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It& #39;s a sad day,growing up I was taught Celtic was something special,not just because of the way we played football,but because we were a symbol for a community suffering wide scale discriminaton. Rebels who refused to meekly accept our masters boot on our neck no matter how poor
our circumstances were. From the jungle we hurled our defiance into the faces of those who would try to keep us down,loud,brash and often enough angry. Our scarfs were worn with pride,the symbol of our unwavering allegiances. From father to son down the generations this faith
was passed. Bit by bit you learned the history, Johny, Patsy, Charlie, Jock, you learned their stories sitting on the carpet as your elders regaled each other with them
Soon you could rhyme off the names of the Lisbon lions. Just waiting on the day your mum finally gave the nod.
Soon you could rhyme off the names of the Lisbon lions. Just waiting on the day your mum finally gave the nod.
The excitment standing outside the pub with a coke and a packet of crisps waiting impatiently for your dad to have a couple of quick pints,then the walk up Janefield St for a lift over the bar,let free to run up those massive stairs at the Rangers end to finally stand in the
entryway taking it all in.Your dad holding you tight under the crush barrier as the sways moved the crowd this way and that with the flow of the game,there wasn& #39;t much football on TV then,so dad taught you,the tactics,the players names. At night you& #39;d pester him,with your mothers
disapproving eye on you both to teach you the rebel songs you heard from the jungle. That first game was one of many extraordinary markers.Your first Rangers game. Your first game in the jungle, your first game by yourself, standing outside the park with your mates asking random
Stangers for a lift over,occasionally the bold would leap over the turnstile,often enough to be papped out a gate by plod moments later. Ceremony by unrecognized ceremony you were indoctrinated into the ways of Celtic. The swell in your chest the first time you and your mates
started a song and it caught on with the crowd to come roaring off the terraces. In this way, at least for some of us, Celtic supporters were made.Times change of course, the terraces made way for the pain and misery of that season at Hampden,releaved only by big Pierre on the
final day. The pain was quicky replaced when you took in the view as you planted your arse in a seat in the brand new North stand. New heros emerged, the men who stopped the 10, MON and his squad. highs and lows,in life and football there was always Celtic,the rock you could
cling to as the tide surged around you.I can& #39;t help but feel we turned our collective backs on that heritage, we gave something away this week, and fairly cheaply too. Now we have arseholes asking for fellow supporters to be given life time bans at AGMs, pliant media pushing the
corporate script to be lapped up and repeated on social media,the only Green some see now is the Green eyed monster of jealousy as those who put in their time are rightly rewarded. People calling to criminalize their fellow Celtic supporters FFS. We voted 97.2 to 2.8% to simply
turn a blind eye to SFA cheating and corruption and move on, and instead of turning out ire were it is deserved, many decided to turn on their fellow supporters, egged on by the SMSM who has never given a single fuck about Celtic. What has happened to us, it& #39;s truly sad.
