Matt Corr’s European Diary – Honours even in wet, wonderful Copenhagen

Party atmosphere but no fairytale ending in wet but wonderful Copenhagen by Matt Corr….

It’s been a crazy couple of months since the last Celtic awayday, in Transylvania, just before Christmas.

The draw for the first knockout stage of the Europa League had paired us with Danish champions, FC Copenhagen, the benefits of winning your group clearly reflected in a tie where, for the first time in recent memory, the Hoops might be considered favourites to progress.

I’m not sure that has applied in any of our previous qualifications in the Champions League or Europa League era, going back to late 2006, when Nakamura’s perfectly-executed free-kick, perhaps the finest Celtic goal of my lifetime, beat Alex Ferguson’s Manchester United, to send us through to the last sixteen for the first time.

Then, we had been handed AC Milan, who would go on to win that Champions League in May, despite a heroic effort from Gordon Strachan’s men, an extra-time sickener from Kaka ruining my first visit to the San Siro.

It didn’t get much easier the following season, Celtic having beaten the now-defending champions, Milan, on an unforgettable evening under the Parkhead lights, being rewarded with a tie against Barcelona, the Blaugrana on the cusp of becoming the finest team on the continent over the next few years. They would edge a five-goal thriller at Celtic Park, before killing the tie early in the Camp Nou through Xavi, before we had taken our seats.

There would then be a few years in the post-Christmas European wilderness, before Neil Lennon’s Hoops beat that fabulous Barca side just the day after our 125th birthday, one of those ‘fairytale’ nights that the late, much-loved Billy McNeill once described as the very essence of Celtic. The prize for that qualification was a tie against current Italian champions, Juventus, twice-winners of Europe’s elite competition and already well underway to mirroring Celtic’s domestic domination of eight successive League titles.

The fat old signora had sung long before the Italian team bus had left Glasgow’s east end, on a night Efe Ambrose will want to forget. Nevertheless, with hope in our hearts, off we trudged to Turin. My abiding memory of that trip is the fantastic show of Hoops support, involving a constant ‘Here we go…’ chant for the entire second half, which brought huge waves of approval from the home fans.

If only supporters could win matches.

Ronny Deila didn’t fare much better. Despite a couple of early Champions League disasters, involving Legia Warsaw and Maribor, followed by an unconvincing Europa League group stage, the eight points gained against Salzburg, Dinamo Zagreb and Astra Giurgiu allowed Celtic to progress into the Round of 32 in February 2015.

Yet another Italian side lay in wait, this time old foes, Inter Milan. Whilst they were not the force of 1967, they were still a decent team. Too good, certainly, to be handed an early two-goal lead at Celtic Park. Despite a spirited Celtic fight-back to 2-2, inspired by Stuart Armstrong, defensive errors again handed the initiative to Inter, this time Craig Gordon the Bhoy Blunder looking for the earth to swallow him up, having kept us in previous games. John Guidetti’s last-gasp equaliser gave us some hope for the second leg, however, Italians do as Italians do.

Like Juve two years earlier, Inter simply played that match at their own pace, ensuring no mistakes. To make matters worse, Virgil van Dijk picked up two yellow cards before half-time, 10-man Celts battling bravely before Colombian midfielder Fredy Guarin scored a screamer in the dying moments, to remove even the consolation of a rare draw on Italian soil for the massed ranks of hooped diehards perched high up behind that goal.

A third-place finish in a Champions League section, behind Paris St Germain and Bayern Munich, saw Brendan Rodgers’ Bhoys parachute into the Europa League in his second season at Parkhead. The draw was no kinder, pairing Celts with Russian cracks, Zenit. For once, though, we took a lead into the away return, courtesy of the Charly Musonda assist and a wonderful Callum McGregor finish. That goal had been overturned within half-an-hour in a beautiful but freezing St Petersburg, as our awayday blues once again kicked in.

Defeat in Athens, six months later, saw Celtic demoted to the Europa League by the group stage, a late Scott Sinclair winner in Trondheim giving us a decent chance to qualify in second place. That opportunity looked to have gone, as we suffered another home defeat to Red Bull Salzburg in matchday six, however, a late and unlikely Rosenborg equaliser in Leipzig saw us edge out the wealthy Germans.

The fortunate reprieve wouldn’t last too long, as the draw brought us…Valencia. Goals either side of half-time saw Los Che, our first-ever opponents in competitive European football, wrap up the Round of 32 tie long before we headed to eastern Spain.

A cracking trip via Madrid, taking in the Atletico v Juventus Champions League match with my two sons, was spoilt by a lack of tickets and a second 1-0 defeat for me in the Mestalla. Within five days of our European exit, Brendan Rodgers was heading for the door too, in his case to Leicester, the poor timing of which I will never understand.

As with Valencia last February, and many more over the years, I had travelled with some combination of my boys or Celtic-mad daughter. The rite of passage. One of my favourite things.

For others, those trips had involved pals. That included Celtic’s previous tie with FC Copenhagen, back in December 2006. Having won all three home games, and with a superior head-to-head record against second-placed Manchester United, Celts only required to match the English club’s result in the final match to top the group. It was a dismal day in the Danish capital, in every sense.

Dropped off outside the stadium, we were soaked through long before we reached the sanctuary of a pub, any hope of seeing anything of the old city ruined by the constant downpour. I suspect even the famous statue of the Little Mermaid would have stayed indoors that day anyway. And the game wasn’t any better. A goal down before Zadok’s anthem had finished, and two before the half-hour, there was nothing wonderful about Copenhagen.

At 3-0 down, Jiri Jarosik pulled one back to muted cheers from a huge but soggy support. Off we trudged to the bus and the inquest on the miserable trip home. Never again. Well not until we’ve dried out anyway. The mood is not helped by hearing that Manchester United have beaten Benfica, so we will finish second. An opportunity missed. They will get Lille, by far the weakest team remaining, and we will get AC Milan.

If Carlsberg did Wednesdays, they wouldn’t be anything like this.

The group of friends on that Copenhagen trip had included Roy. And in a strange quirk of fate, we’ll be going back to Denmark together again, after a period where we haven’t seen each other that much, as life gets in the way.

We first met nearly thirty years ago, as work colleagues. A couple of Celtic-daft junior managers in a company which didn’t have too many of those at that point. We’re opposites in many ways but we hit it off. As you do. Last time we travelled together was to the Etihad, in December 2016. But in the nineties and early part of the millennium, there were countless trips and a thousand stories, which I’m looking forward to sharing again. Well, some of them not so much, perhaps.

Earliest memories of those awaydays are what seemed at that time to be an annual pilgrimage to OId Trafford, in the mid-nineties, long before the Champions League clashes.

We would head away from the busier fan meeting points to catch a few beers and some food ‘in peace’, ahead of the match. It worked well. There is one such day I recall. We’re sitting in a pub near the Old Trafford cricket ground. Late afternoon, in come the United supporters, and before too long we’re chatting away and having a few drinks with a couple of them.

Soon, it’s ‘give us a song then, lads’ time, and we duly oblige, with some of our lovely Celtic or Irish ballads, which don’t qualify as lovely Celtic or Irish ballads unless several perfectly innocent people have died cruelly, and your audience is weeping uncontrollably.

So, job done, it’s blonde-permed Manc’s turn. This time it’s Roy and I who are crying, with laughter, as he launches into a version of REM’s ‘Man on the Moon’, where the chorus involved several renditions of ‘Would you believe, I hit him with a brick, with a brick’. A poor Scouser being the victim. In fact, said Scousers are victims in every one of the songs belted out by our enthusiastic new friend, with the only variation being the method of pain inflicted. Many years later, at my 50th birthday party, Roy had this played as a special request. It had been one of my favourites at the time. Minus the bricks, obviously.

Towards the end of the millennium, we have a great day in Newcastle for Peter Beardsley’s testimonial and then we’re going continental. A trip to wet Zurich in November 1998, where Jock Brown receives the proverbial ‘pelters’ as he alights the team bus in front of us before the 4-2 defeat, in the dying embers of his unpopular reign at Parkhead.

Then a dreadful night in Lyon, the following October, where we feared that our King of Kings would never play again, after watching him suffer a horrendous leg break on the wet Stade Gerland turf. The incident happened on the far side of the pitch, most of us who stayed on at the end to belt out the longest-ever version of The Soldier’s Song, much to the amusement of our French hosts, blissfully unaware of just how bad the injury was until we saw the newspaper photographs at Glasgow Airport.

Thankfully Henrik did return, that moment when he warmed up behind the goal, before appearing for the final minutes of the 1999/2000 season, against Dundee United, still bringing a lump to my throat. Indeed, Larsson returned even stronger and better.

He would be a key player in Martin O’Neill’s wonderful side, which began two decades of dominance that summer. By August 2001, I was taking my sons to watch Celtic sides winning at Old Trafford and the Amsterdam Arena within seven incredible days.

We came up just short in our inaugural Champions League campaign, involving Juventus, Rosenborg and Porto, despite another perfect home record, however, a third-place finish saw Celts drop into the UEFA Cup to face Valencia, beaten finalists in the previous two elite competitions. Roy and I had enjoyed a memorable day in the beautiful Spanish city, in the company of our new friends, Cork and Tipperary, and a kidnapped local citizen. The full story of that trip is covered in a Celtic Star article within my Valencia File series from last year.

The Road to Seville involved some fantastic Celtic highlights mixed with personal tragedy for my family. Blackburn was a blast, despite our pub being attacked during the day.

We travelled down in a minibus to meet up with Paddy Sweeney’s Donegal Bhoys on that trip, staying overnight with them in Preston. Absolute carnage, as 8,000 Hoops partied in the Darwen End on Men Against Boys night.

We’re sitting on the coach after the game, waiting to head back to the hotel, getting a bit annoyed as some irate Irishmen are trying to remove us from our seats, so we don’t budge. Only issue was that we were on the wrong bus, ours was parked behind. Mercifully, there was no beating dished out to us by the Belfast Brigade and we made it back to the best singsong ever in the Marriott, dozens of perfectly innocent people martyred as the full repertoire was covered into the early hours. A fantastic night.

On to Vigo and another classic day trip, as Celts progressed in Europe beyond Christmas for the first time since I was a teenager, thanks to Big Bad John’s power and precision. I had my young nephew with me, so the hassle in the airport afterwards, where the police seemed to take umbrage at anyone and everyone, wasn’t great.

My abiding memory of that terminal wait is also that flights were delayed as some of the passengers hadn’t appeared for boarding. Things are getting really heated, as the police dish it out, when in stroll the bold Bhoys, complete with mega-duty-free ‘carry-out’. ‘Awright, chaps,’ says one, only to be met with a torrent of abuse from a crowd of angry, dry and weary fellow travellers.

The following February we are in Stuttgart. It is a special trip, as three generations of Matt Corr are abroad with Celtic for the first and only time. My dad has now been given just months to live, so my sister and I are with him and my teenage son for one last party in the Hoops.

The baton is passing on. She looks after dad while he rests, and we head into town to catch up with Roy, Paddy and the other boys for a few hours before returning for the match. The guys are arguing about whether they will order beer or wine in the Chinese restaurant and some poor German gets some good-natured abuse to the tune of ‘Dirty Old Town’. My son loves it. It is an incredible, emotional couple of days which see Celtic into the quarter-final, where we will face Liverpool.

‘See you at Anfield’, says the scoreboard.

But I won’t be there. I’ve been based down in Merseyside for work for a few years and so I’m chuffed to receive and happy to accept an invitation to hospitality from one of our software contractors. Then, just the night before the game, my mum unexpectedly passes away. Out of the blue. God has taken her first. He has his reasons. As the Hoops are stunning hosts Liverpool, we are hosting stunned family and mourning a loving, wonderful mum.

We were never losing that game. She will never walk alone.

I watch us qualify for the final on television, with my dad, on the longest night, then I take my sons to Seville. I am one ticket short, so my 9-year-old daughter misses out, something I regret to this day. She is the most devoted Celtic supporter you will ever meet, with never a word of criticism to be heard. She absolutely deserves to see the Hoops on that stage, and I have no doubt that her day will come.

In September, I have to cancel a trip to Munich, as some kind-hearted soul decides to break into our home and steal our car and possessions, whilst we are sleeping upstairs, just a few days beforehand. I sincerely hope you are/were lucky in life, my friend. You ruined ours, at a particularly difficult time.

I would catch up with Roy and the Bhoys in Brussels the next month, a city with more Irish bars than Dublin it would appear. A fabulous opportunity to break the European ‘away hoodoo’ is passed up, as 17-year-old Vincent Kompany and his Anderlecht team grab a 1-0 win. It will cost us qualification. That will be it for Europe for me as well this season. Three days before Bayern come to Glasgow, my beloved dad, having ensured that the love of his life would not be left alone here, took his leave to join her.

The following spring, there is a first trip to Barcelona with Celtic, our newly-purchased sombreros acting as gutters, as yet again the rain in Spain falls mainly on the Hoops support. We’re up in the gods beside the Camp Nou clock to watch David Marshall give the performance of his life, as the matchstick Bhoys far below defy Ronaldinho and co, to add the silky Catalunyan giants to our list of major scalps.

We will be back in Barcelona several times, and Manchester, Milan and Lisbon, to the point where the Champions League draw has become Groundhog Day. We want Madrid. Or Dortmund. Or even Rome. We get the latter but I am taking my daughter there. And now we are heading to Copenhagen again.

I’ve returned from Cluj with the mother and father of all coughs, feeling like my own time has come. It’s man flu at its worst, so, obviously, the women in my life don’t get it. ‘Can’t believe you’re floating about Romania in that weather, at your age. Hell mend you.’ No sympathy whatsoever. Wummin, eh? So, Christmas is cancelled and a horrible day at Celtic Park at the end of the month sees off Hogmanay.

But I’m in a better place now, as we set off for Copenhagen. My wife had reached a landmark age in the summer, which wasn’t forty or sixty, and we had booked some close-seas…I mean winter sunshine on a Caribbean cruise. Sunshine and travel are another two of my favourite things, which don’t always involve Celtic, and we have a brilliant couple of weeks ticking off ‘bucket list’ items.

Touring Havana in a vintage American car, then visiting the monument to Che Guevara before sinking a Mojito in the Nacional hotel where scenes from The Godfather were filmed.

Bizarrely, I find a replica of the trophy which the Lions won in the Lisbon estadio of the same name on display there. In the ‘Hall of the Famous People’. How very appropriate. Sailing down the Panama Canal on a cruise liner, with literally inches to spare on either side. A unique experience.

Then setting foot on South American soil for the first time, in beautiful Cartegena in northern Colombia. Lovely cold Corona beers are going down a treat in the hot afternoon sun until I give the waiter the local sign for ‘no more, finished’, which he seems to take great exception to. No idea what happened there but we leave, promptly.

There are stops in Mexico, Costa Rica and Grand Cayman before the highlight, a visit to the neighbourhood and former home of Bob Marley in Trenchtown, a suburb of Kingston, Jamaica. Bob had a love of Celtic, managing to squeeze our line, ‘If you know the history’ into his hit song, ‘Buffalo Soldier’, and meeting Dixie, Dixie, Dixie, Dixie, Dixie Deans, when both legends were in Australia. Only regret is that we are in Jamaica and everyone is extremely chilled about timings, so I don’t manage to hook up again with Simon, who I met on one of my Celtic Park tours last year and who lives there.

Next time, big man. Here a few snaps from this wonderful experience, then it’s back to the football on the next page.

We arrive home, co-incidentally, on the morning of the Kilmarnock game. I managed to get tickets for both visits last season, however, we get no joy this time around.

Still, it’s good to be back watching the Bhoys in action after a three-week break, even on TV. And we then keep on winning in the interim.

There will be a further ‘bucket list’ item to be ticked off in the summer, God willing, as I receive the news that I have been accepted on to the Celtic FC Foundation’s trip to Zambia in June, to continue work on the ’67 Kitchens’ project. My brother was on the 2019 visit and says it was the most incredible experience. We will be going together this summer, and whilst I’m nervous, I’m also proud and excited.

Two weeks later, I become a grandad again. For the third time. It is one of life’s great pleasures to spend time with the next generation as they take their first steps and I’m very lucky that an early retirement has allowed me to do more over the past two years. Another wee Corr Bhoy has now joined the world. Thankfully, mum and baby are both doing well, albeit dad tells me that he is stressed out!

And workwise, I have ploughed through since my return to finally complete my first Celtic book, the manuscript passed to my editor the night before we fly to Denmark, as is the latest article for the matchday programme. The book has been my main focus for the best part of a year now, and it feels fantastic to have finally reached this stage. I am working with good Celtic Star people, who have been a godsend. I can’t wait to see how it looks in print and to fulfil a dream I have held since childhood.

I have also been providing articles for each of the home League game programmes for the past couple of seasons, another labour of love.

For the last campaign, I wrote about the nineteen title-winning seasons Celtic fans have enjoyed since Billy McNeill became the boss at Parkhead in 1978, ‘We are the Champions’.

This season’s feature is called ‘A League of Their Own’ and looks at the nineteen men who have made most Scottish League appearances for Celtic since its inception in 1890. As you would expect, there are some incredible players in that list, spanning every generation. That will now include the current crop, as Scott Brown steadily works his way up the table from his starting position of 21.

So with all current publishing targets met, we’re all off to Copenhagen in the green, in the green, the only weight on my shoulders being a rucksack with a change of clothes. This time, we’re travelling with Hynds Travel from Milngavie, with an overnight stay on the Wednesday, returning after the match.

‘Normal table in the Beardsmore, sir?’ ‘Why, yes. And we’ll take two of your vintage Irish stouts and excellent beef-based breakfasts, my good man’. I haven’t even sat down and I hear a voice ‘Matt Corr?’

Embarassingly, I’m struggling to place the face until the guy offers his name. I don’t feel so bad when I realise that I haven’t seen him in maybe forty years, as a member of the Cairn CSC around 1980.

I’m really chuffed that he recognises me and tells me that I haven’t changed, until I realise that would make me Springburn’s first bald teenager. Bummer. I’m going with the version that he recognised me from Twitter, where we have exchanged a few messages.

It’s lovely to see him. His sister married my pal, a guy who I started school with and had kept touch with through the teenage years and marriages until the kids came along, from whence we would only meet occasionally. Nevertheless, it was a huge shock to pick up a message as we left Old Trafford after the Roy Keane Testimonial, telling me he had passed away. He was only 45. I hadn’t even known he was ill. Turns out, neither did he. RIP Davie.

It is as well we have had a few drinks and a hot roll. We are travelling with Enter airlines and it would appear the Polish cabin staff have vastly underestimated the Troops’ capacity for purchasing alcohol. We are seated in row 14 and are taking bets as to how far up the aircraft the poor steward will manage before we land, as he ticks off each sale on a five-bar gate. No, I don’t know either. In any case, he is still trying to reach us when the pilot announces landing positions, as some of the passengers complete a dry flight they perhaps had not envisaged, and no mysterious zlotys will appear on my next Visa bill.

The bus drops us off at the hotel and Iain Hynds has again done us proud. The Hotel Tivoli is right on the harbour and is perfect. Modern, clean and spacious. Quick wash and change, then it’s time to head into town for lunch and a few beers. As usual, @timsontour we do it in the other order, checking out The Old Irish Pub on Vesterbrogade, off the brilliantly named Hans Christian Andersen’s Boulevard.

It is certainly a fairytale for those of a Hoops persuasion, located in a square block which also includes The Scottish Pub, Rosie McGee’s, The Old English Pub and The Shamrock. That’s more like it, Carlsberg.

One thing has remained the same in Copenhagen since the previous trip in December 2006, the rain. It hasn’t stopped since we landed and now provides a good excuse to head into The Old Irish Pub, so we can take stock. Gather our thoughts. You know the drill.

Inside, it feels like a Celtic version of the World Darts Finals you see on television at the new year. The place is massive and the tables are packed with Celtic supporters as far as the eye can see. We head all the way down to the front and grab a spot at the bar, just as a guy walks on stage with a guitar, to his biggest-ever audience. Result.

Within minutes, the party’s in full swing, with one or two Irish tunes. Then he moves across the water for a Gerry Cinnamon tribute, which goes down a storm. Lunch is cancelled. The Hoops are loving it and we’re having a chuckle as the set progresses and it becomes apparent that he doesn’t know the words! Michael wasn’t taken away, apparently, as Trevelyan’s Quorn was found and now sells like hot er…quorn, in the new Celtic Park vegan stall (copyright The Shamrock). And Grace and Joe spent many happy years as a married couple. Well, in the land of fairytales, I think they all earned a happy ending.

After a few welcome Guinnesses, we’re feeling brave enough to face the weather and head for lunch. First sight we see outside the pub gives us another laugh. A lone Celt is walking in front of us with a combo of Celtic tracksuit top, kilt, hooped socks and red trainers. Superb. We head around the block and find a nice restaurant, Casa Lola, and it’s a good choice. Steak and Spanish beers and life is good again. Across the road from the restaurant is The Shamrock Inn, which allows us to break the journey of a few hundred metres with another couple of pints and a chat with some Celtic supporters there.

Next stop is Rosie McGee’s, as master tacticians Roy and I plot the defeat of FC Copenhagen with some out-of-the-box thinking in terms of team selection, as well as a long overdue catch-up and several jars.

The Danish champions are a mixture of the old and the new, having been formed in 1992 as a result of a merger between two existing clubs, Kjobenhavns Boldklub (KB) and Boldklubben 1903 (BK1903). KB lay claim to being the first football club to be established on continental Europe, playing their initial game in 1879, and remain the most successful side in Denmark, with fifteen national championships. BK1903 caused a minor sensation in September 1971, when they beat Jock Stein’s Celtic 2-1 in the first leg of their first round European Cup tie at the Idraetsparken, home of KB and the national team.

It was a display described by the Celtic manager as ‘the worst-ever in Europe’, despite the fact the squad of twelve who took part included seven Lions plus Kenny Dalglish, George Connelly and Lou Macari. This would be the second and final appearance in the Celtic goal of Gordon Marshall, following his debut in the Drybrough Cup semi-final at Firhill the previous month, where he had shipped two goals to Saint Johnstone, before a hat-trick from the rising star, Dalglish, saved the day.

Regular keeper, Evan Williams had been dropped by Stein for losing two goals at Ibrox the previous weekend, despite the fact that his side had won their third game there in 28 days! Tommy Callaghan was the other Celt yet to be mentioned here, his fine run and cross setting up Macari for an equaliser, the only highlight of the Hoops’ night. Both Danish goals were scored by outside-left, Benny Johansen. In a strange quirk of fate, he would become the first manager of the newly-formed FC Copenhagen in 1992.

Those opening few months of 1971/72 had been dramatic, highlighting transition on and off the field. July had seen the emergence of the young Dalglish as a first-team player and the death of a man who had been the darling of the Celtic support in the fifties, the one-and-only Charles Patrick Tully, just 47.

A magnificent, newly-refurbished, main stand was taking shape, opened on the first day of September against Uruguayan champions, Nacional, by another legend, Jimmy McGrory, Celts celebrating with a fine 3-0 victory in front of 60,000 fans.

The old guard was moving on, Stevie Chalmers joining John Clark in the blue-and-white hoops of Morton the same month, the fourth of the Lions to leave Celtic, following Ronnie Simpson’s retirement and Bertie Auld’s move to Easter Road in the close-season.

Both Chalmers and Clark would then make an immediate and nostalgic return to Parkhead, just three days after the defeat in Copenhagen, with Luggy taking nostalgia a step too far by scoring his final goal for Celtic, deflecting a Lou Macari effort past former-Rangers keeper Erik Sorensen, to give the hosts a 2-1 lead.

The following Tuesday saw the death of Celtic chairman, Robert Kelly, a director since 1932, upon the passing of his father James, the club’s first captain and superstar, Kelly junior then becoming chairman fifteen years later. He would be succeeded in that role by club secretary, Desmond White.

The day after Bob Kelly’s death saw the debut of 16-year-old Brian McLaughlin, in the second leg of a League Cup quarter-final tie against Clydebank at Celtic Park. McLaughlin was a wonderful player, and he may have gone on to fulfil his promise as the successor to Dalglish, had fate and William McVie not intervened two years later, the Clyde defender effectively ruining his career with a brutal challenge.

The following midweek, I was one of 53,000 making their way to Celtic Park for the return leg with BK1903 on a wet, miserable night. It was my third European game – following victories over Finland’s Kokkola and Ireland’s Waterford United the previous season – and it took place on the eleventh birthday of my late friend, Davie, mentioned earlier.

The 9-0 win over Kokkola had been played on my big cousin’s tenth birthday, a young yellow-clad substitute called Paul Wilson scoring his first two goals for Celtic. It’s funny the things which stick in your mind, even after all these years. Stein’s side had lost out in that first European season for yours truly to eventual winners, Ajax of Amsterdam, thus missing the opportunity of a second successive final, this time at Wembley. Can you begin to imagine that?

As expected, the Danes were under the cosh from the off, as Celts set about repairing the damage from the first leg. However, in a rare breakaway, it’s heart-in-mouth time, as a long-distance lob bounces off the crossbar in front of us, with Evan Williams hopelessly beaten.

Thankfully, normal order is soon restored, a through ball from David Hay slipped into the net by Willie Wallace, who had replaced the unusually-ineffective Jimmy Johnstone at half-time in Copenhagen. With BK1903 tiring, Jock Stein made another interval change in Glasgow, this time John Hughes for Bobby Lennox.

‘Yogi’ made an immediate impact, his strong runs down the left flank terrorising the part-time defenders, the big winger eventually dragged down for a stick-on penalty. Taking it himself, he is aghast as keeper Jensen makes the latest in a series of superb saves. He is finally beaten again with eleven minutes remaining, a stunning bullet header from Tommy Callaghan giving Celts the lead in the tie. With five minutes to play, another expert turn and finish from Wallace tied things up at 3-0. Job done. No cigar.

This would prove a pivotal night for another two of the Lions. After twelve years at the club, John Hughes would not play for Celtic again, his spot-kick miss a low note to go out on for a player who gave us so much pleasure.

And Willie Wallace’s double would be his last goals in the Hoops. He would start three days later, as St Johnstone earned a rare win at Parkhead, having beaten SV Hamburg in midweek, then appear as a substitute, as Celts qualified for the League Cup Final with a 3-0 Hampden victory over St Mirren.

Then, the day before the next European Cup match, against Maltese side Sliema Wanderers, both Hughes and Wallace would be sold to Crystal Palace.

In the aftermath of the awful 4-1 defeat by Partick Thistle in that League Cup final, the revolving door would continue to spin. Denis Connaghan, who had impressed in the semi-final, would be Stein’s new first-choice keeper within days, following his move from Paisley, and striker John ‘Dixie’ Deans signed from Motherwell. And by Christmas, Tommy Gemmell was heading to Nottingham Forest, as the ruthless Stein swung the axe.

Celts would go all the way to the semi-final of that season’s European Cup, before Inter Milan gained a degree of revenge for defeat in Lisbon, five years earlier, Deans the only man to miss from the spot after 210 minutes of goalless stalemate in Milan and Glasgow, denying Celtic another crack at Ajax.

There would be Danish victories in the years to follow for Celtic, in Vejle and Aarhus but no return to the capital before the aforementioned visit of 2006.

Day 2 of this current trip starts off with a city tour on foot, the decision to walk past the covered red sightseeing bus outside the front door of the hotel feeling quickly like a bad one as, once again, we get a soaking. Unlike our previous visit, at least we see a bit of the place this time, and it’s a lovely city.

The world-famous Tivoli Gardens amusement park is directly opposite the main railway station, on our way into town. Passing the Irish pubs frequented yesterday, we see the magnificent Radhus City Hall, then head into the pedestrianised historic town centre, Indre By.

The main shopping street is Stroget, festooned with Chinese-style lanterns overhead and winding along forever, it seems. Further up Stroget, we pass some Celts standing under shelter outside the Dubliner pub. The Hoops are here in big numbers but very low-key in this part of the city.

The weather has put paid to the normal awayday practice of assembling in a central square for a party, as far as we can see anyway. Soon we are at an unusual building, the Rundetaarn or Round Tower. Too wet to care at that point, I later establish that it’s a 17th century observatory with stunning views of Copenhagen. We wander a bit further, rather aimlessly, the city map now also wet through and pretty much useless as a reference point.

We reach a main transport hub, the Norreport, named after the north gate of the old city walls I later discover, and half-jokingly consider going in just to dry off. I am not going to see the Little Mermaid at this rate and I have had enough. Time to head back to the hotel to check-out.

As we turn, I see a familiar face from the past. Mick was in the year below me at St Roch’s, back in the seventies, as was his wife, who then became our neighbours in Bishopbriggs a decade later. Our oldest boys then went to school together but l haven’t seen him in many years. Small world as it is, I then find out we have a mutual friend in Twitter’s Lisbon Lion. The rain is not conducive to a lengthy conversation so it’s a quick handshake and cheerio. Sightseeing trip is over for the day.

It’s matchday afternoon and we’re back in Rosie McGee’s. The jukebox is playing some great tunes, The Cure’s ‘Friday I’m In Love’ – the CD playing in my car back home at the moment – and Bowie’s ‘Heroes’, an all-time favourite. The bliss is shattered by the arrival of a musician in the corner, pointed out by Roy. He looks like Micky Donovan, father of TV’s Ray, a part brilliantly played by Jon Voight in the hit series, another of my favourites. Complete with pork pie hat, Micky commences the weirdest acoustic guitar set ever, Deep Purple’s classic ‘Smoke on the Water’ followed by Peter, Paul & Mary’s ‘Leaving on a Jet Plane’, one of the songs I learned to play on the guitar as a kid. Completely bizarre.

Next it’s Karaoke with Micky Donovan, as the Celtic supporters get in on the act. A chap sporting my hairstyle gets up to do his bit before announcing that it’s ‘one singer one song’. Over the next couple of hours, he breaks his own rule, several times, however the craic is good and the atmosphere great, one of the barman getting into the spirit by changing into the Hoops and belting out the songs. A guy is selling half-and-scarves, allowing me to maintain a tradition by buying one for my daughter. This has been going since long before such items could be spotted on television in the Sky Tourist league, in a Manchester derby for example, as passionate lifelong United fans wear them for their selfies with Pep.

Then it’s Roy’s turn to meet an old pal, or in his case, a neighbour. Jim lives back-to-back from him in Milngavie. He is in a company with the nephew of another guy who played fives with us at Goals in Drumchapel many ankle injuries ago. We have decided to go for some lunch before heading back to the hotel to pick up our bus to the game, then another two pints of Guinness miraculously appear on the bar, courtesy of this nice and very generous young man. Fair play. But lunch is cancelled. Again.

At 4-30ish, we throw our bags onto a coach to leave the hotel for the game and within half-an-hour, we are pulling up on what looks like the Kelvin Way, the stadium in the distance. This is Faelledparken and is the site of the birth of the KB football club, mentioned earlier.

It is adjacent to the Telia Parken, the stadium built to replace the Idraetsparken in 1992, as the home of the new club, FC Copenhagen. A couple of minutes later, we are marching past the stadium in search of food. The coach had dropped us right here in 2006, so I’m feeling comfortable of my bearings, although this will require walking away from the ground towards the built-up area where we pitched camp almost fourteen years ago.

Whilst there are restaurants aplenty, the message is the same at each one. Fully booked. No tables. It’s getting to the stage where we give up when we stumble upon a small Vietnamese restaurant up a side street. The hostess greets us with a smile and it’s game on.

We are then served a banquet with about seventeen courses, each one delicious. In fact, we would probably still be there had a certain matter of the match not be taking place. We eventually settle the bill, make our excuses and leave.

It’s a good fifteen-minute jog to the Telia Parken and we have…about fifteen minutes to get there. We reach our destination as the teams are kicking off and enter the bedlam of the away end, forcing our way through the seas of Celtic fans behind the goal towards the far corner, via a quick hello with Tony from Cluj/Rennes.

Finally, we can draw breath. We’ve hardly settled into our new surroundings when a great move across the Danish box ends with French Eddie’s delightful clip finish for 1-0.

It’s Carlsberg shampoos all round, as the first objective of an away European trip is achieved, a meaningful goal. It transpires that this is the first away goal Celtic have scored in the knockout stages of a European competition since Henrik Larsson’s sliced finish knocked out Boavista in Oporto in April 2003, a game I mentioned earlier and a quite staggering statistic.

It was a finish worthy of the King of Kings. The first half continues where we left off in Rome, with the yellow-shirted Celts swarming into attack after attack. The only surprise at the interval is that we have not added to our lead. This has been a theme of away ties in Europe this season, playing like Celtic, even away from home against good opposition.

It is a million miles from the displays I watched on the continent for much of the eighties and nineties, and into the new millennium. And it is a very welcome change from all of that, with improved results.

At half-time, I take the opportunity to have a proper look around the stadium. It’s an impressive sight, with four square stands, all of which are packed out. Behind us, the away support section, is a block of hospitality suites. I am fairly sure that this was an upper stand when we were last here, just like the other three sides. There are Celtic supporters visible in the main stand away to our left. Lots of them. The Danes have filled the rest. The atmosphere is electric, with no hint whatsoever of any trouble.

The teams emerge from the tunnel in the far corner to a tremendous racket. The Copenhagen fans are bouncing to the tune blaring from the PA system and the Hoops all around me are going mental, dancing up and down. Turns out the song is called ‘Tsunami’. This would be a superb addition to the Celtic matchday experience, especially under the lights. It is a fantastic sight and sound to witness.

Sadly, the second period but does not fulfil the potential of the first. It is the proverbial ‘game of two halves’. The hosts have come out flying and we are under pressure from the outset, a Copenhagen goal feeling like a matter of time. And it is, the veteran N’Doye’s shot crashing in off the far post within seven minutes and suddenly we are in trouble.

We are severely under the cosh yet manage to create two gilt-edged chances on the break, Callum McGregor firing over when the pass to Odsonne Edouard looked a better option then the Danish keeper producing a great reaction save from the Frenchman.

There are two further blows before the final whistle. With twenty minutes remaining, skipper Scott Brown is forced to leave the field with what looks like a calf injury, to be replaced by Nir Bitton.

And our first experience of VAR is not a pleasant one, as a huge roar goes up from three sides of the ground following a cross into our box from the left. I haven’t see any offence but your instincts tell you that we might be in a spot of bother, literally.

Sure enough, the Russian referee stops the game seconds later and jogs across to have a look at the pitchside monitor. There are 30,000 Danes who have already made the decision for him, and he duly trots back to point to the spot.

Our only hope is Fraser Forster’s excellent record in these situations, and he comes through for us again, with a sublime diving save to our left, the ball pushed onto the post and rolling across the line behind him before being scrambled clear. There is chaos around me once again as the Troops celebrate an unexpected reprieve. It may prove crucial, as the game ends 1-1, leaving Celtic with the opportunity to win the tie at home.

The team have come across to take their bow and thank the travelling support.

Thankfully, there is no lock-in this time and we can start to make our way back to the buses. To my left, some supporters are having some final photographs taken in the stadium and the Moscow CSC are removing their banner. From Russia with love, right enough. I never fail to be surprised by the reach of the Celtic family.

We have left the stadium to make our way past the buses. The Nirvana coaches are parked outside and we are well jealous as they jump in out of the cold. We cut back into the Faelledparken and inadvertently take a wrong turning, leaving us with an unnecessarily long journey back to find ours. I am really surprised that no-one had missed the bus, given the complicated route in the dark, until I catch up with Twitter the following morning, where Iain Hynds had posted a map showing that if we had kept going, the bus was parked around the corner from the stadium. The end of a perfect day.

Well not quite. We are sitting on the bus for what seems an inordinate time, before finally making our way back to the airport. Normally, you are given boarding passes for both flights on the outward check-in. But not today. We will require to queue once again, even though we have already been allocated the same seats as yesterday and, bizarrely, the airport staff do not seem to be expecting us.

There are two flights due to leave for Glasgow within the next couple of hours but the lights are out and nobody is in. It has been a long, wet day and we just want to get on the aircraft. Some supporters are providing updates from Ibrox, and the score changes from 0-2 to 3-2 and we have still not moved. That didn’t help. Eventually, we board the plane and then experience the third lengthy delay of the night, as it appears some folk have managed to board the long flight. My heart goes out to Iain, left to sort it out.

It’s Friday morning and we’re home. After a shower and breakfast, I am feeling slightly more human and thinking that my ‘never again’ comment was perhaps a tad hasty. I am catching up with Twitter and reading some nice comments from the Danes in respect of the Celtic support. Peter Schmeichel. Thomas Gravesen. Even the Copenhagen police. Then I read the police statement again and cringe, as it refers to how great it was having ‘you gays in town’. It’s alright. No-one else will notice. Yeah right.

There is a WhatsApp message from my son, timed at 6.45am, a time I didn’t think he knew was real.

‘Anything you want to tell us, Dad?’

Hail Hail!

Matt Corr

Follow Matt on Twitter @Boola_vogue

Matt’s first Celtic book is titled INVINCIBLE and will be published soon by The Celtic Star.

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