Category: Uncategorized

J. J. Whelan

It was a cold October Saturday morning in 1987. Charlie stood over the bed, carefully laying out his armour for the day, the Stone Island trench coat, the Next jumper, Lois denims, and, pride of place, a fresh pair of Adidas ZX600s. He wasn’t just dressing for football, he was preparing for battle.

Soccer hooliganism was at its height, and Charlie was a committed member of the Celtic Soccer Crew. The match itself was only half the attraction. The other half was the ruck, the clashes with rivals that had become ritual, almost expected.

Despite the violence, there was a strange order to it all. The top boys from each crew knew each other and worked by an unspoken code. Respect ran both ways, even as fists flew on Saturdays.

For Charlie, the day began as it always did, an early meet at Bairds Bar. Pints were poured, tactics discussed, and the table scattered with lines to keep the lads marching well into the afternoon.

By midday the streets around the Gallowgate were buzzing. The air smelled of fried onions, cigarette smoke, and tension. Charlie and the crew moved in a pack, sharp-eyed and restless, blending with the flow of ordinary fans but marked out by their swagger and clobber.

Every Saturday was a ritual. The march to the ground, no matter what city, the songs, the stares exchanged with whoever dared cross their path. But the day wasn’t just about Celtic. It was about who was waiting at the other end, a rival firm hungry for a scrap, just as eager to prove themselves.

Word filtered through, as it always did, by whispers and phone calls. The meet was set. Away from the glare of the police, away from the prying eyes of the press. A dance, as the old hands called it. Both sides knew the score. No weapons, no rules but their own. Just fists, boots, and pride.

Charlie’s heart thumped as the lads drained their last pints and filed out into the grey city daylight. The chatter died down. Coats buttoned up, collars up trying to obscure their face. Somewhere, on some patch of forgotten ground, respect and rivalry were about to collide once more.

These crews rivalled for years, each determined to come out on top, not just in battle but in clobber too. Stone Island, Gabicci, Lois, Adidas: the uniform of war, and the unspoken competition of who wore it best. It wasn’t just fighting; it was a culture, a way of life.

But the game came at a cost. For some, it messed with their heads, rewired the way they thought. To this day, many are still living in those memories of the ’90s, replaying them like old highlight reels in their minds.

A lot of the lads eventually settled down, swapped Saturday scrapping for mortgages, school runs, and quieter lives. But not everyone found peace. For some, the come-down was too hard. The chaos of those years left scars, and when the buzz of the battles faded, they filled the silence with drink, drugs, or both. A few never made it out at all.

Charlie, Frogger, Choppy, and Davy , lads who once squared up against each other from rival crews all over the country, began to see the same thing. There was a gap, a void, where no one was reaching out to the men who had lived that life, men like them. The scars weren’t always visible, but they were there, the sleepless nights, the guilt, the bottles emptied to quiet the noise.

So they did something no one expected. They came together and formed a men’s mental health group, fittingly called “Keep The Heid.” What started as a few voices round a table grew into something bigger. Old friends, old enemies, lads who once traded blows on railway platforms and backstreets, now sat side by side, talking openly about the battles in their own heads.

The group struck a chord. Word spread. Keep The Heid became a lifeline for many, a place where the hard men of the terraces could finally admit they weren’t bulletproof. They were young men full of fear ego and bravado. Rivalries melted into respect. By talking, by listening, by keeping the heid, they managed to save lives that might otherwise have been lost.

J. J. Whelan

It was a cold bleak late September morning 1981 when we were heading for to board the bus outside St. Joseph’s for our first ever holiday without our parents. Blackpool for September weekend was the place to be. I was only 15 years of age and only allowed to go because my 2 big brothers were on the same bus and would look after the 4 of us, Jimmy (me) Babe, Shug and Big Nally. Truth be told we never seen them from the journey down till we returned, Tam and Marky had travelled down with Tams family but we had all agreed to meet up that evening and start our adventure in the town of tram cars, kiss me quick hats and loads of young ladies for our delight.

The bus was buzzing, packed with voices louder than the engine, carry-outs clinking in bags, the smell of smoke already drifting down the aisle. None of us had a clue what we were in for, but that was half the thrill. We weren’t boys anymore, at least not in our own minds, we were heading south, chasing the madness, chasing a freedom that felt bigger than anything back home.

By the time we rolled into the town, stiff from the journey and wide-eyed with excitement, the sun had burned through the morning chill. We dumped our bags in the dingy digs that would be home for the weekend, nothing more than four walls, two squeaky beds, nylon sheets and a kettle that barely worked. None of that mattered. What mattered was that night, our first night on our own, pockets light but spirits heavy, waiting for Tam and Marky to show face so the real fun could begin.

By the time darkness fell we were buzzing, all four of us crammed into that tiny room trying to get ready with a half-broken mirror and tunes crackling out the wee radio we’d brought. We didn’t care what we looked like as long as the shirts were clean, the shoes polished, and we had enough money for drink and the door fee. Tam and Marky showed up, already a few in, big grins on their faces as if they’d been waiting all day for the madness to start.

We made our way down the strip, neon lights of amusement arcades and bars pulling us in like moths to a flame. Every bar we passed spilled out laughter, shouting, and music, but it was The Gaiety Bar and Dixieland we were heading for. Everyone talked about it back home like it was some rite of passage.

Outside the Dixieland the queue was already bouncing, lads our age trying to look older, girls dolled up and giggling, the bouncers stone-faced at the door. My heart was thumping as we edged closer, praying they wouldn’t clock how young I was. When they finally waved us in, it felt like stepping into another world.

The heat hit first, then the smoke, the smell of sweat and cheap perfume. Lights flashing red and blue, the DJ blasting tunes that rattled right through your chest. We pushed through the crowd, wide-eyed, soaking it all in, the dancefloor packed, the bar heaving, bodies everywhere. Babe shoved a drink into my hand before I even knew what was happening.

That was the moment it began. No parents, no rules, just the chaos of Dixieland swallowing us up.

Inside Dixieland, it was carnage from the off. The drink hit fast, none of us used to it, and suddenly the world was spinning with flashing lights and thumping bass. We tried dancing, but mostly it was stumbling about, spilling pints and laughing until our stomachs hurt. The girls were older, sharper, and we couldn’t believe some of them even gave us the time of day. One minute you were chatting rubbish in the smoking area, the next you were snogging someone you’d only just met. That was the night innocence got lost in dark corners and cheap hotel rooms, awkward and clumsy but unforgettable all the same. We became men, bragging rights were ours now as the cherries had been lost.

Of course, the fights came too. Someone shoved someone on the dancefloor, Tam stepped in, and before long fists were flying, bottles smashing, bouncers charging through the crowd. We scattered like rats, shirts torn, knuckles bleeding, laughing as if we’d won some sort of badge of honour just for surviving the chaos.

By Sunday, the madness hadn’t slowed. We were skint, hungover, and restless. That’s when the toy shop window caught our eye, seven six-foot teddy bears sitting pretty behind the glass like they were mocking us. Marky, always the hothead, put the first boot in. The plate glass exploded, slicing his foot to bits, blood pouring everywhere, but in the madness we didn’t stop. We hauled those bears out like trophies, dragging them down the street while folk stared in disbelief.

We tried to flog six of them for beer money to no avail but I was keeping the Pink Panther as a memento. Couldn’t part with it. For years it hung from my bedroom ceiling by a noose, swaying in the dark like some warped souvenir of the holiday that changed everything.

Marky spent the rest of that night in hospital, stitches pulling tight across his foot, grinning through the pain like it was worth every drop of blood. And maybe it was. That trip wasn’t about beaches or sunshine, it was about us crossing a line, stepping into a world where the rules didn’t apply, where we found out who we really were when nobody was watching.

The journey home was just as wild as the weekend itself. Big Frank had somehow managed to charm a girl on the bus, and before long the two of them disappeared under a blanket at the very back seat. The whole bus roared with laughter, wolf whistles and chants, but he didn’t care,never came up for air till we were half way up the motorway.

Me? I was busy offloading the last of those bears, slipping them to my brothers’ pals’ girlfriends for a few quid a pop. My brothers weren’t impressed, looking at me with that mix of disgust and disbelief, like I’d dragged the family name through the gutter. I just laughed, pocketed the cash, and thought of the Pink Panther swinging from my ceiling for years to come.

When the bus finally pulled back into town, we stepped off different lads than the ones who’d boarded a few days before. Tired, battered, grinning through bruises and hangovers, carrying stories we’d tell and retell for the rest of our lives.

It wasn’t just a holiday, it was the weekend we crossed the line, where childhood got left behind in the smoke of Dixieland and The Gaiety Bar in stolen teddy bears, in blood on broken glass, in awkward nights with girls whose names we barely remembered. A weekend we would never forget.

Hailing from Wigan and Leigh, they first catapulted to the top of the North West music scene in 2005; becoming notorious for energy packed raucous live performances and winning an army of devoted fans, known as the DC Elite, giving the band football terrace style support. With an impressive CV including a label deal with Columbia Records, work with Hacienda Legend Mike Pickering, a tour support slot to Madchester royalty Happy Mondays, and a very special appearance at Glastonbury Festival, they’re back for round 2 and seem to have something of a point to prove.

HWS have been following their progress for some time; Paul Kealy part of our forwarding thinking progressive editorial team put us onto them last year.

The re-released album What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Worse was released on 4 March 2019. The story behind this record could be made into a film.  The successful band having been dropped by their major record label, the demos go missing for a 10 years and are rediscovered on an old computer drive and re-mastered.  Class.

Originally a six piece band they returned as a four piece in 2017 to sold out shows and excited public; this was after meeting up at Stevie (Ahern)’s wedding mainly for a piss up.  The other boys Floyd and Ian didn’t want to do it any more. Respect.

Christopher ‘Binnsy’ Binns (vox)

Stephen Ahern (guitar)

Jon Hollingsworth (bass)

Ryan Whittle (drums)  

Dirty Circus made their Glasgow debut at the world famous McChuills on 30 October 2021; free entry as well. This spurred on local bhoys Acid Ultra’s to remix one of their singles ‘Sunshine’ Premiered on 22 Oct 2021 via You Tube.

J. J. Whelan

In Paradise the banners rise,
Green and white beneath the skies,
The faithful gather, heart to heart,
From every corner, worlds apart.

Through wind and rain, through joy, through pain,
The anthem lifts, a sweet refrain,
Chorus born of soul and stone
You’ll never walk this road alone.

The Lisbon Lions carved the way,
Their memory still echoes today,
From Hampden’s roar to Europe’s stage,
Their story written, page by page.

When the voices join as one,
The fight is fought, the battle won,
For Celtic’s more than just a game,
It’s love, it’s life, it’s in the name.

So raise your scarves, let voices soar,
Together stronger evermore,
For in this song our spirit’s shown:
At Celtic Park you’ll never walk alone.

IN:

Arm wrestling yer cat

The Hoops Bar Tenerife

The Brannigan Crisp lorry driver

Doing the school run dressed as an Afghan Hound

Priya Sharma from Emmerdale

The Celtic 

Shouting out: “er she/he is though!” to everyone that walks into the workplace.

Jimmy Whelan on the team

Speaking through yer nose on a conference call.

The all-time greats.

Having a Cirry oan 

Beard gardens, only allowed entry with a beard.

OUT:

Paddy from Emmerdale 

Brexit 

Kris Boyd (only in the studio for a cirry oan)

That Simply Red song: “Lovvvve the thought … lovvvve the thought!’ and “I lovvvve the thought of coming home to you …”

Song lyric: “I didn’t think I was hungry til I tasted you” 

The price of a chippie 

The quote: “everything happens for a reason” cosmic forces crap!

The words “Holliebobs” and “Amazeballs” 

My hollibobs was amazeballs

Face walking into cobwebs first thing in the morning.

Man bun and massive ear lobe rings. 

That’s that then!  Don’t take it serious. Love it or leave it, delete it, report it, avoid it or embrace it.  Have a decent weekend.  Switch off everything at night.

Holywell Street offices are located at 95 Holywell Street adjacent to Celtic Park. Pop along and see us! Bring awe yer mates. Paul Kealy make’s tantalising Lamb Buhna.

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.

Fate
Up against your will
Through the thick and thin
He will wait until
You give yourself to him

Under a blue moon, I saw you
So soon you’ll take me
Up in your arms, too late to beg you
Or cancel it, though I know it must be
The killing time
Unwillingly mine

I believe that the loss of personal bohemia causes nostalgia. Paradoxically, although nostalgia can be mentally draining for its practitioners, it is also part of what attracts the next generation of enthusiasts to the same vibe. When looking back at terrace culture it seems it was very grounding. I have always been a bit of a flaneur so looking for the next locale was perfect timing.

I first seen it in 1983, I’m walking through the Barrowlands in Glasgow on the London Road side of the market. Myself and a friend are dressed in post -Two-Tone attire with wedge haircuts and baggy jeans. Aberdeen appear.

I’ve heard it said and I agree, “Where’s the next scene?’ Nobody sees it coming, ah it’s over there.” – (Casuals DVD)

Eighties

It was every Saturday in the mid to late ‘80s. Glasgow City Centre seemed to be occupied by us the (CSC “the Celtic Soccer Crew”) A lot of the time I’d recognise a face and a nod was given. Other times you would approach a group and anticipate it could go off. Some lads would interrogate by asking your authenticity with “say the Hail Mary”. However, as time proceeded into the late ’80s it just seemed to always be Celtic in the city centre.

Inevitably, before any home games; it was a dash from George Square, along the end of Argyle Street and it would kick-off on a big scale at the island in the middle of the road at Trongate. From there, the away firm would head onto the London Road side of the Barrowlands we would go the other way (the Gallowgate). The drill was to go through the Barras and catch the away mob as they walked up the London Road side of the market. Many a time on the corner a crowd of mods were gathered at the ice cream kiosk. I vividly recall the young ginger baby crew member from Posso would tag the first one and the rest would follow through. Mods, yesterdays subculture especially that second generation type, one dimensional with targets on their back, what did they expect.

Most weeks when Celtic played at home we would approach Bridgeton Cross there would be a mob gathered at the bandstand. Like clock work about 10 of the crew would make a dash over to this Bridgton Derry lot and they would bolt before any of us remaining had even followed through.

Beginnings

Celtic first went out as a crew in a Scottish Cup match in 30 January 1985. This was away to Hamilton under the name (RCC “the Roman Catholic Casuals”) which was not a decent or suitable moniker I think we can all agree.

My first outing was a couple of months later on 20 March 1985 at Celtic Park v Hearts. We numbered around 50 and we had positioned ourselves next to the Hearts fans in the old Rangers end at Parkhead. This was just before they put a fence and plastic screen down the middle of the terrace. All there seemed to be was police segregation. The attire was sportswear and those half ‘n’ half ski-hats which wasn’t exactly anti-suss; but I think at this stage we actually wanted to be noticed. I recall over hearing a Celtic supporter commenting: “I didn’t realise we has so many casuals” this would be on the assumption it was an Aberdeen thing or perhaps Motherwell.

At the age of 15, I was just loving the camaraderie, the labels worn but I am posturing as a foot soldier. It was also a good game to have chosen for antagonising the away support. Hearts took the lead and were two nil ahead within 30 minutes. However, Celtic pulled one back through Mo Johnston just before half-time. Late into the second half Murdo MacLeod equalised, then on 92 minutes Brian McClair scores the winner for Celtic. The raging Hearts fans are trying to break through and attack, they still have this Gorgie aggro Skinhead look among their support mixed in with their firm.

Going into the 85/86 season things were starting to change and grow. Sportswear was replaced by shirts and cords, more dress down anti-suss. An umbrella was an accessory for some and more shoes being seen then trainers. Boys were becoming men. The Celtic ski-hat had gone. The Celtic support thought they had got rid of their casuals. However, there was a much sinister not so obvious crew sitting opposite them at the bottom of the main stand at Celtic Park.

.

By Macaroon 23rd May 2018

Celtic Casuals

One of my most memorable days out with the Celtic Casuals was a Wednesday night match against Rangers at Celtic Park on May 1, 1985. This fixture was originally scheduled for March of that year but had to be postponed.

These were the days of ski hats and sportswear, with plenty of Sergio Tacchini and Fila attire. We had positioned ourselves at the edge of the jungle, next to the old Rangers End, so we could see and taunt our rivals. The usual chants echoed back and forth as we spotted the Rangers ICF on the other side of the segregation. As the match began, a bottle of Irn-Bru was thrown from the Rangers supporters and shattered right in front of a copper. At that time, there was no mesh fence separating the jungle from the old Rangers End, which stirred up some tension, and we tried to push forward.

Two minutes into the match, Celtic were awarded a penalty, which Roy Aitken scored. However, the spot-kick was ordered to be retaken, and Aitken missed it.

In the 60th minute, Alan McInally scored for Celtic to make it 1-0. Shortly after, in the 71st minute, Ally Dawson was sent off for an off-the-ball incident involving Mo Johnston. This left Rangers with only nine men, as Davie Cooper had been sent off earlier in the match. we were were ecstatic and letting the Buns know about it. However, late into the game with approaching the last 10 minutes Rangers are awarded a penalty after a handball in the box by Roy Aitken. Ally McCoist steps up to make it 1-1. The end result. This result was hard to absorb as we had not beaten Rangers in a long time. Furthermore, the result basically hands Aberdeen the league. So an interesting game leading up to a so called “riot”.

Leaving the Ground

Our plan was to head to the Barrowlands and attack Rangers as they approached the London Road side. As we leave the ground and onto Janefield Street the Celtic fans numbered quite around 10,000. As we reached halfway down Janefield Street a small number of the supporters were giving us abuse, perhaps looking to take the result out on us. There was a small chant of “casuals get to f*ck” and “Celtic and Casuals don’t go” this was nothing new and normally fizzled out and the tension receded as predicted. Nothing happened.

Horses

At this point, a Celtic fan appears to have stepped back into a horse and agitated it, which prompted a loud cheer from the crowd. Meanwhile, the Strathclyde Police Mounted Division seemed to take that as a disturbance developing, although all involved later denied this. The officer in charge, orders five mounted police horses to charge through the crowd, leading to chaos. The horses strangely turned at the top of Janefield Street and charged back down, causing a 100-yard brick wall with railings outside the flats on Janefield Street to collapse under the weight of the crowd. People were led into neighbouring houses for safety, and women and children were lifted onto balconies. The street had become a bottleneck. This “balaclava-style” charge through the overcrowded street was completely unnecessary, resulting in many injuries, with innocent supporters being arrested and many casualties lying on either side of the road.

Aftermath

Results of Police Inquiry published December 1985 exonerate police – no action was to be taken. Witness statements from residents in Janefield Street had witnessed a ‘peaceful’ but crowded exit onto the street and only saw a cavalry style charge by the police.

No police or anyone connected to the incident was ever brought to justice. It seemed to us that it was simply more convenient to blame the Celtic casuals. Even the Celtic board at the time seemed to be happy to go along with this story. This was to be known as the “Janefield Riot” the only riot we are aware of that night was caused by the police themselves.

Teams

Celtic: Latchford W McStay MacLeod Aitken McGugan Grant Provan McStay Johnston McClair McInally (Colquhoun) Sub: McKechnie

Scorer: McInally 60

Rangers: McCloy Dawson Munro McPherson Johnstone Durrant Russell (Burns) E Ferguson (I Ferguson) McCist Cooper

Scorer: McCoist pen 77

Attendance: 40,079