By Bernard Thompson
Published in the Irish Times online edition
I was bemused by the
fanciful idea that it sounded rather like dragging chains when "Holy
Moses, there's a man in my room!" The bottle of beer that I keep
at my bedside for emergencies smashed with a froth as it sailed
through the red tracksuited figure to the wall behind. "I am the
ghost of Third Lanark", it moaned, "One-time decent
Scottish football outfit, defunct since the sixties."

"Who-o-o-o-ah, oh
woe! Since I left this happy world, I have been forced to travel the
grounds of the League of Ireland - I never miss a game." Now, I
was truly scared. "You will be visited by three spirits this
night. They will show you things past, present and yet to come. Heed
them, he-e-e-d them!"
"Stick the heid in
them given half a chance," I thought, but I kept my powder dry.
I reached for my
Partick Thistle scarf, which banishes all things football but it was
to no avail. In the corner stood a curly-haired man with goggle specs
and a big woolly coat. It was Roger Mitchell, Chief Executive of the
SPL.
"So you'll be the
first," I said.
"No, I'm just
pre-match entertainment," he squeaked but his smile faded. He
thrust open his coat and what do you think I saw? Two whimpering
children sat at his feet, one in the red of Aberdeen, the other in
Dundee United's Tangerine and Black.
"This Dundonian is
hunger," he said "Yon Aberdonian is want. Fear them! For
they are crap and it's not getting any better."
In a flash, he was gone
and a decrepit, white haired, whiskered figure stood leaning heavily
on his walking stick.
"I know who you
are!" I pointed accusingly.
"So you should,
for I have been around as long as the game of football itself."
It became clear to me,
"You are Tom Boyd, ancient captain of Celtic FC, recently
displaced by Ramon Vega."
"Do yourself a
favour son," he replied, "Don't mention Vega." He
transported me to Lisbon where crowds swarmed merrily on a football
pitch. "Cellic are European Champeeons," said one, "Nae
bother! We're the best team in the wurrld!"
In a trice, I was at a
ground with two towers where a figure in dark blue was playing
keepy-uppy on the wing. The fellow next to me laughed. "England,
World Champions? Nae bother! Scotland are the best in the wurrld now,
ya big …. Aye, you, Stiles!"
I had just deduced that
I was in 1967 when I was thrust into the middle of a riot. Plastic
bullets and tear gas spattered the air. I hid behind a particularly
large combatant who bellowed "Show's yir Barcelona chapels.
Cup-Winners' Cup for the Rangers - the best team in the wurrld!"
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And then I was in
Gothenburg where a tearful Aberdonian turned to me and said, "We've
won the Cup Winners' Cup. We beat Real Madrid! We must be the…"
"I know," I cut in, "the best team in the wurrld."
"Forget this not,"
said Tom and he vanished faster than you could say "Airmiles?"
By the time the
stubbled Italian spirit arrived, I was dressed for a holiday in
yellow Hawaiian shirt and white shorts.
"Don't worry.
Lorenzo can give you some fashion advice. Come with Lorenzo."
I was ill-equipped for
the frosty ground of Dundee where jaunty lads in green and white were
nonchalantly leaving the pitch as a bespectacled Irishman repeated
"Fantastic, fantastic lads, fantastic."
A large crowd mixed
chants of "4-0, 4-0" in a medley with copious obscenities
and references to terrorism.
"This is Celtic
and they top of the League. I dunno why," Lorenzo remarked.
"Celtic top of the
League!" said I, "This is strange fruit indeed."
"Hah, you should
see the oranges," said Lorenzo as I found myself in a room where
there were several men in blue. "I eavesdropped the
conversation."
"Gonnae speak
English!" said one in a voice of broad Scots.
"Gonnae learn
Dutch!" came the reply, as half of the room was awash with
laughter.
"Let us not
squabble, "said the latter, "We have beaten St Johnstone,
3-0. The year is done. Come now, a toast to the founder of the
feast."
There seemed to be
mixed enthusiasm as the assembled group raised teacups and oranges
and echoed, "To Dick, the founder of the feast."
When I was finally met
by a postman at my flat, he was not bringing the Christmas cards or
cheques that I had hoped for.
"I'm just a
part-time spirit. I'm also a postman and I play for Hearts. There are
many like me," he revealed, "I must show you things of the
future, as this old year and century ends."
There were almost too
many things to relate. I saw football grounds with chains on the
gates and "For Sale" signs in the car parks. I saw fathers
telling tearful children that he could not afford to take them to the
game but that he would pay a tenner so that they could watch the
match on telly. There were men in suits with Celtic and Rangers
crests grovelling on their knees.
One said "Oh
English masters, let us into the Premiership. We can't get a European
League started." A man flicked cigar ash at both and scoffed
"Don't make me larf. How 'bout the Nationwide League?"
I saw celebrating
Irishmen as their team had knocked a Scots side out of the UEFA Cup.
"That bit's already happened," the spirit revealed.
It was all too much. I
pleaded to be shown no more and, still shouting, I awoke. Imagine my
joy when I discovered that there was yet time. "I have been
given a gift!" I shouted from my window, "I will save this
game preaching youth development, and League reconstruction. I will
call for less League matches and fixture lists that accommodate
European competitors. I will demand that skill be emphasised for
school age footballers, with imported coaches if necessary. I will
call for measures to encourage the playing of talented Scots. I will
save Scottish football."
I made off, still in my
Hawaiian shirt, and ran not caring if I would first reach Ibrox,
Celtic Park or the Head Office of the Scottish Football Association.
Alas, I never made it. I was lifted by some cop who would only say,
"It's for your own good, son" and am now remanded in a
secure hospital.
So if this message
reaches anybody, please see that it gets to the powers that be. Just
tell them that it came from Third Lanark.
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