically from the main stand. It is constructed of pale stone and marble, and is like a benign Roman amphitheatre. The pitch is like a bowling green, the turf looks lush. The precious match tickets, priceless at 10 shillings, so carefully stowed away, dog-eared and grimy from being checked and double-checked a hundred times, are produced.
4.21p.m. Just over an hour until kick off. In we go.
The Celtic fans inside have rediscovered their gallusness, aided no doubt by the sale of bottles of lager and carafes of cheap Portuguese tinto. We get a double round in, and Eddie, Iggy and Mark also buy some of the paper sunhats scores of our fellow fans are wearing. They look like merry Glaswegians crossed with Chinese men. We walk round to take up our positions in the southern end of the ground, about halfway up the terrace, slightly to the eastern side. As we climb the steps we meet more and more folk we know from back home. Everyone seems to have developed a skill for arts and crafts. Novelty green-and-white stovepipe hats, replica trophies, club shields, giant rosettes – all fashioned from coloured foolscap and card, foil and crepe paper. There are all sorts of flags. Some fans wear bunnets and woollen tammies, just like you would on a January trip to Dens Park – they must be roasting! The Inter fans have air horns and seem to occupy most of the temporary stand, which they have draped with enormous black and blue banners covered in slogans. There are hundreds of dignitaries, occupying the temporary stand and the area round the plinth in the main stand.
The vividly lined running track is a constant hubbub of activity. It is patrolled by stewards in berets and boiler suits, and policemen in peaked caps and smart, braided uniforms. Handicapped guys putter in on little motor trikes and photographers grab the best positions behind the goals.
We are chatting nervously, singing, chanting. In front of us are a few boys from
Duntocher who are wearing sombreros. They have palled up with a bunch of amiable Portuguese fellows who seem totally taken with all things Celtic. Behind us is a church group – male and female – from Wyndford, led by a young curate. There are lads from Ireland to the left, and kilted boys from Barra to the right, brandishing a beautiful big saltire. These are the strangers we will share the most significant 90 minutes off our lives with.
The main stand is to our left, the tunnel opens in the ground behind the faraway goal, the benches are to our right, in front of the temporary stand. The team comes out briefly. A roar of approval. John Clark points as he chats to Tommy Gemmell. They seem truly stunned by the number of us who have made the journey. They wave at us as they return to the dressing room. They love us. We love them.
I think of my cousin Nicky watching the television pictures, probably with Barney and the other Irishmen at the pub in Camden. Maybe Albie, Austin, Barbara and Margaret-Mary will be with him. I think of Scots and the Irish Diaspora all over the world tuned in on televisions and wirelesses. I think of Da back home. Of everyone back home, but especially Da. He’ll be sitting there in his favourite chair, his eyes sparkling, a wee dram in his hand, a grandchild on his knee. He’ll be delighted by the novelty of the television set, quietly thrilled at the magnitude of the event. He’ll be fussing, making sure everyone is comfortable, has a drink, can see the screen. He’ll have read the bit about Lisbon in his tattered old encyclopaedia. He’ll be looking out for me. He’ll pretend to himself and the assembled that he caught a glimpse of me, shout my mother through from the kitchen.
“Teresa! Teresa! I’m sure I just saw our Timothy! I’m sure it was him!” Everyone will play along, just to keep him happy.
I’ll see you soon, Da.
“Do yous realise it’s a new cup?” asks Rocky. “I mean, the actual trophy itself. They let Real keep the original one last year.”
“Aye,” says Iggy. “It’s a new shape and everything. It’s ginormous.”
“I hope this heat isn’t gonnae affect our boys too much,” says Eddie.
“Aye, and Inter will be u-u-used to it,” says Mark, his brow furrowed. He nervously fumbles with a cigarette. I reach over and light it for him.
“Mark. It’s gonnae be okay.” He smiles thinly.
Iggy is wearing a kilt he scored out of Paddy’s Market. Christ alone knows what tartan it is. On his chest he wears a white T-shirt with the words JOCK STEIN scrawled in childish lime-green crayon. Eddie wears his suit with collar and tie, and is draped in our Eire flag. Mark is wearing a green-and-white hooped jersey, onto which is pinned a giant Celtic rosette. Rocky is wearing flannels and a green-trimmed tennis shirt he had saved for the occasion; his trilby and shades make him look like a movie star.
Iggy, Mark, Eddie, Rocky. I feel a wave of tenderness for them. Yet I feel a sense of sadness because our time together is passing. And then I remember what I had said to Eddie three days earlier, about Celtic always being there for us, as a focus for our love no matter how well or badly they are playing, providing us with a sense of identity no matter what else changes in our lives.
I think of the enormity of the task that faces us. Internazionale. La Grande Inter. The Nerazzurri. Their third final in four years. Twice winners.
But somewhere out of the darkness must come light. My generation coincided with Celtic’s worst period. Yet they still occupied a special place at the edge of my imagination, as a powerful, strange force that always somehow held the promise of a sense of meaning. And now, incredibly, that promise finally threatens to be delivered. So savour this moment. Remember this place. Remember the way it looks and sounds and smells. Remember the way the moment feels. Savour it when life gets tough. Because if this can happen – if a football team that contains Catholics and Protestants, a set of players who all hail from the Glasgow area, a club set up to feed the hungry children of despised immigrants – if they can become champions of Europe, then anything is possible.
I take out Barney’s St Anthony medal. Kiss it.
Estádio Nacional is downright odd. In fact, it is beautiful. An entire side of it is simply open space, but for a temporary stand erected for the occasion, making for a sense of the surrounding forest encroaching in. Beautifully manicured hedges and shrubs are landscaped into the arena. The ends sweep away majestically from the main stand. It is constructed of pale stone and marble, and is like a benign Roman amphitheatre. The pitch is like a bowling green, the turf looks lush. The precious match tickets, priceless at 10 shillings, so carefully stowed away, dog-eared and grimy from being checked and double-checked a hundred times, are produced.
4.21p.m. Just over an hour until kick off. In we go.
The Celtic fans inside have rediscovered their gallusness, aided no doubt by the sale of bottles of lager and carafes of cheap Portuguese tinto. We get a double round in, and Eddie, Iggy and Mark also buy some of the paper sunhats scores of our fellow fans are wearing. They look like merry Glaswegians crossed with Chinese men. We walk round to take up our positions in the southern end of the ground, about halfway up the terrace, slightly to the eastern side. As we climb the steps we meet more and more folk we know from back home. Everyone seems to have developed a skill for arts and crafts. Novelty green-and-white stovepipe hats, replica trophies, club shields, giant rosettes – all fashioned from coloured foolscap and card, foil and crepe paper. There are all sorts of flags. Some fans wear bunnets and woollen tammies, just like you would on a January trip to Dens Park – they must be roasting! The Inter fans have air horns and seem to occupy most of the temporary stand, which they have draped with enormous black and blue banners covered in slogans. There are hundreds of dignitaries, occupying the temporary stand and the area round the plinth in the main stand.
The vividly lined running track is a constant hubbub of activity. It is patrolled by stewards in berets and boiler suits, and policemen in peaked caps and smart, braided uniforms. Handicapped guys putter in on little motor trikes and photographers grab the best positions behind the goals.
We are chatting nervously, singing, chanting. In front of us are a few boys from
Duntocher who are wearing sombreros. They have palled up with a bunch of amiable Portuguese fellows who seem totally taken with all things Celtic. Behind us is a church group – male and female – from Wyndford, led by a young curate. There are lads from Ireland to the left, and kilted boys from Barra to the right, brandishing a beautiful big saltire. These are the strangers we will share the most significant 90 minutes off our lives with.
The main stand is to our left, the tunnel opens in the ground behind the faraway goal, the benches are to our right, in front of the temporary stand. The team comes out briefly. A roar of approval. John Clark points as he chats to Tommy Gemmell. They seem truly stunned by the number of us who have made the journey. They wave at us as they return to the dressing room. They love us. We love them.
I think of my cousin Nicky watching the television pictures, probably with Barney and the other Irishmen at the pub in Camden. Maybe Albie, Austin, Barbara and Margaret-Mary will be with him. I think of Scots and the Irish Diaspora all over the world tuned in on televisions and wirelesses. I think of Da back home. Of everyone back home, but especially Da. He’ll be sitting there in his favourite chair, his eyes sparkling, a wee dram in his hand, a grandchild on his knee. He’ll be delighted by the novelty of the television set, quietly thrilled at the magnitude of the event. He’ll be fussing, making sure everyone is comfortable, has a drink, can see the screen. He’ll have read the bit about Lisbon in his tattered old encyclopaedia. He’ll be looking out for me. He’ll pretend to himself and the assembled that he caught a glimpse of me, shout my mother through from the kitchen.
“Teresa! Teresa! I’m sure I just saw our Timothy! I’m sure it was him!” Everyone will play along, just to keep him happy.
I’ll see you soon, Da.