Fans of The Beatles may remember when their ‘Anthology’ was shown on TV in the mid 90s. One instalment dealt with the legendary Shea Stadium gig. I recall being quite impressed with the editing of one trailer, in which all surviving members of the group name checked the venue in quick succession with faces still betraying a sense of awe at the gravity of an event held thirty or so years prior.

I think that’s the way it’s going to be with Seville.

My Seville story really started while I watched the Boavista away leg with my wife at home. This had become a superstitious arrangement through progressive away ties in the competition. I’d come to feel that we wouldn’t win if the dynamic consisted of anything more than her and I. Irrational yes, but hardly unusual for someone who dribbles a mini football around the house during live radio commentaries somehow believing that I’m contributing to the match in progress.

Of course we’d loved Blackburn, Stuttgart, Liverpool etc, but with twenty minutes to go in Oporto, I sat with my stomach recreating a range of football related sinking feelings from the past. You know, being told I was ‘rubbish’ by the high school team prima donna as another of his cannonball passes rocketed out for a shy under my foot, or the time I ran home from primary school to watch Celtic lose to…someone…on a black and white television during the seventies. I’ve never wanted to find out who we lost to or what year it was. The memory is more intriguing left blurry like footage of the moon landings.

Back in 2003, I’m out of the seat, whole body wound in tension. I’ve only breathed in. I’m gonna have to breathe out eventually. The ball, the ball…it’s hit off Hartson, no he passed it…wha’?…. HENRIK, PLEASE, PLEASE!

I never stopped to think about dad’s instructions. Toughen up? Stop greetin’? When you love Celtic you’ve got no chance. BANG, my head went off like a beetroot grenade. I got those wee stars and psychedelic patterns in my eyes as I let out a throaty skrike again and again. Still, hold it, calm it, easy baw etc. We’re no’ out the woods yet. The spell at the end was sheer hell. I celebrated Bobo’s clearances louder than I do goals at most SPL home games.

The final whistle blew. I’d look at a tape of events later I thought. I always love scrutinising the scenes and interviews at the end of Cup Finals but now is just for us to enjoy I kept repeating to a still seated other half ‘We’ve done it, We’ve done it’. Now, most of the time I speak (a lot) without thinking about it but I really felt the ‘we’. Not just in our living room but in Oporto, crofts on Barra, downtown Boston and all the Celtic bars I’d ever drank in.

I threatened the mood a wee bit by getting herself in an affectionate headlock. Obviously, a gallon of adrenaline wasn’t jetting through her system as a stupid, tearful ape flew at her from the other side of the room. She forgave me though after much apologising. I mean, I had to keep on her good side – Seville wasn’t going to come cheap.

As I lay horizontal on the living room floor, necking the last can of celebration Stella from the fridge, I beamed as yet another bevvied ‘tic fan challenged the panel to deny we were brilliant on the post-match phone ins.

Two hours after the final whistle and I was still clenching my fist and spitting ‘Yessss’ every now and then like it was a twitch. How was I going to get there and how might I get a ticket?

People all over the world were thinking the same thing. It was to be a big exciting, nervy, and periodically depressing game of musical tickets (and flights). During my quest to reach Seville I would see the best and worst of human traits (in context you understand) and also rediscover what I already knew – Celtic is not just a football club but an ideal concerned with fair play for everyone.

Flights were fairly easy. I queued outside a travel agent on Cathcart Road in Glasgow on a drizzly Monday morning before work along with a dozen or so other hyper hoopites. I was to end up on a French jumbo more used to taking Serge and Monique long haul trips to Tahiti than carting 500+ Celtic fans to Andalusia. It’s quite a sight to see that many people on a plane wearing the same top. Still, I don’t imagine anyone thought ‘damn, I must change’.

So far so good. I’d resigned myself to simply making a pilgrimage to Seville, ticket or no ticket. Over the next few weeks at work I tried to make connections via email to every long shot I could think of. Two lines of enquiry remain with me for different reasons.

Cesar is a Basque doctor who lodged with a mate of mine in Edinburgh. When I explained my dire need he asked his father to suss out the ticket scene across there. The old boy called his business contacts in Seville only to draw a blank. Even though he looks like an able Bilboa centre back, Cesar’s not really a football fan. The fact that he tried to help was much appreciated though.

CONTINUED TO NEXT PAGE…

Maybe I should have known better but keeping tabs on the various CFC message boards really brought me down. I realise there would be a proportion of wind up merchants and full-time touts on the sites but I also caught a whiff of some selfish, profiteering fans. The popular line of argument seemed to be ‘what would you do in my place’? That’s easy – sell at face value.

The weeks drifted past and all my options dissolved one by one. It would be the big screens for me. In the days leading up to the final, TV reports were coming live from Seville. I was just desperate to get out there. Everyone in the office was talking about it all the time. I got the impression that fans of all other teams (except the obvious) and none were as excited as us, and that the whole event had become one for Scotland. I think it’s worth remembering that we don’t, and have never felt the need to sing ‘no-one likes us we don’t care’. Many do like us and we do care.

Monday 19 May 2003 was like any other day at work except I was chain guzzling coffee and pacing the floor like an expectant father. The phone went. Call from a colleague:

Caller – ‘What are you doing on Wednesday?’ (Yeah, nice one smart-arse)

Me – ‘Erm, I’m on annual leave’

Caller – ‘I’m your fairy godmother’ (Whit?)

Me- ‘Sorry, in what way?’

Caller – ‘Och, I’m kiddin’ you on – just phone Tommy on his mobile’

Tommy’s speaking to me from Spain when he answers. After denying all knowledge of me for a minute he casually tells me I’ve got a ticket – from Jesus.

ALLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEEEEELLLLLLLLUUIIIAAA, ALLLELLLUUUIIIAAA

Now that might sound cornier than a cornfield in Cornwall but it’s literally true. Tommy’s brother works for a multi-national company. He had asked his Spanish colleague Jesus to secure some extra briefs if possible. After copious thanks, I retired to the male lavvie to punch the air in delight many, many times and croak out ‘yes, ya beauty’ over and over.

So this was it. I was going to be there. After a trip to the Celtic shop to get freshly togged out the next day, it was just a matter of counting down the hours.

Eldorado. Yes, I know it was the city of gold but we all hoped Seville was going to be the city of silver for Celtic. I’d ordered a 5 a.m. taxi to Glasgow Airport. Naturally, my cabbie was a kind of tattooed, bluenose caricature who wouldn’t talk to me all the way there. I was desperate for some banter. Imagine if I’d puked in the cab with excitement. Tempting.

I soon met up with my mates and we got the breakfast pints in. There was a brilliant match atmosphere in the airport. The teeming departure lounge was chaos with ad hoc green hair-dos being administered to half cut punters and fans of all ages chatting nervously and laughing at any patter at all.

The journey on the plane was just something to get through. I‘m not a great flyer. I do remember using the toilet about 23,000 times and discussing the merits or otherwise of violent horror films with a mates’ 11 year old son.

As the aircraft door swung open it felt like standing in front of a hairdryer firing squad set to hot. We were escorted to our buses and conveyed through the scorched outskirts of Seville. The stadium looked small and compact to me as we were dropped off. Little did I know that I would later walk into the coliseum scene from Gladiator, complete with CGI-like animated hordes of Celtic fans.

A group of us walked up to the centre of town through the EXPO site complete with Arianne rocket. For some reason the whole area seemed like a ridiculous theme park from an episode of the Simpson’s. What do I know? – it’s better than the shows across from the Victoria Infirmary in Glasgow.

I took my first picture on the bridge over the river. We’d heard that a Porto fan had died after falling from this bridge. It’s too easy to dismiss these things in among mass human traffic but I remember feeling (not for the first time) how profoundly sad it would be to leave home for a football match and never come back.

We found a neighbourhood bar and settled down for a while. I still had to meet the Bhoys with my ticket, so made a series of shouty mobile calls as the mobile reception was so poor. The plan was set. Cathedral at three. After a couple more Cervezas we began to wind our way through the narrow streets. I was lagging behind the others and I took my favourite picture of the trip. It shows many of my friends filling a sunny street lined by distressed orange trees. Everyone is walking tall in the hoops. All my people right here right now. D’ye know what I mean?

The night before I’d made myself a t-shirt tribute to my Grandfather. He died in 1990 but I wanted him with me today. Younger fans feed off stories from the past and I love that he lost his false teeth in 1957 and had to be brought home pallbearer style by three or four neighbours. I also remember when he was older and much frailer after a couple of strokes that the old fire was still there as Charlie scored his second penalty at Ibrox in that 4-2 game from the early eighties.

In any case, as we moved through the town and the crowds got bigger, I felt great in my home-made t-shirt with hoops tied round my waist.

I met Tommy and the Bhoys who had just hoovered up armloads of left wing freebies at the local offices of the Spanish Socialist Party. After being offered a fraternal fan to cool myself down, I received my ticket in the entrance of a pub that Billy Connolly had apparently cleared for a private party. The owner shooed us out of the place but I didn’t care, I was Charlie Bucket with a golden ticket. Recently someone gave me a framed photo of a celebratory me after being passed the brief. The face is in its thirties but the body language is in its early teens.

After more beer in a bustling wee bar, we began the walk back to the stadium. The nerves started then. I hadn’t thought about the football much all day. Now the cold fingers of fear and doubt gripped my guts. The jokes were getting less frequent and the smiles nearer grimaces. Some of our party were suffering from kilt rash and walking decidedly bow legged. I spotted Jim McInally and his kids all decked out in the hoops as we neared the stadium.

With time on our hands we stopped by a fence and quaffed a few beers bought from a vendor with a bin full of bottles. The crowds were massive by this time. We had to move on. I remember thinking the security seemed fairly lax until I realised that the bar code on the ticket really did have a use.

Then I was in.

I had a great seat between the main stand and the Celtic end. Next to me were three empty seats that stayed that way all night. Unbelievable. The hour before kick off went past like a three minute pop song. I just couldn’t get my head around the sheer mass of Celtic fans. This was where it was at in world sport that night.

We all know what happened on the field.

At both goals I was showered by crash test dummy Celts firing all over the seats as if out of cannons. If I’m being honest, once Bobo went, I was just waiting for them to score. We came close but I think we just came up short on the night. That allied to a weak referee meant we didn’t win the UEFA Cup. The cup though is all we never won. We gained new respect for our team, club and ourselves. We proved we are big time. On the way out I was sad but proud. A teenager walked past me crying and unconsciously I clapped the back of his head and said ‘never mind son – we done well’.

I never told him to toughen up and stop greetin’ – With wet eyes, I would have had no credibility.

L Monaghan

MORE SEVILLE PHOTOS ON THE NEXT PAGE…

WATCH OUT FOR MORE BRILLIANT COVERAGE FROM SEVILLE ON THE CELTIC STAR THIS AFTERNOON AND LATER THIS EVENING.

AND we want to hear your Seville Stories – please email them over to editor@thecelticstar.co.uk and we’ll try to get them all up this evening.