By J. J. Whelan
We were all burst, the night before had been heavy. Same spot in the park, cans everywhere, carry-outs from the night before half gone and half spewed back up. Some of the boys hadn’t even shut their eyes, others were crouched behind bushes giving large wae the dry boke, still trying to neck Buckie like it was Lucozade. My stomach was in bits, couldn’t even face a drink till near 11am pure nerves, pure dread. The Police didn’t bother us because we were controlled and all in the one place.
But the buzz was different. New gaffer. Martin fuckin’ O’Neill. Could he be the one to finally put a stop to that mob? All the chat was ifs, buts, maybes. Mickey with his Tourette’s was rattling on, wanker, Fanny baws, big nose and several other profanities, calling everyone in sight while trying to talk serious about tactics. Had us doubled over laughing, but he didn’t even know why.
We mobbed down to the train station, swaying about, singing rebel tunes at the top of our lungs. Folk staring, but nobody cared. That march to Paradise felt like we were going to war. We were half drunk, half terrified, but ready.
You need to get this we’d had years of false hope. Centenary double, St Paddy’s massacre, Lubo’s 5-1. Aye, magic nights, but Rangers always came back, swaggering with their big signings and their shite patter in the papers. They thought they were untouchable. Brown brogues and all that pish. We were written off before we even got through the turnstiles.
Then bang Chris Sutton 57 seconds in 1-0 which led to a Six-two victory. Let that sink in. We destroyed them. Not edged them, not a lucky break, pure demolition.
And Larsson… The King of Kings. That chip. Still gives me goosebumps. We’re 3-1 up, nerves still jangling ’cos you know that mob always nick something. Then Henrik glides through them, cool as ice, and just dinks it over Klos like he’s playing five-a- sides. Ball hits the net and the place goes fucking mental. I’m hugging strangers, camouflaged drink flying, grown men crying. That wasn’t just a goal that was the dagger. Game dead. Rangers finished.
O’Neill played a blinder. All week he’d been saying, “Rangers are the benchmark,” talking like we’d be lucky to sneak it. Aye right. He knew what he had. And he unleashed it.
That day changed everything. You could feel it in your bones. For us, it was like someone had lifted the curse. For them, it was the start of their slide. The exact moment it flipped? Henrik’s chip. That’s when the world changed.
And I was there. Singing till my throat bled, steaming, sweating, crying, raging, loving it. We were all singing the Oasis song Roll With It as someone had spotted Noel Gallagher in the crowd with a Celtic scarf.
By the time we stumbled out of Paradise we were bouncing. Six-two. Couldn’t believe it. The whole place was electric, folk staggering about like they’d just witnessed a miracle, which we had. We’d smashed them. Humiliated them.
We made a beeline for the Gallowgate, thousands of us spilling down the road, still singing, still hugging strangers. Rebel songs belting out every doorway, tricolours flying from pub windows, taxis crawling through the crowds beeping their horns in celebration. The whole street felt alive, like a festival, only better because it was us, and we’d just destroyed the mutants.
Into the pubs we went. Sticky floors, plastic pints sloshing everywhere, jukeboxes drowned out by a thousand voices screaming Hail Hail in unison. Some of the boys were too burst to stand, leaning on the bar ordering trebles like they were waters. Mickey with his Tourette’s was in full tilt again, calling barmaids “fannies, big tits” then telling them they were beautiful in the same breath, and somehow still getting served.
I don’t even remember how many pubs we hit. One after another down the Gallowgate, the noise never letting up. Every time someone came through the door it was another roar more handshakes, more hugs, more “did you see Henrik’s chip?!” like it wasn’t burned into all our skulls already. Folk were dancing on tables, pint glasses smashed but nobody caring, just laughing and singing louder.
By the end of it half the boys were done in. Heads on tables, jackets for pillows, while the rest of us soldiered on with sambucas and vodkas like champions. I remember standing outside getting some air at one point, looking up the street at all the madness, and thinking this is it. This is the night we’ll still be talking about in twenty years. The day Celtic rose again. The day we broke them.
I ended up in Ricky’s snooker hall as always as I knew I would never be turned away and there was always a bit of powder to square me up before heading home.
I made it home God knows when, voice gone, shirt stinking of beer, ears still ringing with rebel tunes. But I didn’t care. Six-two. The demolition derby. One of the best days of my life.
The next day nursing a massive hangover I took the dog for a walk to clear my head. I ventured over the bridge to Bothwell and I see Henrik the King out walking his dog as though nothing had happened the day before. I was in awe of this man. My hero then and still is to this day.
Holywell Street 
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