We arrived in Cherbourg
Again we drove through the night before stopping for breakfast somewhere in the middle of France. The drivers were pleased with progress and thought that they could catch a late afternoon ferry from Cherbourg rather than the night ferry from Le Havre. A phone box was found, a call made, and it was established that the ferry company had no problem with that plan.
We arrived in Cherbourg at around noon with some hours to pass before setting sail. We were at a loose end. The bars no longer seemed to have the same appeal for the drinkers among us, or perhaps they had run out of cash. There were no ATMs in those days to allow for a top up. A gang of us wandered past a locked church. Someone said, “Today’s Sunday. We should be trying to find a Mass”. Some else suggested inquiring at the parochial house. We agreed on that course of action.
“Faith of Our Fathers”
The priest answered the door and we told our story. He offered to open the church at 1:00pm and celebrate a special Mass for us. A respectable number turned up and filled three or four pews at the front of the Church. As the Mass came to an end the priest suggested that we should conclude with a hymn. After conferring briefly it was agreed we would try “Faith of Our Fathers”.
The words had the right level of defiance to have it sung occasionally in Celtic Park and so everybody joined in enthusiastically. Before we reached the end someone whispered “We should have had a collection”. The reply came “There is no plate” and another voice said, ”Use Andy Murphy’s hat”. Andy’s hat was famous. It wasn’t a
cap as you might expect but a trilby and badly needed to protect Andy’s bald head from the British winter and the Spanish sun.
Inter Milan line-up in Lisbon
It was duly passed round and by the time it reached me, it had an impressive amount of coins. I am not sure how much value it had to the priest as it contained a selection of low-value escudos, pesetas and francs. In other words we had all emptied our pockets of the cash that was going to be of no further use to us.
We were all tired and short of money
We were all tired and short of money and so had an uneventful sea crossing, followed by a drive to London, arriving there around midnight. The entire trip had been a bit of an endurance test. Over the course of the week some of us slept in a bed on two nights, others just one. It was all worth it – we had witnessed the greatest event in Celtic’s illustrious history and left ourselves with memories that have faded little over the course of a lifetime.
¹While it existed the sixpence coin was frequently referred to as a “tanner”.
(From talking to other fans in Lisbon after the game we were left with the impression that three buses had left the UK for Lisbon. We made it all the way; one broke down and by the time it was repaired had to turn back; the third took a wrong turn and ended up in Madrid. A few of the fans on the latter flew from Madrid to Lisbon and were expecting the bus to catch up and take them home.)
Liam Ferrie
Liam contacted us after reading the first part of our Lisbon stories published on The Celtic Star earlier this week…
IN THE HEAT OF LISBON, THE FANS CAME IN THEIR THOUSANDS
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- The fans came in their thousands
25 May 1967 – 9.50am. For the first time in my life I can see what Glasgow looks like from above. My first plane trip gives me a chance to look down on housing schemes, shipyards and green hills. I will not be the only person on this plane flying for the first time.
Summer holidays generally meant Troon, Saltcoats or Portobello if we were adventurous. I had been out of Scotland once before – a fortnight in a caravan in Devon but that journey was nothing compared this one of almost 2000 kilometres.
For the last two years or so I had been travelling all around Scotland watching my team, Celtic, in their quest for Scottish Cup and League Championship success. However even the trip to Pittodrie was merely a jaunt in comparison with a flight to the Portuguese capital.
As the plane levelled off and we settled down I thought how this journey began. I don’t mean leaving home at 6am this morning. Was it some six years or so earlier when I saw my first Celtic game? Or was it even before that?
In fact I realised that, like probably many others on that flight, my journey to see Celtic try and become the greatest club in Europe had begun even before I was born…
To be continued…
Mike Maher (In the Heat of Lisbon, 2017)
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- The fans came in their thousands
IN THE HEAT OF LISBON, THE FANS CAME IN THEIR THOUSANDS
Billy Dunlop had supported Celtic all his life, a dedication forged on the streets and parks of his hometown, Rutherglen, where he rubbed shoulders with many would-be Hoops heroes, including a trio of future professional Murdoch brothers, Bobby, Billy and James (yes, that Bobby). It is no surprise, then, that the final whistle in Prague’s Juliska stadium on 25th April 1967, which confirmed Celtic’s status as European Cup Finalists that year, triggered an unshakeable resolve in young Mr D to be at that momentous event, backing his heroes in what he was sure would be their finest hour.
A 26-year-old jobbing bricklayer on a site in Bonhill, Dunbartonshire at the time, Billy raised the extra funds required for his pilgrimage to Lisbon as part of a squad that built a house, “on the side”, for a doctor in Neilston.
As the final drew within touching distance, around mid-morning on Sunday 21st May 1967 (a day, or so, in advance of the Moy Bar group from Hamilton), four friends set off from Rutherglen in a small Ford van en route to Portugal’s ancient Capital city to cheer on their “Grand Old Team”. The group comprised of Billy himself; van owner and plumber, Jim McGuire; trip mechanic, Joe Duffy; and a certain Matt Murdoch – none other than the brother of the above footballing trio of fellow ‘Ruglonians’, who had honed their considerable skills in the same Lanarkshire town as the travelling quartet.
Nowadays, the brother of a soon-to-be European Champion might reasonably expect to travel to such a prestigious event in some style; but in those less glamorous and less lucrative times, when top players at a “family” club like Celtic were still basically fans in a jersey, a mere sibling of one of the game’s greatest-ever midfielders just had to rough it like any other punter.
