Wednesday, 9 March 2016

The Green Smile

On Sunday, I will be in Hampden Park at the Scottish League Cup final, cheering on my beloved Hibees. Here's a piece I've written for the Cup Final edition of Mass Hibsteria, edited by my good friend Graham Ewing, who also got me the brief for this weekend. This is for you mate -:

Let’s go back in time; well over 40 years, to the Christmas and New Year period of 1972 and 1973. I was 8 years of age and in the first real grip of my lifelong obsession with football. My actual first football memory was watching my dad leap off the sofa to applaud Charlie George’s winning goal in the 1971 FA Cup final, but I didn’t actually understand what the FA Cup was, or who the long haired bloke lying on the grass, being cuddled by a load of other blokes in yellow shirts was. However by the year after, I had much more of an understanding of how football was actually more than just 50 lads kicking a penny floater around the school yard at break time; perhaps the game that brought the significance of football home to me was Hereford United 2 Newcastle United 1. Aged 7, I became acutely aware of NUFC’s propensity for abject humiliation on the national stage. Still, at least this game has disappeared into the ether and no-one is likely to resurrect footage of that particular debacle any time soon…

Consequently, with Newcastle United having helpfully stepped aside, the 1972 FA Cup final was a contest between holders Arsenal and the hated Leeds United, who were in search of a potential double. At the time, electrical goods were rare and expensive commodities; I can distinctly remember bringing a couple of friends home from school in the autumn of 1971 to show them our new fridge, with my mam producing the amazing treat of an ice pop each from the tiny freezer component that contractually was required to only ever include a bag of frozen peas. Bird’s Eye, of course. While we were able to keep milk and meat fresh in high summer, we still only had a black and white television, showing only 2 channels; it was a real style icon on legs, with a walnut cabinet and lockable screen door, though my friend from down the street Paul “Sten” Stonehouse’s family had a DER colour one and that’s where I watched the final.

Sten wasn’t actually a football fan; on Saturday afternoons he’d take advantage of his 3 channel luxury by flicking over from World of Sport to watch Brian Cant’s Playaway, which was a kind of prog rock concept album version of kids’ TV; longer, weirder and much more self-indulgent than the prosaic and patronising weekday Play School. However Sten’s older brother Perry (incidentally I’ve never met anyone else in my life named after the Singing Barber, Mr. Como) was a proper football fan and, so he claimed, a leading light in the Leazes End Agro Boys, which was doubtful as he was about 12 at the time. However, he did go to St. James’ Park with his mates, woollen scarf round his neck, silk ones round his wrist, in a Wrangler jacket and pin stripe Oxford bags, which made me idolise him as I’d yet to see a real live game. To this day, I envy his fashion sense.

Back in those days, BBC used to also show little snippets of action from the Scottish Cup final at half time and full time. At that age, I struggled to concentrate on a full game and the first half stalemate at Wembley wasn’t particularly conducive to keeping my childish mind focussed on the match. However, the half time highlights from Hampden did. Try as I might, I simply couldn’t find any footage of the 1972 Scottish Cup final on line, so I’ve no idea if this is actually fact, or whether my memory is playing tricks from 41 years ago. You see, May 6th 1972 marked the day I fell in love with Hibernian FC; one glimpse of that breathtakingly beautiful emerald green shirt with white sleeves and I was smitten; any interest I had in the English final, eventually won by Leeds 1-0 with an Allan Clarke diving header, was gone; I wanted to see more footage of the game at Hampden. For no reason whatsoever (historical and familial ties ought to have made me a supporter of FC Paranoid of Parkhead), I became a Hibs fan, on the day we lost 6-1 in the cup final to Celtic. It makes 2013’s loss seem mild in comparison. Please don’t disabuse my fond, romantic notion by telling me Hibs didn’t play in green that day…

From the start of the 1972/1973 season, I was functionally literate because of the classical education I was in receipt of at Falla Park Juniors, courtesy of class 4 teacher Miss Gartlan, who’d a ‘tache Salvador Dali would have been jealous of. As a result, I did the kind of homework she suggested, by avidly reading each night, even if it was merely every inch of my dad’s Evening Chronicle sports section, rather than the Bancroft Children’s Classics editions of Jane Eyre and Silas Marner she palmed off on me. On a Sunday, my widowed Nan on my mam’s side used to visit us for Sunday lunch. The plates were cleared away by 2pm, which was when Tyne Tees used to show Shoot!, their weekly regional football highlights package, that lagged far behind The Big Match in terms of glamour. While Dad and I watched the football, Nan would read her paper of choice; The Sunday Post. I’ve no idea why she used to opt for Dundee’s version of Völkischer Beobachter, but I’m glad she did as it meant I could read Scottish match reports, once she’d settled down for her snooze in mid-afternoon.

By now, I was 8 years old and a fully-fledged football obsessive, regularly pestering my dad to take me to see a live game, which he finally agreed to do on 25th November 1972, when Leicester City were the visitors to St. James’ Park. Imagine my desolation when the game was postponed on the Thursday, because the Filbert Street outfit had been struck down by a flu epidemic. Dad’s promise to take me to another game soon just didn’t suffice; I was heartbroken. I was even more bereft when the next Newcastle home game came around; Southampton were the visitors on 9th December, but Dad and Mam were going out to some posh Christmas do that night, so he claimed he couldn’t spare the time to take me, making me feel absolutely worthless, as I hunkered over an old transistor, listening to updates on Radio Newcastle. The fact it was freezing outside and ended in a 0-0 draw in no way placated me…

Nan came to babysit me and my 2 year old sister that night, while Mam and Dad went off for chicken in a basket and 50/50 dancing, whatever that was. This was a very rare occurrence and I exploited it wickedly. At that time, my bed time was still around 9pm, about the time Cannon was starting on BBC. Obviously Nan wasn’t to know this and, having checked the telly listings, I knew the following programme was Match of the Day at 10.15; I managed to persuade her, easily enough as I’m a born liar, that I was allowed to stay up to watch this every week because it wasn’t a school night.
The great thing about MotD back then was that they always used to end the programme with very brief highlights taken from Sportscene. Obviously in 1972 there was no way of knowing the results unless you’d either memorised them at tea time, or bought a Saturday evening football special, The Pink, as the Tyneside version was called, but Dad hadn’t bothered to get one, probably as he was going out and a 0-0 draw wouldn’t be the most riveting read. Therefore, it was an utter shock when MotD ended with footage from Hampden of the League Cup final. We won 2-1, gaining revenge on Celtic for May’s humiliation. Obviously I wasn’t old enough to understand the historical significance of this result, but it made me a happy Hibby as I crawled in to bed at the incredibly late hour of 11pm, about half an hour before a bladdered mam and dad waltzed in, having taken a taxi (a taxi mind you…) home from their glamorous social event.

Frankly, to say my parents were “disappointed” in my deceit the night before was an understatement, once Nan told them how late I’d stayed up, but the emotional frost melted in time for Santa to come and the promise of a trip to see Newcastle was part of my Christmas box. For reasons I’m unsure of, I didn’t get to see 2-1 wins against Manchester City on December 23rd or 4-1 versus Sheffield United the week after. Instead, my first trip to St. James’ Park was for the rearranged Leicester City game on Monday 1st January 1973, a very auspicious date I’m sure you’ll agree, which was also the last time New Year’s Day wasn’t a Public Holiday in England, though it was a regional one in the North East.  In fact Newcastle United 2 Leicester City 2, a game of which I have no memory whatsoever other than the fact we (me, dad, my cousin John and his dad my Uncle John) were in the Gallowgate Strawberry Corner, was the only fixture played in the English top division that day. As a result, there was neither a Pink to keep as a memento, nor Match of the Day to watch the highlights on that night. However, there was the report in the next day’s Evening Chronicle, alongside an in-depth feature on a certain game that had taken place in Tynecastle, which made me almost faint with joy; not at the opponents, just at the score. You see, as sunderland were in a lower division to Newcastle from 1970 until 1976, my formative football years were spent without the concept of a local rival. Thankfully, I’ve made up for this in terms of contemptuous enmity since, but that’s another matter. Amazingly though, I’ve no memory of a friendly between Newcastle and Hibs that took place at St. James Park on 9th October 1976, where Newcastle won 2-1; no memory of this at all…

So, you’ll be expecting me to tell you, now I’ve established the context of my support for Hibs, of how I finally consummated my passion with a trip to Easter Road, in the company of dozens of other Newcastle based Hibs fans. Sadly, that wasn’t the case; for a start, most people in these parts who express a preference for an Edinburgh team tend to take Hearts, mainly on account of the name Tynecastle, which is about as logical as me falling in love with the shirt. Consequently, my love affair for the Hibees was a long-distance one for the next quarter of a century; NUFC, music, geography (university in Ireland and postgrad in Leeds, employment in London and Slovakia), family and finance all got in the way. Shamefully, I didn’t make it to Easter Road until February 1st 1997, for an atrocious, abject 1-1 draw with Raith Rovers, in the company of my mate Mick from Ashington, who was a Hibs supporter. The important thing for me that day was my immediate sense that this was home. This was my club, by adoption not birth admittedly, and I sang and cheered through the first half until I sobered up, then yawned and grumbled my way through the second; just like everyone around me on the East Terrace.

My next two Hibs games were happier affairs; accompanying Mick to the 4-2 play-off victory over Airdrie at Broadwood was a glorious occasion and a solo trip to the 2-1 victory over Celtic in the opening game of the next season a brilliant and unexpected pleasure, which ended up as a false dawn as we were relegated. At this time, Mick moved from Ashington to Scotland; firstly to Cowdenbeath and then to Paisley, where he remains to this day. Instead of cementing his passion for Hibs with regular visits, he opted to follow the Blue Brazil when in Fife and he’s now both a connoisseur and a passionate devotee of the junior game, with a soft spot for St Mirren. At his insistence, I’ve seen many junior games and find it a fascinating side of Scottish society, but I remain a fan of Hibs.  
In 2002/2003, I saw 2 fixtures at Easter Road; a 1-1 draw on 15th February in my only ever Edinburgh Derby (we should have won) and on 24th May, when I brought my son, then aged 7, to the last game of the season, in the hope of passing on the Hibernian supporting baton in NE7. We lost 3-2 to Partick and he’s not been back, but I’m sure he will return. Eventually…

By profession I’m a college lecturer, with English Literature my specialist subject. Involving Hibernian in the curriculum is fairly easy, especially with the works of Irvine Welsh to exploit. As I was teaching Trainspotting as part of a unit dedicated to literary representations of capital cities, it seemed logical to organise a field trip, which is what I did in December 2005. Having taken the students on organised Trainspotting tour of Leith, with a guide and everything, we finished off with a visit to Easter Road, where Derek Riordan’s last minute goal gloriously defeated Motherwell 2-1, in what could have been my second last day on earth. The next afternoon, driving back from my parents’ house, I was rear ended by a Tesco 18 wheeler on the A1 going north; “you should have died you know,” were the words the paramedic who stitched my scalp back together at the side of the road said to me. The reason we didn’t was an instinctive comment to my son as we were about to pull away; “sit behind your mam please.” If I’d not said that, I wouldn’t be here to write this; more importantly, neither would he… Still, within 6 weeks we were all right as rain and, despite the car being a write-off, I still managed to retrieve the 3 copies of Saturday 17th December’s Pink, which was the last ever edition, that told of Michael Owen’s hat trick in a 4-2 win for Newcastle at West Ham, but mentioned nothing of the events at Easter Road.

Astonishingly, and embarrassingly, the next time I saw Hibs was in the 2013 Cup final,  ourtesy of the very wonderful Graham Ewing. I must say, I felt somewhat guilty that that I would be going, while proper Hibs fans like Bruce in Oxfordshire or Declan from Galway were forced to miss out, but I couldn’t turn down this opportunity, could I? The support for Hibernian at Hampden was as life-affirming and touching as I have ever seen in a football ground; the massed ranks of Hibees stood gloriously, defiantly belting out a ceaseless chorus of pro Hibs anthems during the last 10 minutes, at 3-0 down, was the very epitome of what it means to follow a team; I am beyond grateful I was present at such an event. While there was an admittedly pissed and idiotic Ned element among the Hibs support, thankfully they were few in number and seemed to piss off at half time. The only other people I saw leaving were four Celtic fans who’d secured tickets in our end and were invited to leave this part after celebrating the second goal. Pricks.

The day began on an empty train from Newcastle to Waverley, then a packed one to Queen Street. Not having been to Hampden before, except to the museum with Mick, I wanted to get there early and soak up the atmosphere. The gates weren’t even open, so I took a stroll around the Tesco Family Fun Day, which was every bit as grim as the name suggests, in Lesser Hampden, mainly so I could use the toilets. These were a unisex Portakabin, also equipped with 5 showers; is it too cheap a gag to ask why they’ve got those in Glasgow? When I finally got to have a tinkle, a plastered, middle-aged Celtic fan in the next cubicle was dropping his load, noisily and fetidly, while slurring the words to Kevin Barry; they’re such a classy outfit, aren’t they?

At 2.00, the turnstiles opened and I went in the ground for a coffee and a Hampden pie, steak not Scotch though. My seat gave me a splendid view of the pitch and I was very impressed with Hampden. Even more impressive was the mass singing of Sunshine on Leith before kick-off; the mass dabbling of moist eyes immediately afterwards showed just what this final meant, especially after the previous year’s humiliation. As for the game itself; well if Doyle had taken that early chance, and he really should have, things could have been different. As it was, Williams was desperate on the first goal (how on earth did he miss that cross?) and we were up against it. The second goal was the killer and despite the fact we played neat, controlled football on the ground, in contrast to the ugly, route one anti-football game plan that Celtic relentlessly relied on, we were unthreatening. I do feel the third goal was unfair on us and that Hibs did enough to deserve a consolation goal, but it wasn’t to be.

Come full time, a few defiant chants, a massive round of applause to the players and then I was away for the train before the cup was presented. I got the 17.07 from Mount Florida, the 17.34 from Queen Street and my first pint, of several, in The Guildford at 18.50, in the company of several NUFC fans I recognised who’d been at the game, supporting Hibs. How come I’d never known this before? It made me resolve to get back to Easter Road as soon as possible. When the 2013/2014 schedule was published, one fixture naturally stood out above all others; Hibernian versus Kilmarnock at Easter Road on Sunday 29th December.  As a result, my Hibs and NUFC supporting mate Declan and I both vowed to be at this game. For me, it simply meant waiting until www.thetrainline.com told me cheap tickets were available for that day, as well as buying on-line, print-at-home match tickets; for Declan, it meant negotiating with Ryan Air to get the cheapest Dublin to Edinburgh day return, which he managed with some aplomb.

The storms of Friday 27th had abated by noon on Saturday, meaning Declan’s flight was scheduled to be on time, so his attendance seemed certain. Unfortunately this was thrown in doubt, as he had to face his own particular Room 101 horror when mice were detected in his attic. Yes; mice. Enough to put him on the verge of a complete emotional collapse. The fact they live in Dalkey probably means these little blighters couldn’t be hoodwinked into traps by processed Cheddar; it would have to be finest Camembert at the very least to bring about their greedy self-destruction. In all seriousness, what it actually took to get him on board was a stern, emotionless reading of the Riot Act by me, which was enough to persuade Declan he needed to make that flight and see his first game at Easter Road.  This was my seventh trip and, without doubt, the biggest win and best performance I’ve seen from Hibs. Perhaps the latter opinion was aided by a superb pre match session with Graham and Cameron who is known on Twitter as @hibernitoon – probably because both he and Graham are Newcastle fans as well. We met in a bar on West Register Street, and so became The Guildford Four. It has to be said that, for real ale aficionados, The Guildford is one of the best bars in Edinburgh, though I have to say despite the allure of a fine pint of Arran Blonde, it is a bit of a genteel experience.

Consequently, we drained our glasses and hopped a taxi down to The Iona Bar on Easter Road. This was the more authentic pre match Hibee experience, topped off with a couple of vodka and cokes before we’d even got to the game. Leaving Graham to finish his drink, Cameron escorted us to the ground and we parted; him to the East Stand and we tourists to the West. While Declan had freely admitted the sacking of Pat Fenlon had dismayed him, and we both had expressed doubts about the arrival of Terry Butcher as manager of James Connolly’s team, we were pleasantly surprised; actually we were delighted, by the ease with which Hibs swept Kilmarnock aside. If only we were able to know the depths of despair Butcher would lead us to. Visitors Killie had only Kris Boyd to speak of as any kind of threat and he barely touched the ball in the second half. In the first period, Hibs stormed at the visitors from the off and were justly rewarded with Paul Hanlon’s header after 12 minutes, though Samson in the Killie goal had to be more than alert to keep the scores down.
It was both a surprise and a worry that Hanlon’s goal was not added to, but a quiet opening to the second period was supplanted by a Hibee second coming, which saw late goals by Paul Cairney and an absolutely delightful curling effort in the last minute by Lewis Stevenson that secured an impressive victory. Declan and I were beside ourselves with joy, but resolved to spend our next visit in the more voluble East Stand than the somewhat reserved West. Sadly, the curse of early leavers appears to afflict Easter Road as badly as it does St. James’ Park; not the tourists though. We stayed until the last player had left the pitch, applauding and cheering. Then went to the pub.

Back in The Iona I had several more V&Cs (Declan was on the Bailey’s by now), before another taxi back to The Guildford for a final couple and then on the train for a snooze. I’ve taken trains to and from Scotland on match days from Newcastle for years; always noting the huge numbers of Old Firm devotees alighting at the Central. Today, there seemed to be one other bloke who’d been to Easter Road on my train. Perhaps that’s why there was a crowd of 9,600 for this one, but over 20,000 for the home game following; a 2-1 victory over Hearts. Goodness, I would have liked to have been at that one. As it was, the next occasion of my visit to Easter Road was the second leg of the relegation play-off with Hamilton Accies…

On May 25th 2014, Hibernian concluded the Scottish season in traditional fashion, by being ritually humiliated in the final game of the domestic senior campaign, losing the second leg of the SPL promotion / relegation play-off 2-0 to Hamilton Academicals. This made the score 2-2 on aggregate and Hibs went on to complete this sporting self-immolation by losing 4-3 on penalties. Of course, with Hibs having opened the 2013/2014 home campaign with an iconic 7-0 loss to Malmo in the Europa League qualifiers, dire embarrassing routs at Easter Road are nothing new under the sun. In 2012, this ritual end of season pummelling was courtesy of a 5-1 defeat to Hearts in the Cup final. In 2013, a 3-0 loss to Celtic involved another fruitless trip to Hampden. Presumably, in Terry Butcher’s world, losing 2-0 at home to Hamilton Academicals in the SPL promotion and relegation play-off is a tangible form of progress and a solid base on which to build, as the net number of goals involved in the defeat is diminishing by one each year. Thankfully, he was relieved of his duties and at least Hibs died bravely when losing in the play-offs to the Huns in May 2015.

Let’s be brutally honest about this; the 2014 relegation, which had only been avoided in the first place because of the points deduction endured by Hearts, was the only appropriate eventuality for any team that loses 2-0 at home to a side from the division below, days after seemingly doing the hard work by beating said lower league side away from home by the same score. Following the win over Hearts on January 2nd, the team won 1 and drew 4 of the remaining 18 league games, including a season-ending run of 13 without a victory; that was unacceptable and it was simply incomprehensible to me how a centre half, who captained his country, gained 90 international caps and appeared at 3 successive World Cups was utterly unable to organise a team to defend a 2 goal lead over a lower division side, whose attack was led by Jason Scotland.

The eventual defeat on penalties was almost incidental; long before Kevin Thomson and Jason Cummings had their spot kicks saved, the script had been written. Unlike the glorious evening at Broadwood in 1997 that marked Darren Jackson’s last game as a Hibee, when Hibs came back from the dead to see off Airdrie, only to predictably go down without a whimper the following season, there was to be no get out of jail card.  I lost count of the number of conversations I heard on the way out that included variations on the phrase “this has been coming for 3 years now.” This isn’t being wise after the event; it’s an understanding of the fatal culture of incompetence and mismanagement that had been prevalent in boardroom and dug-out at Easter Road for too long.

Almost 2 years later and I’ve not had the opportunity to get back to Easter Road; I still play veterans football Saturday morning, I edit the programme for my local amateur (junior equivalent) side Newcastle Benfield, as well as visiting SJP infrequently and editing the NUFC fanzine The Popular Side. However, I’m still mad keen on Hibs and sense, without being complacent, that Alan Stubbs has assembled a team and found a pattern of play that the club deserves.

I love going to Easter Road; it is one of the finest football stadia in the world. Setting foot inside it, either stone cold sober after the gloriously life-affirming, invigorating walk down from Waverley, or half cut after several in The Guildford and a taxi down to the Iona for a few extra scoops, makes my heart sing. However, until I next get there, watching the final against ross County at Hampden will do me.

GGTTH


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