From Misery to Inverness

This weekend, Hibs complete their regular season with a home game against Queen of the South, with the play-offs a definite chance to secure promotion. There's also the small matter of another cup final. Issue #12 of the utterly brilliant superb Football Pink allowed me to pen this piece on the emerald shirted sons of Leith -:

For 44 years, ever since I first clapped my eyes on the glorious emerald green jersey of Hibernian when watching highlights of the 1972 Scottish Cup final, I have been a distant though devoted supporter of Leith’s finest; despite the fact we lost 6-1 that day. I know I’m biased, but I think Easter Road is a fantastic football ground, which only Valley Parade and the original San Mames approach in terms of beauty and character. From my perspective, Hibernian are the most heroic and glamorous club in the world, who make Newcastle United seem tedious and one-dimensional in comparison. Then again, I could say the same of every other Premier League club, but we’ll not go there.

Where I do go, at least a couple of times a season, is up to Waverley, across Princes Street to The Guildford, down Leith Walk in a taxi to The Iona Bar and on to Easter Road. The anticipation, from catching a glimpse of the stadium as the train hurries into the station until pushing my way through the turnstile, is always the same and the appeal never dulls; it’s a kind of homecoming every time, regardless of the opposition. However, for reasons of aesthetics and safety, I’d not be seen dead going to a game against either of the Old Firm.

Taking the Pope’s Bhoys and Her Majesty’s Team out of the equation, my experiences of the culture surrounding Scottish football are that it is entirely different and distinctly preferable to the top levels of the game south of the border. From years of bitter experience, I have to say I do find both self-mythologising Glasgow behemoths to be entirely unpalatable: Celtic have cornered the market in self-righteous paranoia and Rangers display levels of condoned bigotry scarcely credible in a civilized society. Regardless of the team they support, Scottish friends and acquaintances of mine greeted the implosion of Rangers in 2011/2012, in the wake of a labyrinthine tax case, so intractable that it seemed like a Michael Crichton rewrite of Jarndyce and Jarndyce from Bleak House, with bounteous, boundless glee.

Their Tartan schadenfreude was measurably greater at the death of the Teddy Bears than it would have been if the ‘Tic had gone out of existence. It’s an undeniable fact that while a huge percentage of the Old Firm’s support can get slit-eyed and shirty after a few scoops, Celtic’s following can be primarily described as tediously repetitive in their monotonous references to the various sporting and social injustices they’ve suffered. Rangers, on the other hand, are largely followed by frightening Neanderthals, with a wildly unrealistic sense of entitlement and as vicious and depraved a songbook as I’ve ever heard. Their descent into the Stygian depths of the Scottish Third Division was acclaimed from Dumfries to Dingwall; not because of any pretense of a new era level playing field (even Steve MacClaren with John Carver as his assistant should win the title at Celtic), but simply because it removed the need to accommodate the Ibrox hordes twice a season.

The attendant era of calm is over and the resurrection of Rangers, under the guidance of ex-Brentford boss Mark Warburton,  allied to Ronny Deila’s hapless, shambolic reign at Parkhead, has the Caledonian media in an apoplectic frenzy at the thought of the imminent return of “the biggest game in world football” filling Scotland’s newspapers and Sherriff’s courts. Fans of the other 40 Scottish clubs simply roll their eyes and get on with the business of supporting their own team, while ignoring the hyperbolic droning of armchair and bar stool Hoops and Gers. These bores are as vacuous as the varying hues of glory hunter to be found in the pubs and living rooms of England. Thankfully, they are held in the same degree of contempt by match-attending fans in Scotland as they are down here. You see, the actual act of going to the game is where the two cultures begin to diverge and fans of almost every other club respect their fellow supporters.

Almost every fan in Scotland wears a scarf to the game; this isn’t a fashion statement, a response to the climate in chilly Jockoland (copyright Jimmy Greaves, circa 1983) or a consciously anachronistic affectation, it is the true mark of the regular attender. Replica shirts, face paint, curly nylon wigs and giant foam fingers, except for the wee bairns, are not seen as acceptable match day attire by your average Scottish football fan, unless on international duty of course, as the Tartan Army are allowed to stage Braveheart in the manner of Rab C Nesbitt.

Despite the superb rail infrastructure in the Central Belt, asthmatic, elderly coaches are the preferred mode of travel for most fans. This is because the traditional network of supporters’ clubs, mainly official, which exist as a distribution and support network for away tickets and travel, has retained a level of popularity unheard of in England, where even League 2 clubs come up with usurious membership schemes, requiring character references and a DNA sample before you can sign up for a stake in the away ticket ballot.  As a result, many Scottish fans not only travel together and sit together, they socialize together, at regular meetings and events, where the football club often sends former and indeed current players to meet the fans; imagine that in England eh? The result of such customer care is that the Scottish game breeds the kind of inter-generational devotion to your club that the Sky billions has all but eradicated from the higher levels of the English professional game.  In short, many clubs are poor but happy.

Don’t forget; England and Wales have a combined population of 58 million for their 92 professional clubs, while Scotland has 42 clubs and 5 and a bit million in a much smaller pool. If you also consider that 100,000 of those who attend games once a fortnight follow the Tims and the Huns, there are not a huge number of fans left to go round. Using relative success as a yardstick, counting downwards, a list of the other big clubs (I use the term advisedly) in Scotland would look something like: Aberdeen, Hearts, Dundee United, Hibs, Motherwell and then we’re struggling, though the Highland aggregation of Inverness Caledonian Thistle has done well to cement a place in the top flight and win last year’s Scottish Cup since arriving in the professional game 20 years back. While those listed previously can call upon a fan base of approximately 10,000, such an attendance cannot be guaranteed every home game. Partly that’s economics and partly it’s because there aren’t a great number of trophies to go round. The century-long Weegie duopoly has resulted in wins by other clubs being remarked upon mainly because of their rarity value; Dundee United won their first Scottish Cup in 1995, while Hibs haven’t won it since 1902. You hear what I’m saying?

However, the great thing about Celtic’s approach to the post-Rangers SPL era has been the utter disinclination to accept the seemingly obligatory trebles on offer each season. Ok, so the title has been a permanent feature on Janefield Street since the Inland Revenue fixed its gaze on Edmiston Drive, but in the past 4 seasons only the 2013 Scottish Cup (Hibs thrashed 3-0) and 2015 League Cup were adorned in green ribbons. Hearts took the 2012 SFA Cup, won subsequently by St Johnstone in 2014 and 2015, while the League Cup was taken in turn by Kilmarnock, St Mirren and Aberdeen in the period 2012-2014. One of the fascinating things about 2016 is that the Scottish League Cup will be won twice in one calendar year; the 2016-2017 final will be played in November, though the 2015-2016 competition was to be decided at Hampden Park on March 13^th.

Hibs haven’t had much luck in the League Cup since beating Kilmarnock 5-1 in 2007; I wasn’t at that one, nor was I at the 1972 win over Celtic, though I did see the 1991 victory over Dunfermline, courtesy of the legendary Keith Wright. A quarter of a century later, a strong series of cup performances saw us beat Premier League teams Aberdeen, Dundee United and Inverness in the semi-final, a game played at Tynecastle, the home of our dear rivals Heart of Midlothian. My joy at reaching the final was selfishly tempered by the thought of Celtic being odds-on favourites to beat Ross County in the other game, at Hampden the next day. Despite going a goal down after 35 seconds, the Staggies from Dingwall recovered to win 3-1.

This was good news on two fronts; firstly they wouldn’t wipe the floor with us the way Celtic could and secondly, I had a decent chance of a ticket, on account of the fact Ross County’s Victoria Park holds 6,500 and Dingwall itself has a population of 5,500. In the end, Hibs were allocated 30,000 tickets (the average crowd at Easter Road is a shade over 9k) and the Staggies got 15,000; the rest would be placed on sale on the day itself, for neutrals and “other interested observers” as the SFA’s website phrased it. Luckily, my good mate Graham, who edits the Hibs fanzine Mass Hibsteria was able to secure me a ticket in our bit, right on the halfway line, for the scarcely credible price of twenty five quid.

In England, the League Cup is viewed with contempt until the semi-finals by most clubs; not just European competitors, but the Premier League also-rans and Championship play-off hopefuls, trying to clear unwelcome additions from their fixture list. This year’s final saw Manchester City overcome Liverpool on penalties, whereby Willie Caballero’s agility was described as a “fairy tale;” do me a favour! At least in Scotland, the League Cup is genuinely valued and sought after by all clubs. Even the sides put out by Lennon and Deila that have so conspicuously underperformed should have been good enough to beat the opposition; though in 2015 they only won the thing after holing their opponents Dundee United under the waterline by signing their two best (cup tied) players a few weeks before the final.

Sunday morning March 13^th and I’m up early to catch an absolutely rammed cross country rattler up to Edinburgh. It’s a swaying, heaving mass of good natured sporting humanity. In kilts. With posh voices. Bouffant hair. Barbours.  Aberlour hip flasks. Murrayfield is hosting Scotland against France in the Six Nations and half the crowd appear to be on my train. Earphones in, I doze off, waking as a flash of green to my right shows Easter Road in the distance and I stumble awake as the magnitude of the day ahead kicks in. While 90% of my travelling companions exit the station for Rose Street boozers, I stay dry and catch the next one for Queen Street. It’s half full, but better dressed. More earthy. Green scarves. Green Aquascutum jackets. Green Stone Island. Green Spezials. Green tins of Heineken and Carlsberg. There’s a lid on the excitement and anticipation, but the roof comes off Queen Street when we arrive and the singing starts. Oblivious to my accent I join in. Out onto Buchanan Street and the crowd melts away to the myriad variety of Merchant City bars. Ignored by Sunday shoppers, I walk to Central, where I meet my mate Davey from Leith (who supports Livingston and is in the Ross County end). We grab a train to Mount Florida in the shadow of Hampden and take a few wet ones in a delightful Celtic-minded boozer called The Old Smithy.

Half an hour to kick off, we make a move. Only when we turn the corner to face Hampden, having been swept down the road on a chanting tide of green, do we see the first Ross County fans. There’s not a scrap of tension or bother. Just happiness. Singing. Scarves everywhere. I take a half tour of the ground, then enter the North Stand. Hampden used to be a slum, but now it’s great; perfect access and perfect views. I find my seat within seconds, shake hands and exchange hugs with Graham, Jenny and Sandy. Hail! Hail! The Hibs are here! All for goals and glory now!

Two years ago, in the same company, I watched Hibs (managed by the appalling Terry butcher) lose a relegation play-off on penalties to Hamilton Academicals, after being 2-0 up from the first leg. It was a stunning capitulation in a season when we’d won 1 of the last 18. Butcher left and Alan Stubbs came in.  We may not have been promoted, but the good times are back. The ball is on the ground and flowing football, the Hibs way patented by Willie Ormond and Eddie Turnbull, is on the agenda. Jason Cummings up front, John McGinn in midfield and the Celtic loanees Liam Henderson (what a player he’s going to be) and Anthony Stokes should win the game for us. Sadly, McGinn is quiet and Stokes ineffective, despite the best efforts of the other pair to prompt them into action.

In the event Liam Fontaine, an acceptable centre half signed from Fulham, has the crucial impact. After 25 minutes his attempt to tackle Michael Gardyne in the box sends the ball past keeper Mark Oxley for a simple tap-in. The cheers from the Staggies are barely audible, but our deflation is. It’s soon replaced by rancour; Hibs have some of the most impatient fans in the world and the extreme Tourette’s victim behind is taking this personally. He’s away for a pie when Fontaine atones by lashing us level from a corner right on the interval. The sheer joy and hysteria greeting the goal is like static going off in your head. I’m hugging people I’ll never meet again.

Second half, it’s all us; Cummings and Stokes repeatedly snatch at half chances and their keeper makes a couple of sound stops. Finally, Fontaine intervenes again; 89.25 on the clock when his attempt to cut out a cross puts the ball on the plate for Shalk two yards out. It’s a dagger blow to the heart. Half the support disappears. Extreme Tourette’s goes into overdrive. I can hear him cursing as he heads for the exit. The rest of us are too upset to watch. We should have won this. We almost draw when Fontaine (again!) has an 18 yard bicycle kick tipped over. Then we lose. We leave on the whistle. Proud, but vanquished.

Heading up to Mount Florida for the train, cops on horseback shout instructions through megaphones, block streets, send us round the houses and generally appear to be rehearsing their tactics for the upcoming Old Firm SFA Cup semi-final. It’s totally disproportionate to the event; we’re no fuckin’ Milwall ya bam explains one exasperated Hibee. The train to Central, the walk to Queen Street and the train to Waverley are glum, silent, orderly. The capital is full of lawyers singing Flower of Scotland and La Marseillaise. I cross Princes Street and hit The Guildford; the celebration was supposed to be here, instead I rapidly down half a gallon of 5.6% Orkney IPA, get myself a carry-out and take the last train back south. My heart is broken as The Proclaimers sing in our anthem Sunshine on Leith; that’s me, alone and in my cups after losing the final. However, Hibs are my team and we shall be back.

Wednesday 16^th March, Scottish Cup quarter final replay; Caledonian Thistle 1 Hibernian 2. Dundee United in the semi-final. A victory on penalties and the Huns in the final. Yaaassss!! As Craig and Charlie almost said We’re on our way from misery to Inverness…. Glory! Glory to the Hibees!