“Maybe St Patrick was watching just a little bit that day and decided to give us a hand.” – Billy McNeill
“He soothed the souls of psychos and the men who had the horn And they all looked very happy in the morning” – Shane MacGowan, Sally MacLennane
Saint Patrick knew better than anyone that all good things come in threes. This Scotsman of Roman descent chose the shamrock to illustrate to the Irish the mystery of the Holy Trinity, in turn becoming the patron saint of the Emerald Isle. As the Irish spread out among the continents of the world, the saint’s day of 17th March became the day for celebrating Irishness wherever green was worn around the globe.
It was no different in Glasgow, the city that gave birth to the greatest sporting institution of the Irish diaspora: Celtic FC. 17th March was always celebrated with vigour by the Celtic support but in 1991 there was a jamboree planned like none before or since. In the afternoon, a Scottish Cup quarter-final tie between Celtic and Rangers at Celtic Park. In the evening, The Pogues – a London-based band who had single-handedly breathed new life into the Irish folk music tradition by infusing it with a punk sensibility and Shane McGowan’s glorious lyrics – had a sold-out gig at the Barrowland Ballroom on Glasgow’s Gallowgate. These three events coinciding could prove the unholiest of all trinities.
The Pogues had previously played Paddy’s Day concerts in New York and London but this was a first for Glasgow. They had already had some celebrated gigs at the Barrowlands, not least the night in 1985 following Jock Stein’s death in Cardiff when the band dedicated the song ‘I’m a Man You Don’t Meet Every Day’ to his memory. There was always a strong representation of Celtic supporters at Pogues concerts in Scotland and beyond. Like the band, many Celtic fans were second-generation Irish (or more) and subjected to the same insulting ‘plastic Paddy’ label. Many of the traditional songs adopted and adapted by The Pogues in their early albums were very familiar to those brought up in Irish/Catholic households in the 1960s and ‘70s including The Auld Triangle, The Leaving of Liverpool and Waxie’s Dargle. Instead of being played at 33 rpm though they sounded sped up to 45 rpm, fuelled by booze, drugs and an anarchic, rebel spirit. Your Granny wouldn’t like these versions of her old favourites never mind mentions of Madrid brothels, junkies, hoors and spewing up in the chapel.
The Pogues were about more than just bevvy and shamrocks though. There was a political and social edge to their music which embraced issues such as homelessness, emigration/immigration and corruption. In 1988 their song The Streets of Sorrow/ Birmingham Six was banned in Britain for alleging that those convicted of the IRA pub bombings in Birmingham and Guildford in the 1970s were in fact innocent. McGowan’s lyric read:
There were six men in Birmingham, in Guildford there’s four
Who were picked up and tortured and framed by the law
And the filth got promotion, but they’re still doing time
For being Irish in the wrong place and at the wrong time.
In October 1989 the Guildford Four (Gerry Conlon, Paddy Armstrong, Paul Hill and Carole Richardson) were released from prison when a miscarriage of justice was finally admitted by the British authorities. The campaign to free the Birmingham Six continued and when Celtic played against Bohemians in Dublin in the summer of 1990, fans from Tyrone unveiled a huge banner in support of the imprisoned men to great acclaim. The pressure was building to remedy this further injustice.
Football, music and drink with a decidedly Irish twist would make for a heady and unique Celtic cocktail. In no time at all, 17th March 1991 in Glasgow would be blessed with a title of its own that would endure for decades to come: The St. Patrick’s Day Massacre.
‘SOME CURSED, SOME PRAYED, SOME PRAYED THEN CURSED . . .’
We flocked to Celtic Park that day more in hope than expectation. After beating Rangers in the Scottish Cup Final in 1989, no trophies had been won the following season. As they then won their second title in succession, Celtic slipped to fifth in the league. Going into this game, we were sitting in fourth position and a third title for The Beast’s side looked in the bag.
Celtic had come into some form recently though, winning 12 points from the last 14 and beating Hibs away the weekend before 2-0. The support knew all too well that this was the last chance of glory this season, having lost the League Cup Final 2-1 to them after extra time in October. We were also the only team likely to stop them winning a Treble for the first time since 1978. This game really mattered.
In the previous seven games against them, Celtic had lost five and only won one – a Scottish Cup encounter the previous February. They were buying more expensive players especially from England while we were stagnating and struggling to hold on to their coat-tails. Hope springs eternal for those clad in emerald though. They had a Maurice Johnston in their team and the desire to beat that turncoat was very, very strong indeed. A decade had passed since they had last won the oldest trophy in world football and the chance to keep that run going – and possibly turn Celtic’s fortunes around at the same time – meant this could be a Paddy’s Day to truly remember for the majority of the 52,868 crowd and thousands more beyond.
The teams that ran out on to Celtic Park were:
Celtic got off to a blistering start, as unexpected as it was welcome. Two Joe Miller crosses in successions were almost finished off by Tommy Coyne and Gerry Creaney. The Forces of Darkness were on the back foot from the off and this Paddy’s Day got well and truly underway just six minutes into the game. Coyne beat Gough to a floated Wdowczyk free-kick to head the ball into the path of Creaney who blasted a right-foot shot past Woods to send three sides of Celtic Park into green-and-white tumult. It was a beautiful finish.
Five minutes later and Souness – who was enjoying sustained verbal abuse from Celtic fans behind him in the Director’s Box – faced another major setback when Trevor Steven was badly injured in a collision with Maurice Johnston and had to be stretchered off. Celtic fans were dismayed: not at the loss of a talented player so early in the game but that it wasn’t Johnston who was being taken away in an ambulance. To demonstrate their empathy with Steven’s plight as he lay in agony on the turf, fans in The Jungle chanted the timeless favourite ‘Dig a hole and bury him.’ Steven was replaced by winger Pieter Huistra whose main contribution to the day was an attempted shot that was foiled by his own standing leg.
Things were going well. It was 20 minutes before the Bears had as much as a corner to cheer. Referee Andrew Waddell was in charge of his first Glasgow Derby game and seemed reluctant to take action against the persistent fouling of the Rangers warlock Hurlock. Not The View noted that Waddell was “a pathologist by profession and about to witness some pretty pathological behaviour from Souness’ stiffs.”
37 minutes in, another Hurlock foul resulted in a free-kick but still no yellow card. Up stepped our sole Pole, Shuggie. Incredibly, despite starting his run from what looked like the half-way line, Wdowczyk decided to go for goal. His venomous shot flew towards the two-man Rangers wall of Hateley and Johnson who manfully jumped out of its way. The ball had picked up even more momentum when it reached the opposition box where Hurlock stuck out a leg – and the whole stadium watched on aghast as the re-directed ball arched over the out-stretched hand of Woods and into the empty net behind. This was sensational – and hilarious! Celtic Park erupted in glee. We were two up and coasting it.
The boys in blue were not enjoying the atmosphere of a St Patrick’s Day party in Paradise. First, Walters was booked for a foul on Coyne and Judas Johnson also went into Waddell’s wee book for dissent. As the players left the field at half-time with Celtic’s 2-0 lead intact, it was the turn of the Rangers’ keeper to get a yellow card for further dissension. The pressure was beginning to tell.
We were very suspicious of anything that looked like a new dawn though, given the recent experiences of Billy McNeill’s side. Everything had to be fought for all over again in the second half to send the Billy Boys out of the cup. History anoraks pointed out that they hadn’t won a Scottish Cup tie at Celtic Park since 1905. But with Celtic, even at this early stage of the 1990s, anything was possible.
The second half started with Celtic to the fore. That Huistra shot mentioned earlier was the cause of much derision but their attacks became more frequent and threatening. In the 54th minute Johnson went scurrying after a ball played through the heart of the Celtic defence and Peter Grant brought Flymo crashing to the ground with a professional foul. It looked as though The Pointer might get sent off but the referee showed leniency with a yellow card. We heaved a massive sigh of relief. We needn’t have bothered. Within seconds there were howls of despair as Grant came running out of the Celtic wall ridiculously early to block the free-kick and received a red card for his gross stupidity. It was the first time that day that the dregs and scourings of filthy slumdom otherwise known as the away support had something significant to cheer.
With a man down, Celtic looked shaky for the first time despite the two-goal advantage. A familiar feeling of foreboding crept in amongst the Celtic support until fate intervened – or rather hairy Hurlock did. After Tommy Coyne had challenged him in the air, the former Millwall hard man decided to get his retaliation in immediately by smashing his arm into Coyne’s face. Right in front of the referee. It was astonishingly bad judgment from an astonishingly bad-tempered player. As the Celtic fans jeered his long walk off he was met with the pleasant refrain of ‘Terry Hurlock – you’re a wanker! You’re a wanker!’ These were simpler times.
Paul Elliott was having one of his greatest games in a Celtic jersey. He was immense, standing up to the aerial and elbow-led challenges of Hateley, winning everything in the air. In the 70th minute he took the full force of a fierce Ferguson drive in the face. It looked as though he would have to go off as he spat out blood but he simply went to the touchline, got some treatment, changed out of his blood-splattered hoops and then returned to the battle. Somewhat ironically, his next challenge from Hateley when returning to the field again came in the form of a leading elbow and, finally, referee Waddell decided to book the English striker. There was a comical moment when Hateley refused the referee’s instruction to come to him, insisting that Waddell walk over to him instead, which he promptly did. Safe to say that the tempers of some were starting to fray a bit.
Celtic still had the two-goal cushion and it was now 10-men apiece. Composure was key. Someone failed to tell Mark Walters though. He had began to wage a one-man war on Tommy Coyne. He had bizarrely escaped censure for blasting a loose ball at Coyne and, a few minutes later, Coyne won a crunching tackle against him which he clearly didn’t enjoy. The winger’s response was to have not one but two kicks at the Celtic man, with both missing their target and Coyne coming away with the ball in spite of Walters’ cartoonish efforts to stop him. When he finally caught up it was the swipe of a Walters elbow that brought Coyne crashing down: again, right in front of the referee.
It meant marching orders for a second Currant Bun with only ten minutes of the game left. You could almost make out St Patrick’s laughter from above. We were home and dry surely? Well just to be sure, Mark Hateley decided to throw a punch or two in the direction of Anton Rogan in the 82nd minute. Anton saw yellow, Hateful saw red – and Celtic Park was green all over! The party on the terracings and in the Main Stand was now in full swing as a new song for the special occasion roared out from The Jungle and spread around: ‘Happy Birthday Saint Patrick – Happy Birthday to you!’ It may even have been initiated by The Pogues themselves. Although official guests of Celtic and treated to a corporate meal in the Main Stand before the game, the band stood in The Jungle to watch the massacre unfold along with half of the Guildford Four (Conlon and Armstrong) as Spider Stacy recalled on Twitter in 2020: ‘Hilarious, the Celtic fans were roaring with laughter.’
The game continued but victory for the good guys was now assured. Gerry Creaney missed a couple of decent chances. The eight Rangers left on the field were simply intent on not losing any more goals. The party atmosphere was lifted by the appearance of more yellow cards beings shown to Judas and Nisbet.
In the final minutes the real Boys In Blue poured on to the away terracing to stem the traditional pitch invasion that was a popular feature of the era when Rangers were losing in the Glasgow Derby. Perhaps the Angry Bears were simply reacting to the sound of their old favourite ‘The Billy Boys’ blasting around the other three sides of the ground but with the words replaced with mock laughter? It had all proven too much for them just as it had for their players that day as their treble dream died a death in Paradise.
The hilarity didn’t end there. At the post-match conference, Souness told the media: “I would like to apologise for the lack of discipline on the part of my team. I never thought I would see the day they would display such indiscipline.” Coming from one of the most ill-disciplined and dirtiest players in the history of European football, this was irony in its truest form. The Beast’s mood didn’t improve much the following weekend when the teams met again at Celtic Park on Palm Sunday in a league fixture with Celtic winning 3-0 (and yet another Currant Bun enjoying an early bath) in what would prove the last time Souness would take charge of a Glasgow Derby.
Two goals, four red cards and seven bookings was quite a tally, prompting journo Jim McLean to write in the Daily Express: “Celtic yesterday celebrated a St Patrick’s Day massacre of their arch enemies after an afternoon of Scottish Cup shame and disgrace for Rangers.” Now, that sounds catchy! The Rangers players had certainly got into the spirit of the occasion, forming a St Patrick’s Day Parade of their own up the Celtic Park tunnel in the second half.
Celtic had been on the front foot throughout, first to almost every ball and overwhelming a Souness team for the first time in a long time. McStay and Collins dominated the midfield. Creaney and Coyne linked up superbly up front and took all the punishment dished out by the Rangers defence without any retaliation and little protection. Like the rest of the Celtic team, they were full of desire and commitment but it was matched with restraint. The celebrations that followed were anything but restrained . . .
‘COME ALL YOU RAMBLING BHOYS OF PLEASURE
AND LADIES OF EASY LEISURE . . .’
We squeezed out of the Celtic End and along Janefield Street before forming part of the massed joyous ranks heading doon the Gallowgate in search of refreshment to honour the great saint and Gerry Creaney’s right foot. I am sure we were in Heilan Jessies and at least one other East End establishment before somehow getting into Baird’s Bar. Wherever we went rumours abounded that the band had been there just before we arrived. Certainly from the recollection of various band members some may have been in those pubs before the gig however they were lucky to make it to the Gallowgate at all, as Spider Stacy remembered:
We had got into this minibus after the game and we drove through this mob of Rangers fans, all with their scarves and colours. Gerry Conlon said to Paddy Armstrong: ‘Lean out the window and give us a verse of the Bold Fenian Men, why don’t you?’ Paddy was not the kind of guy to cause trouble but duly stuck his head out of the window – and we were like: ‘Noooooooo Paddy! Not just yet anyway – wait until we have some clear road ahead of us!
The number of our party grew and grew in Baird’s. There were streams of whisky of course (and streams of a wholly different kind to contend with in Baird’s notorious toilet) and flowing pints of the black stuff and the atmosphere was building again after the highs of the afternoon. It then quickly became apparent that there weren’t as many tickets for the gig as was first thought. A list was produced. Not everyone had pre-booked a ticket – including yours truly. As the concert was sold out the idea that turning up at Baird’s meant you’d be guaranteed entry next door disappeared faster than a tray of drinks.
I was left hoping against hope that some of the boys who had the foresight to book a ticket through the club wouldn’t turn up. Eventually, as drinks were finished and more and more of the group headed next door from the still-heaving Baird’s, it was slowly dawning on me that I was going to miss out on the party of a lifetime. I couldn’t have felt more miserable than if I’d just watched my team get knocked out the Scottish Cup by our greatest rivals and suffered the ignominy of ending up with only eight players in the process.
Somewhere, somehow, someone (St Patrick?) took pity and a Willy Wonka-style golden ticket appeared magically as I was drowning my sorrows – although it was green with shamrocks and cost a mere £10, it somehow survived the night intact). In no time at all I was hammering my way up the staircase into the famous Ballroom.
It was just like being at the game. Everyone was wearing Celtic or Ireland jerseys and scarves and hats and still celebrating as if the team had only just left the pitch. The Pogues’ accordionist James Fearnley remembers the Barrowlands crowd as being ‘laced together by green and white Celtic scarves.’
The Derry writer Eamon McCann was there that night to do a gig review for the Irish magazine Hot Press:
The Barrowlands, once we’d shouldered our way through the hundreds outside who couldn’t get in, seemed at first sight more like a celebration rally for some famous Celtic victory than any sort of gig at all. Of the three thousand jammed in almost solid, overwhelmingly male, about fifteen hundred seemed to sport some Celtic favour, green and white stripes around the head or the waist or held high, aloft, to sway in time to the chorus: ‘If you know! The his-tor-ee!’
There was a massive roar as the band took to the stage. A bearded McGowan and Spider Stacy looked a mirror image of the crowd, standing bedecked in Celtic scarves. They held up a banner that proclaimed ‘No Huns At Hampden’ much to the crowd’s amusement – and then we were off. The music came crashing down, the crowd lunged forward then back, back then forward and this absolutely blissful Celtic cacophony was underway.
I would be lying if I said I could remember the order of the songs or even which songs were played. It wasn’t the kind of night to stand back and enjoy the musicianship. This was a party and heaven help you if you couldn’t keep up. I think Streams of Whiskey might have been the opener. There are vague memories of If I Should Fall from Grace with God and The Broad Majestic Shannon. There was no respite when a song finished because, as McCann noted, ‘Every space between songs in the set was filled by some Celtic chorus’ and it felt treacherous to the Celtic cause not to join in. Some respite finally came during Summer of Siam.
I don’t think I’ve ever come as close to melting. The heat and the sweat in the Barras that night was unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. The ceiling was glistening and it wasn’t just the famed stars. At times it was a struggle to catch a breath amidst the mayhem of the seething mass. Everyone was dancing – if you could call it that – but it mostly felt like one gigantic goal celebration set to different bits of music. I almost wanted it to end just to make sure I’d survive the experience of getting crushed during The Sick Bed of Cuchulainn. But then the adrenaline would take over again. The joy of watching what had unfolded at Celtic Park that day; the pain of the Great Unwashed on the terracing opposite; the overwhelming feeling of solidarity that came from watching this band on that stage on this day in a part of the world where the Irish would never be universally accepted no matter what. But here we came, here we stayed and here we celebrated the fact our identity would never be diluted. Among our own. It was pure Poguetry in motion among the throng.
The music did finally stop. But not for long. The Barrowlands crowd virtually dragged The Pogues back on stage not once, not twice but for THREE encores! The few minutes that Sally McLennane lasted during one of those encores will forever be up there as one of the great moments in life. It was beyond chaos. If the spirit of the The Pogues could have been captured and bottled, there and then in the centre of that famous ballroom was where the still should have been set up.
One of the great mysteries of the modern world is who actually appeared with The Pogues that famous night. No two people will give you the same answer. Bridgeton Bhoy Frankie Miller was definitely on stage at some point and he may have sung his hit song Darlin’. I long thought I saw Joe Strummer and Kirsty MacColl on backing vocals but no-one backs that up. There were certainly Celtic players present: Paul McStay was autographing match tickets for the band backstage but did he and any of the other conquering heroes appear in front of an adoring audience for the second time that day? The evidence is inconclusive.
They were all up there for the finale, an uproarious version of The Irish Rover. It was announced that, unbelievably, among the number crowding round the mikes was Paddy Hill. He was one of the Birmingham Six released from prison just three days earlier after 16 years spent in custody for a crime which no-one truly believed he had committed. The campaign had succeeded. Justice, of a sort, had been done. And here he was among us, enjoying freedom at last. He received one of the biggest roars of the whole day. Eamon McCann wrote: “We ended with the wildest Irish Rover you ever did hear. And oh, how the wild wind drove us.”
It was finally all over and our sweat-drenched bodies were cast out into a freezing cold and wet night to endure a long walk back through the Gorbals to the southside and a floor or a sofa if you were lucky. It was a day that stands alone in a lifetime of wonderful Celtic memories. At its centre was a band who had made Paddy’s Day virtually their own and conquered Glasgow for good measure. McCann nailed it: ‘I’ve heard arguments and banter occasionally as to whether the Pogues are most accurately described as an Irish band or an English band or an Anglo-Irish band or whatever. They are none of these things. The Pogues are a Glasgow band.’
Celtic had won amongst a flurry of red cards, The Pogues had laid claim to Glasgow as their own and the St Patrick’s Day Massacre was now a matter of historical record in the second city of the Empire. Irishness had rarely been celebrated with such blissful fervour. It is true and the great man himself knew it: all good things come in threes.
——————–
Now this song is nearly over
We may never find out what it means
Still there’s a light I hold before me
And you’re the measure of my dreams, the measure of my dreams
Shane McGowan 1957 – 2023
——————–
In gratitude to the three great Arthurian legends: Guinness, Griffith and O’Loan
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A brilliant reminder of one of the best nights of my life. My memory of the night isn’t as detailed as yours but I do remember Shane would occasionally ask the crowd what the score was on the rare times we quietened down for a breather.