1967-05-25: Celtic 2-1 Inter Milan, European Cup – Supporters’ Tales & Misc Articles

Posted on CQN In May 2011 by Brogan Rogan Trevino and Hogan

Good Afternoon,

On 12th April 1967, My Father and mother took the unusual step of deciding to remortgage their house. The reason for this decision was not that a new kitchen was needed, or an extension needed to be built or anything else like that. No the decision was made when the final whistle went at Celtic park with the result that Celtic had beaten Ducla Prague by 3 goals to 1. The oul fella had argued that if Celtic won by two clear goals then the trip to the bank was on. What he had in mind was a gamble but Stein’s team did not lose two goal advantages– and he had seen enough of Ducla that night to believe that Celtic would go to Lisbon.

By the following week, he had collected the money raised and he had spent most of it!

It was nearly all gone by the time Celtic kicked off in the afternoon match in Prague. As there was no football coverage on TV he had to call back by phone from London to my mother to find out the score from Prague. I would guess that he was slightly nervous, and his nerves were made all the worse when he could not get a word out of the mother on the phone– all she did was cry!!

Presuming that the unimaginable had happened, he began to try and calm her down over the phone, telling her that though they had lost a few quid, everything would be ok and that it was not the end of the world and that he would make the money back again. Somehow, the mother managed to blurt out four words: ” We won– we’re through!”– and that changed the tone of the conversation totally.

Putting the phone down the father scurried off about his business.

Not long after, a man politely knocked on the door of his boss. The Boss man was a small bespectacled man in a dapper suit.

” Sorry, sir, but there is a man in reception asking to see you and who says that it is urgent. When I asked him what he wanted, he said that he wanted to hire every one of your planes for three days in May. He is clearly deranged and I have called for the police and an Ambulance– but in case there is a commotion I suggest you stay in here for the time being”.

“What did he want the planes for?” said the boss

” Some rubbish about a football match and a team from Glasgow— He says that Celtic are in the European Cup Final in Lisbon.”

” And are they?”

“I don’t know– I just thought he was mad!”

The Boss man then picked up the phone and called the Daily Express and asked where the European Cup final was to be played and who was in it. Lisbon was the correct answer and as for the participants– well that would be Glasgow Celtic and either Internazionale or CSKA Red Flag who were to play that night.

The Boss man came out to the reception to meet with another small bespectacled man who had the remainder of the remortgage money in his bag.

” Hello” said the boss man ” I’m Freddie Laker.”

For those too young to remember Freddie Laker, he started Laker airlines in 1966 and tried to establish the company as a charter company flying people and mail all over. He later went on to be knighted and to challenge British Airways on their transatlantic routes. His was the first real budget scheduled airline, but in 1967 no one had ever heard of him and no one had tried to book all of his planes at once!

Ultimetely the oul fella flew 17 planes to Lisbon. He knew and saw that not only were the team capable of remarkebale things but that the Celtic support would travel in vast numbers to the Portuguese capitol. Some drove, some trained, but the majority flew and this was the first mass airlift of football fans in Europe. That is often forgotten. In those days the final was played somewhere and the majority of spectators were local to the chosen stadium. The travelling football army was a Celtic first and each time it has had the chance to invade foreign soil for a final it grows from the time before—- Lisbon, Milan, Seville.

I still have unused tickets for that day in May 1967. I also have treasured photographs of my dad and my grandfather with his chosen guest who he took to Lisbon to see Celtic lift the cup. He , like many others, had no doubt that Stein’s team would win. The Guest was one of my Dad’s favourite players and someone he would have put into his team in response to Serge’s post. The Player and guest was Charles Patrick Tully.

Much has been written about that day in Lisbon, but what sticks with me is that how different things are now compared to then, how the world and the game has moved on.

In 1967 loads of people in England and elsewhere did not follow European football at all. Other than Real Madrid coming to play the final in Glasgow,the event was not much covered in the British Isles. There had been a general feeling within the English FA that Europe was not for English teams. Further it was a latin dominated event.

However among those who did follow European Football there was a feeling that the free flowing football of Real Madrid was a thing of the past. The Inter team played an unbeatable form of football, cynical football, professionally efficient football– get in front and kill the game.

Barry Davis had a great series on radio 5 a number of years ago called the great European teams and in it, he concluded that the Celtic team of 1967-72 was undoubtedly the best team in Europe going by consistent results. But the key was that everyone of a neutral hue wanted them to win. Inter’s dearest player cost £250,000 in 1967– which was a fortune then. It was a team designed to stop Madrid and later Benfica and to dominate football with it’s all efficient system.

For the press, Lisbon ‘67 was good against bad, light against dark, football against the anti footballing ideology of Herrera. The idea that Stein could produce this local team which played such magnificent football was like a fairytale– the stuff of Hollywood. And win they did. A friend of mine, who is a Rangers fan, described it as the day Celtic THRASHED Inter Milan by two goals to one. It was a footballing lesson– a beating to beat all beatings. A masterclass in entertaining attacking football.

But it brought about so much more than just a win. It was the precursor to total football in Holland. It deeply influenced how the Brazil team of 1970 would play against many of the same players in an Italy shirt in the world cup final. The pictures also advertised this idea of the vast travelling football support and of course the Freddie Lakers of this world realised there was money in football charters.

Glasgow Airport

My Dad is a faithful Celtic supporter who follows the club everywhere. He’s not sectarian in his outlook at all and neither was my Granda who changed religion to marry my Gran. Granda was a supporter but didn’t attend too many games. He was a gentle giant.

The only time my Granda ever skelped my Dad was during the ’67 final when they were watching the game on TV. When Chalmers scored the winner for some inexplicable reason my Dad (about 13 at the time) leapt to his feet and screamed ‘We’ll burn down the Orange hall tonight!’ WTF! Why would you even say that.

My Granda leapt to his feet too and promptly back-hand slapped my Dad across the room for what he said and that was how they celebrated the goal that won the Big Cup.
(Henrik The King of KDS forum, May 2011)

A few memories of that day.

We arrived at Lisbon to be greeted at the airport by the great Charlie Tully. Through the travel agency that took the majority of fans who flew to Lisbon, the word went out that Charlie would lose his job (with a sports manufacturer in Belfast) if the Celtic fans booed God Save the Queen – those were the days!) In the event, they didn’t play any national anthems.

What I remember about central Lisbon was how I kept meeting old school friends (I had only left the year before). The other thing I remember is how the city was full of totally impoverished soldiers carrying rifles who were so grateful if you gave them a drink (alcohol was incredibly cheap and you could buy beer in the ground). It didn’t surprise me that a few years later the army overthrew the fascist regime.

As most of us were Catholics then and most Catholics went to mass then, we headed for a church – I think it was a cathedral – as it was a holiday of obligation. There were a few old ladies in black, a few rich people with sits inside the altar area – kind of feudal – and masses of Celtic fans with scarves and banners. The locals were totally bemused.

It was an all-seated stadium but you had to sit on concrete unless you bought a cushion. You could also move round the ground. We went from one end of the stadium to the other at half-time so we could be behind the Inter goal. We were convinced that it was never a penalty (it clearly was!) I remember before the winner was scored we were all discussing how we were going to get to Amsterdam where the replay was due to be played a few days later . Was there extra time then? I don’t remember but there were no penalty shoot-outs or tossing a coin. There was no question of us just going home.

At the end a few valiant Tims ran onto the park dodging the police batons but by the second and subsequent waves they gave up. On the park I met all the school friends I had missed in the town centre. I have an abiding memory of Big Billy, high up in the stand, holding the Cup aloft. The stadium’s architecture was like a Roman amphitheatre and I always though Billy’s nickname Caesar came from that (rather than something to do with Cesar Romero.)

On the way back, my mate had an earlier plane than me so when the his plane left I fell asleep – we’d had a few by then and I was young and not used to drinking beer and cognac (at a pre-decimal 3p equivalent) all day. I don’t have any memory of subsequent events until I woke up as the plane was landing in Glasgow but what apparently happened was that I missed my plane and the cops stopped a bus going from the airport building to the runway and said, “take this man to Glasgow”. Luckily one of my brother’s mates was on the bus and he recognized me, got me smuggled onto the plane, put me in his seat and hid in the toilet. He was discovered but the “driver” of the plane (we weren’t used to flying!) relented and let me stay on.

That night we were back at Celtic Park to welcome the team back and then to the Crown Bar where the hero of the previous night – the one who got me onto the plane – sat bubbling into his beer. We really weren’t expecting to win against the mighty Inter.

(JinkDemy of KDS Forum, May 2011)

I HAD thought since Seville that there must be hundreds, maybe thousands, of Celtic fans who had seen all three of the club’s European finals until it was pointed out just what a sweep of time this entailed and how young so many of the hordes in Spain were.

So maybe it is time for a triple veteran to do some comparing and contrasting and maybe it might as well be me. Just to make things easier, the three finals, on and off the field, do seem to fall into distinctive categories.

LISBON was a dream, MILAN was a nightmare and SEVILLE was qualified joy.

To understand Lisbon, you have to go back a couple of years from 1967 and realise that Celtic then were a side of skilled players who never won anything and who didn’t look capable of coalescing into a team that would.

Then along came Jock Stein and things started happening fast, so fast that there was a surreal quality to those days after the defeat of Dukla Prague, so much so that, on the flight to the final, I asked my mate if he could really believe we were on our way to see Celtic facing their last hurdle to winning the European Cup. He couldn’t either.

I’m not going to add to the millions of words already written about the game itself, except to say that if ever there was a dream that was it. This quality was added to by the city, the weather and the enthusiasm of the Portuguese for the way Celtic played. We even got smiles from the police and in a fascist country, as Portugal then was, that really is the stuff of dreams.

With all of this, plus a glass or six of vinho verde, we could probably have flown home without an aeroplane. Our reverie only ended when we saw the Cup being paraded round Parkhead. That was reality. Our team, the side that not so long ago seemingly couldn’t win anything, were European champions. Even at that, there were moments in the months ahead when we had to stop and convince ourselves anew that it had all really happened.

It couldn’t have been more different in Milan. This was going to be easy peasy. True, the Dutch were better than they used to be but no match for the team of skill and experience that had beaten Leeds United twice. An attitude, by the way, that seems to have been shared by Big Jock. And when, as in Lisbon, Tommy Gemmell scored, that approach seemed justified. Now we were going to sit back and enjoy ourselves. Well, we sat back but we sure as hell didn’t enjoy ourselves.

The nightmare had begun earlier, though most of us hardly noticed. I was on my own this time, though due to meet up with some colleagues for a little vox popping, an arrangement that fell through, surely an omen.

Milan was on strike, something that became very clear when we went to get into the San Siro. I think everybody made it but not always to the seats they had bought. But the problems really started when we left the stadium. In our traumatised state, we could have done without finding that all the buses that were to whisk us to the airport seemed to have been moved. Eventually, it looked as if people were getting on the first Parks of Hamilton or similar they saw and hoping for the best.

The airport was worse. You might think the endless delays would have allowed us to catch a little much-needed sleep. No chance. The police kept moving us on or, rather, round and round. In the end I did two complete circuits of the departure lounge before I was finally ushered on to a plane, not the flight I was booked on, needless to say.

Any good memories? Just two. An all-too-brief look at Milan Cathedral was one. To say I am sceptical about religion, any religion, would be something of an understatement but a belief that can inspire a creation as beautiful as this must have something going for it. And the airport wine, used medicinally, you understand, helped dull our pain a little.

And so, 33 years on, to Seville, accompanied this time by two sons and a grandson and with the prospect of two days by the sea, as well as the main event. All very civilised, compared to the two wildly contrasting day trips of the past.

Apart from that, the biggest difference in Seville was, of course, the sheer volume of fans. There had been a fair exodus to Lisbon by plane, train and just about anything you could call a motor vehicle, Milan had a better turnout than it deserved but nothing could compare with the green and white hordes in Spain. I don’t think I ever felt more at home or prouder to be a Celtic supporter.

To say, as some have done, that Seville, with its magical atmosphere that day, was so terrific that the result was almost irrelevant is not so much a cliché, more pure baloney. Of course it hurt but, compared to Milan, this defeat was a triumph. And that is why the whole experience was joyous, with the joy qualified.

Certainly, it was more like Lisbon than Milan. For me it was summed up by sitting on a pavement, still warm at one am, discussing the game with my grandson. We agreed that we were proud of our team and their manager. We didn’t grudge Porto their victory. Jose Mourinho had put together a pretty formidable and entertaining side. It was just a pity he wanted them to be nominated for Academy Awards as well. And the Porto fans seemed a pretty decent lot. Defeat is never sweet but unlike Milan, this was bearable.

And a fourth final, perhaps? Why not? Only, the gap between Milan and Seville was 33 years. Try to narrow it a bit next time, you heroes in green and white. 2036 would be pushing it a bit – at least for me.

© Sandy Williamson

Passport photos – 7/6
Visitors passport – 2/6
Flights & ticket from a travel agent at Partick Cross – £19 (10/- extra for 200 fags anaw)
Bus from St. Enoch to Abbotsinch Airport – 2/6
Currency restrictions in force, so, escudos – £5

Memories – Priceless.

I went to the airport on the Wednesday night for the 6 am Thursday flight and fully expected to get a couple of hours kip whilst waiting. Naive or what. It was quite quiet until about midnight when the rest of the airborne force started arriving. The police and security just gave up asking the troops to be quiet. Bumped into an old school pal and as luck would have it we were both on the same plane.

I remember there was a wee old priest on the plane who was asking for divine intervention as we took off (don’t know if he was afraid of flying or wanting a result).

Plane lands in Lisbon. Big holdup, presumably because their immigration & passport control are being overwhelmed. Kept on the plane in sweltering heat with hardly any ventilation for nearly an hour. Eventually got released, walked across the tarmac to the airport buildings and standing (almost) there was Charlie Tully and shaking everyone’s hand.

Transferred by coach to City centre, quick look about and end up outside a Church. It being a holiday of ob. we went to see if we could catch a quick mass, failing that, another wee request for divine intervention. As luck would have it there was a mass scheduled to start in a few minutes. As others have posted, inside the church there was a good few locals, totally bemused and surrounded by hundreds of Tims. Definitely standing room only and even then it would be on the terrace outside.

After that, a bit of lunch, a wee walk about and a coach to the stadium. Again, as others have posted, it was much as I would imagine The Coliseum to have been, at least both ends and one side, stone terracing on which you could sit or stand. The remaining side seemed to have been a temporary scaffolding structure and for some reason I seem to remember it was bedecked in Inter’s colours.

Disappointed to lose the penalty (stonewaller) but never at any time did we lose belief. The more the match went on the more it became obvious that it was only a matter of time before the equaliser and ultimately the winner(s) would come. Inter’s goalie that day, Sarti I think, was immense but even he could not prevent the inevitable. The rest is history.

Taxi back to the city centre, loadsa beer, bus to the airport.

In the airport there was a wee guy dishing out free samples of miniature bottles of wine. Just looking at mine and it was “Alto Corgo” and the number on the neck-label is 331132.

My experience of the return flight gives credence to many of the otherwise unbelievable stories that I have heard. The airport staff were more concerned with getting everyone on a plane, any plane, just to get back to normality. There was at least 2 guys on the plane back that were not on it on the way out and the wee priest was noticable by his absence.

Back home, a few hours kip and then up to Celtic Park for the homecoming.

cannyrememberwhitahhudfurdinner.csc

(Coffin Dodger of KDS forum, May 2011, link)

Watched it on telly (black and white) in Coventry where I was living. Nearly hit the ceiling when Gemmell scored then went berserk when Chalmers got the winner. Went out to the pub right after the game but could only find one Celtic fan (a lukewarm one at that). Nevertheless we both kept singing Hail Hail, and chanting Celtic!…Celtic… just like our fans had been doing in the stadium in Lisbon. People were looking at us and shaking their heads. Most of them didn’t have a clue what we were celebrating, but 3 or 4 came over to congratulate us saying Celtic were fantastic. Didn’t own a phone but my parents in Glasgow did, so I went to a phone box to call home. Spoke to my Dad, my Mum, my brother, my two sisters. They were all going nuts. I kept having to put extra shillings in the slot. Skipped work the next day, of course.

Next day, or was it 2 days later, the BBC showed the arrival of the team at Glasgow airport and the victory procession through the streets to Celtic Park. Never felt so proud. I was 27, around the same age as many of the Lions. As fans we really felt connected to the team in those days. If we didn’t know any of them personally, everyone knew somebody who went to school with one of them, or used to live in the next close, or dated a sister or brother of one of them. They weren’t just Celtic players, they were US; and we had won the BIG ONE
(Kellybhoy of KDS Forum, May 2011)

We might have been on the same plane then (at least on the way out – as I mentioned earlier, I came back on a different plane) – unless every plane had it’s wee priest. I remember people asking him to do a mass on the plane to get it over with. And was there a whip-round for the stewardesses? I recall these Dutch girls being totally bemused by the Celtic fans at first being completely bowled over by the fans’ generosity and then tried to get tickets to see the game.

Lots more memories coming back.
(jinkdemy of KDS Forum, May 2011)

I hadn’t intended to post this because I’ve told it so many times but what the hell. It’s for posterity! 😆

From the moment Bobby Lennox scored the goal that won the league at Motherwell to give us the first title in my Celtic-supporting lifetime (in 1954 I was a Cavan fan like my Dad :rolleyes: ) I knew we were going to win the European Cup. I was never as certain of anything in my life. I told everyone who would listen, including the rake of huns who worked on the sportsdesk of the paper on which I was working. I was all of 21 years old, full of piss and vinegar.

We drew Zurich, the Swiss champions, in the first round. Excellent! Piece of toffee. We’ll slaughter them. Hmm! Not quite. I was planning to go with my mates when the sports editor asked me if I would do 200 words for the Irish News in Belfast, for whom he stringed. I had my own ideas as to why he didn’t want to see Celtic’s first game in the European Cup. 😆 So there I was in the press box above the old stand roof for the start of the wonderful adventure. Well, for the first half, all my pervious bravado was just a puff of smoke. Zurich were tough — in every sense. Big and strong and athletic, they put us to the pin of our collars. I was delighted to see halftime.

Second half, different story: Celtic gained the upper hand when, from almost below where I was sitting, Tommy Gemmell moved on to the ball and from 35 yards nearly burst the net. That’s how I saw it anyway. I’m picturing it as I write. We scored again and won 2-0, but it had been tough and a lot of scribes fancied us to be turfed out on our jacksies in the second leg. The one who actually wrote that we would, Alec Young of the Daily Mail, was written off by Big Jock, who never let him forget it. The Big Man knew exactly how to play the second leg and we cantered it 0-3. I was with my mates in a city centre pub when the news came in with the first editions. Bedlam!

Second round, seen from the Jungle, was straightforward — 3-1 home and away against Nantes — and then the quarters against Vojvodina. The Yugoslavs were known as the Brazilians of Europe in those days and they were a good team with some terrific players. We lost 1-0 over there and then, on the Saturday, I got appendicitis and was whipped into the Southern General to be operated on that night. My mood wasn’t improved by hearing that we’d drawn 1-1 at Stirling that afternoon. My only worry was would I make the second leg. I was released on the morning of the game 10 days later and drove my mother crazy by insisting on going. My mates said they’d look after me. 😆 We watched a ferocious game of football that ebbed back and forth and were one up going into injury time.

Well, you know what happened! Another brilliant corner from the massively underrated Charlie Gallagher, and there was Cesar to bullet an unstoppable header into the net. The Yugoslavs collapsed on the turf as we went mental, me holding my side for fear the stitches would burst. :clap:

The semis were tough too — Dukla were good — but a brilliant double from Wispy aided by the cheekiest bit of play by Bertie Auld put us in the driving seat. I was working for the second leg and didn’t see it but just waiting for news — any news — made it the longest 90 minutes of my life. And then we were there. :worthy:

There was no question of me not going. Incredibly, only one of my mates, Pat, said he was going too. :rubeyes: So we decided to hitchhike. We left from a pub in Govan where the Irish chargehand, Barney, had a whip round for the pair of us that almost doubled our £20 each of travelling and spending money. What a man. :worthy: Fecked if we were going to hitchhike to London now. We raced for the 10.30 London bus from Buchanan Street with our newfound wealth and began the journey in comfort. Train from Euston (IIRC) to Dover, ferry across to Calais, and we walked towards the road south.

The first thing I saw was a crowd of about 30 lhads from Belfast who honestly were waiting for a lift that would take them all. 😆 There were hundreds of Celtic fans streaming along looking for a lift. I said to Pat: ”Sorry, old pal, we’re going to have to split up.” He nearly soiled himself but agreed, so we split up. I got three lifts rapid and arrived in Paris at about 10pm. The driver had picked up a guy in a kilt but when I was talking to him he seemed a bit non-committal. He was from Kirkcaldy but, though he was wearing a Celtic scarf, it turned out he was a Raith fan. WTF! Don’t you just love gloryhunters, especially ones in kilts? :suspect:

Anyway, he was a decent guy and we got a bus to a big road south, the biggest road I’d ever seen. It turned out there was another, even bigger road on the other side that headed south so we had to run across the first road. It was a motorway, the first one I’d ever seen. If you’ve ever seen Eddie Murphy in Bowfinger, THAT’S what it was like. The cacaphony of horns still rings in my ears! 😆

We split up and I made it to the Portuguese border with a succession of lifts from some great people, one of whom, an Algerian, spent the journey telling me what a great man Eamon de Valera was. I agreed, of course! Each of the lifts was an adventure in itself but that’s for a longer book! I was picked up by four guys from Glasgow at a Spanish-Portuguese border crossing called Fuentes de Ohora and we drove to Fatima, then Coimbre, then into Lisbon on Wednesday afternoon. We all went to Mass on the Thursday morning (”cannae be too carefull” said Jimmy!) and then headed for the match with my stomach in a knot.

Walking round the back of the goal on entering the ground, I heard this roar, ”Hey Torq, eff me, you made it!” It was my best mate’s big brother Joe, who had flown out on BEA, for whom he worked. He told me he had seen Pat so I was doubly delighted. I walked to my seat and there was Pat. Big hugs and the first tears of the day!

Well. you all know the match backwards so I won’t go over that again, save to say that it was the greatest experience of my non-family life, though Celtic IS part of my family. After the game, the team bus passed our bus and I saw Joe McBride (poor Joe 😥 ) holding the cup to the window as proudly as if he’d scored the winning goal himself. Lisbon was bedlam — I’ve never seen anything like it. I left Joe and Pat about 11pm to get back to the caravan park where we were staying — the four boys had said I could go back with them. I only heard later that Joe had fallen asleep and had his shoes stolen 😆 and Pat had been told to head for the airport, even though he didn’t have an air ticket. He was flung on a plane and was back in Glasgow before I awoke the following morning! 😆 :worthy:

It was early Monday morning before I got home, running the gauntlet of congratulating Spaniards and Frenchmen and not a few Englishmen, to be fair. The number of English people on the ferry who went out of their way to say ”well done” was amazing. I already knew about the celebrations in Glasgow and even in Belfast, having read about them in all of the French papers. I was sorry I missed all that but, d’you what?. I wouldn’t have missed a minute of what I experienced. :clap:

(Torquemada, of KDS Forum, May 2011)

Happy Lisbon day!

By: Phil Mac Giolla Bhain (published May 25th, 2012 at 10:48 am)

This day 45 years ago I was a seriously happy nine year old Bhoy.

I was recently asked to ransack my memories of the 25th May 1967 by Paul Larkin.

He asked people to relate their favourite Celtic goal and what it meant to them.

When you’re asked to do this by the “Green & White Writer” you have to step up.

http://www.lulu.com/shop/paul-larkin/poles-n-goals-and-hesselink/paperback/product-20036104.html

Here are my memories of that day in May 1967 that form a part of Paul’s book:

It was decades after I witnessed that goal that it was explained to me what I had done with it for all the years since it had been scored.

Anytime the Lisbon Lions were mentioned I was, once again, a nine year old Bhoy standing right in front of the small black and white telly in our house in Baillieston.

I can see the little round table that had been pressed into service to hold the telly when it was brought into the house.

My grandmother fussed about whether or not to leave her doily on the table.

My mother, ever the worrier, had warned that the telly would make the thing go on fire.

This all sounded incredibly exciting and I would be able to help as I had a fireman’s outfit of my own.

You only see good outcomes from stuff like this when you’re nine.

After my grandfather had lifted and laid the telly several times to order my mammy’s mammy finally stated that she would find a good home for the fine lace matt.

He harrumphed his displeasure as the woman of his life had finally made her mind up.

It was just as well his wagon building job gave him arms like Popeye.

At each side of the fire place there were large alcoves.

The telly sat on its wee table underneath the one of these built in recesses.

The wee TV was under the one that was home to a beautiful statue of the some saint or other.

I think this might have been the first live game I had ever watched by way of Logie Baird’s invention.

This was probably the third Celtic goal I had ever seen on the telly.

The first one I remember was a shot from the edge of the box by Joe McBride in a league game, the second was Tam Gemmell’s “terrible dunt” to level the score in Lisbon, but the one I captured and kept that day was, for me, the most important in Celtic’s history.

There was ample evidence that day, even for a nine year old, that Giuliano Sarti was some kind of a superman.

He seemed capable of feats of agility that I had only seen attributed to Spiderman in my super hero comics.

The Italian in black truly was a marvel.

Playing the game of his life Sarti seemed unbeatable.

Even after Gemmell’s equaliser the Inter goalie continued to leap across his goal and deny Celtic the lead.

With a few minutes to go it was pure, beautiful, inventive football that had the ball stabbed past Sarti for the second time that day in May.

Everything about that goal epitomised the way that Stein wanted his Lions to play.

A left back feinting and twisting inside the penalty box being double marked and then slipping it to the edge of the area. There the man that big Jack Charlton said was “the best passer of a ball I ever worked with” was waiting.

Without hesitation Bobby Murdoch knew what to do.

His shot drilled towards Inter Milan goal.

At the final second Stevie Chalmers intervened to re-direct the shot from six yards.

The Inter keeper had no chance.

Flat footed on the goal line Sarti finally appeared human.

It was 2-1.

Helenio Herrera’s Catenaccio had been defeated by guile, speed, skill, but most of all by resolve.

Chalmers was off the drawing board for a Jock Stein centre forward and it was fitting that it was his quick, decisive intervention which had wrong footed Sarti.

Physically quick and mentally agile he had a predator’s instinct inside the penalty box.

Set up to defend their slender lead the Italians didn’t have anything in the tank for a fight back.

Recorded history tells me that Chalmers’s goal was on 83 minutes.

When the final whistle went Stevie’s strike had been decisive.

My Celtic scarf was raised in triumph in Estádio Nacional by my uncle. As he celebrated in Lisbon I whooped and danced in front of the telly in Baillieston.

Although the goal appeared to be a brilliant bit of improvisation by Chalmers that wasn’t the opinion of my grannie’s cousin Jimmy Gribben.

I remember him that summer in the house with “the Grib” telling my grandfather that Jock had worked this one on the training ground.

For any other manager this sounds fanciful, but not Stein.

Afterwards with the attention to detail that only a nine year old boy can muster in such matters my Subbuteo Lisbon Lions recreated that goal past the helpless Sarti again and again.

Many years later on a business trip to the Portuguese capital I found some space in my schedule and I knew what I had to do.

I went back to my hotel in the main Russio square.

I had packed a Celtic shirt for the journey I came down to the taxi rank and got in. The Man simply said “Estádio Nacional?” I did not demure.

When I was dropped off outside I immediately recognised the main stand where Caesar had lifted the cup, but I couldn’t see a way in at first.

I then went around the side and found myself in a small courtyard with a café.

An elderly gentleman was sitting there with some chilled out staff when he saw me in the hoops he was transported back to that day in May.

“Ah Celtic Glasgow! Jimmeeee Johnstone jogador bonito!!”

Jinky was, and remains, my all-time Celtic hero, but as I walked up to the pitch it was those two goals I was thinking about.

I went down into the underground dressing room area and standing at the foot of the steps, just like Bertie Auld, I broke into the Celtic song.

My voice bounced off the low ceiling.

The day was gorgeous.

I took off my shoes and walked barefoot on the turf.

I went to the end where the goals went in and paced them through.

First I was Jim Craig with the lay off, then Tam Gemmell’s with the rocket shot.

Then I scored the winner all over again!

Gemmell to Murdoch to Chalmers.

GOAL!!!!

The sprinklers were on and I was happy that they cooled me down during this performance art.

I walked back out of the stadium permanently smiling just I had smiled all those years earlier.

I got on the train at Cruz Quebrada and headed back into the city that is in the heart of every Celtic supporter.

When I got back to Russio I went into a cyber café and logged onto Celticminded.com.

I shared the experience with my online buddies and wondered if it was in fact near to the anniversary as someone else was running my schedule that week I had lost track of day and date.

It was indeed near the anniversary.

It WAS the day itself!

On the 39th anniversary of that day in May 1967 at pretty much the exact time of the match I had the place to myself.

I started smiling all over again.

Psychologists concerned with researching how human memory works have evidence that highly emotional events are captured visually.

“Flashbulb memory” is the term they use for it.

When I occasioned across this term during a psychology lecture the significance of the term hit me and finally, in my forties, I realised what had happened inside my nine year old brain on the 25th May 1967 as Stevie prodded the ball into the back of the net.

My memories of that day in May 1967 could not be more emotional and that is why my synapses snapped the image.

All of these years I have carried that monochrome photograph in my head.

Despite seeing that beautiful goal many times in colour for me it will always be on our black and white telly on my grannie’s wee table next to the alcove.

I smiled all that summer as only a nine year old can.

I’m smiling now.

Champions of Europe.

Thanks Stevie!

Rodger Baillie, football reporter:

Tony Hamilton of the Celtic View takes Billy McNeill back to Lisbon.

Insight: The pilgrimage to Lisbon to watch the Lions play
http://www.scotsman.com/heritage/historic-events/insight-the-pilgrimage-to-lisbon-to-watch-the-lions-play-1-4420814

Celtic’s Lions inflicted mortal wound, says Inter legend Mazzola

http://www.heraldscotland.com/sport/15299136.EXCLUSIVE__Celtic_inflicted_mortal_wound_on_us__says_Inter_legend_Mazzola/?ref=twtrec
1 day ago / Alasdair Mackenzie, Online Sports Editor / @aksmackenzie

INTER legend Sandro Mazzola believes that his side’s defeat to Celtic in the 1967 European Cup final prompted a psychological crisis at the Italian side that lasted for decades.

The ‘Grande Inter’ of the 1960s won back-to-back European Cups, three Serie A titles and two Intercontinental Cups under the tutelage of legendary coach Helenio Herrera before falling to a 2-1 defeat against Jock Stein’s side in the Portuguese capital 50 years ago this Thursday.

Herrera left a year later and the club had to wait another 43 years before Jose Mourinho claimed their next European title in 2010. Having won a trio of Scudetti in the 60s, it took them the best part of three decades to win another three.

In an exclusive interview with the Sunday Herald, Mazzola revealed that he believed the Lisbon Lions were responsible for ending a glorious period for the Nerazzurri, a side he considers the best Italian team of all time.

“During those years we were definitely the best,” he said. “After there were others, but I think that was the best Italian team ever because we knew how to win in Europe, in Italy, across the world.

“But this match represented the end of a cycle. After the defeat we had to start over again. In the meantime, football was changing and consequently we had to adapt as well.

“They surprised us. We had already won cups; we were convinced we could win and instead we found ourselves up against a very strong side. Unfortunately I don’t remember the names, but they had wide players in defence and midfield who were exceptional.

“We were really sad after the game as we understood that we had come to the end of an era. We were also angry with the manager because he had watched them play and hadn’t told us they were so good. He did that because he didn’t want to alarm us and he understood that we were coming to the end of our cycle.”

Mazzola had opened the scoring for Inter from the penalty spot after only seven minutes, but goals from Tommy Gemmell and Stevie Chalmers completed Celtic’s comeback and made them the first British side to be crowned European champions.

BBC documentary Glasgow 1967: The Lisbon Lions captures a club, a city, a time

http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/football/40019642
By Tom English

BBC Scotland

When you think about the epic sweep of the Lisbon Lions story you have to wonder what was the greater of the miracles that happened back then – the fact that 50 years ago 11 local lads won the European Cup or the fact that, as a team, they existed at all.

Consider the roadblocks. Bobby Lennox – so shy as a kid he was embarrassed to play football in other people’s company.

John Clark – his young life ruined by the death of his father in a railway accident.

Stevie Chalmers – so sick from tuberculosis-meningitis in his late teens and early 20s that he was given three weeks to live.

Jock Stein – dismissed from his job as Celtic reserve team manager on account of his religion, the Parkhead board telling him that as a Protestant he had gone as far as he could possibly go at the club.

Stein was in tears that day. So say a number of his former players in a documentary – Glasgow 1967 – about the Lions and the city they came from, to be aired on Wednesday on BBC One Scotland at 21:00 BST.
Jock Stein was initially told he couldn’t manage Celtic because he was non-Catholic

It’s part football film, part social history, part dream come true, a Cinderella tale to match any Cinderella tale the global game has ever produced. So much has been said and written about them. A quick online search shows that at least 32 books, two plays and a novel have been penned in their honour.

In this past week, the newspapers have been full of supplements, fine journalism that came at the story from new angles. There are other documentaries available, there are CDs, there’s a Lisbon Lions cushion, if you fancy it, there’s a Lions tea towel, a Lions iPad cover, a Lions mouse mat.

On Sunday at Celtic Park, 60,000 people created a stunning visual display that evoked their legend. On Thursday, thousands more will gather at the SSE Hydro to do it all again, this time in the company of Sir Rod Stewart, Sir Alex Ferguson, Martin O’Neill, Gordon Strachan and others.

The story never gets old, the appetite never sated.
Stevie Chalmers survived tuberculous meningitis thanks to Rangers fan Dr Peter McKenzie

There’s a simple and lovely moment close to the beginning of Glasgow 1967 when Willie Wallace, now living in Australia, revisits Celtic Park and wanders about its corridors. “Fifty years and they’re still going on about it,” he says with a smile on his face that spoke of pride, no doubt, but also amusement at all the fuss.

These lads didn’t do fuss. They didn’t consider themselves celebrities, just footballers, guys who adored the game and who were blessed with a talent and a hunger to succeed.

On that May day, Jimmy Johnstone, hot to trot, stared over at the bronzed athletes of Inter Milan as they took to the field in Lisbon and said to Bertie Auld: “Look at them, wee man, they’re like film stars!”

And Auld’s answer cut to the heart of the greatness that was about to show itself. “Aye, but can they PLAY?”

The Lions could play on a carpet and they could play on a ploughed field just as fluently. There’s footage of them training on muck, not grass. That was the way of it. That was the norm. There’s more footage of what tough economic times they lived in and yet amid the gloom this thing of beauty emerged.
Bertie Auld visits his old home in Panmure Street and shares memories of his childhood

The documentary is called Glasgow 1967 for a reason, for what shines through is the character not just of the players and their manager, but of their supporters and their city.

Humour courses through the narrative of Lisbon like a fast-running river. The emotion and the hilarity of the supporters elevates what happened to almost mythical proportions.

The fans are here in numbers. Ian Martin making a cup of tea in his kitchen and telling of the day he left for Lisbon in a Mini Cooper as part of a three-car cavalcade. “One of the boys in the other motor lost his suitcase even before he got to Bishopbriggs. It fell off the roof-rack.”

There’s Jimmy Quinn telling of an uncomfortable conversation with his fiancée. “I said, ‘See this getting married carry-on, saving up for an engagement ring an’ that, I want to go to the cup final. End of story’. She wasn’t a bit pleased.”
Celtic fans cram into cars in convoy for an almost 2000 mile odyssey to Lisbon

John Cowan was on a flight out of Glasgow that touched down uncomfortably close to kick-off-time. The doors of the plane swung open. The airline had no steps in place and the 19-year-old John didn’t have the luxury of waiting – so he jumped.

“I sat down on the ledge and went for it,” he recalls. “There was guys coming behind me. Dropping, dropping, dropping. And we started running towards the terminal.”

God knows where Charlie Fryars and his mates were at this point, but Fryars’ personal odyssey is a glorious illustration of the fact that, in many ways, there were more than 11 Lions in Lisbon.

Charlie tells part of his tale in the documentary, the full comic brilliance of it being told in a piece he has written for the ByTheMinute Celtic platform online. It begins when his mate, Gerry Cooney, rings him up and offers him a seat in his Austin Cambridge, bound for Lisbon. Charlie and Gerry plus Laurence Donnelly, John Hughes and Jim McDaid met at the Admiral Bar in Waterloo Street in Glasgow and hit the road.
The Celtic team line up ahead of the 1967 European Cup final
The Celtic team line up ahead of the 1967 European Cup final

They had almost 2,000 miles to drive and three days to do it. That meant no hotel stops and as few comfort breaks as possible. Their first destination was Southampton to catch the boat to Cherbourg. They got as far as Lockerbie when the car broke down.

The explorers made the ferry, got some sleep on the four-hour crossing, drove down the Cotentin Peninsula and into Nantes where they had some beers in a bar near the station – and another kip. Not Charlie, though. Charlie was busy falling in love with a 19-year-old waitress called Ghislaine.

After half an hour, Ghislaine threw her arms around him and gave him a kiss. “She wanted my Celtic scarf and I said to her, ‘No, we need it for hanging out the window.” What greater love can one man have for his football club than to refuse to lay down his scarf for the gorgeous Ghislaine?

On they went – a thousand miles to go and only 33 hours left. Their exhaust pipe went near La Rochelle, but they got help and found a new one. They had a moment of weakness near San Sebastian, but they pulled back from the brink of surrender and carried on.

They came to the Portuguese border and it was closed for the night. The guards saw their colours and waved them through.

They made the kick-off, celebrated thunderously and then turned around and drove home. They were seven days on the road there and back, a whole week sleeping in the Austin Cambridge; unwashed, weary, but with memories that will sustain them for the rest of their lives. They didn’t play that day in Lisbon, but what is that if not footballing heroism?

“When I got home,” says Charlie, “I got my Celtic scarf and I parcelled it up and I wrote a letter to Ghislaine at Bar de la Garde, Nantes… I never heard from her.” On that 4,000 mile trek, two happy endings was too much to hope for.

One was enough, more than enough. In this film, you marvel anew not just at what the Lions achieved, not just the lengths that 10,000 Celtic people went to in order to see them achieve it, but how powerful that achievement remains to this day, the magnitude of it passed on from father to son through the generations.

The Last Car Into Lisbon

2017
http://www.bytheminute.co/events/5232-football-the-last-car-into-lisbon-50-years-on-from-the-lisbon-lions-one-fan-tells-his-tale-of-an-extraordinary-journey-live-21-may-2017

This story is penned by Charlie Fryars who has kindly allowed us to publish this extraordinary tale…A few days before the big final I got a phone call from my pal Gerry Loney. He was going to Lisbon in a car with three other guys. There was a space. Did I want to go? Of course I wanted to go like almost every other Celtic supporter. But there were practical problems.
Would I get leave at such short notice? I didn’t have a passport, but in those days you could get a Visitors Passport at the labour exchange (honest, I kid you not) which lasted a year. It was issued over the counter. I knew someone, a Tim, who worked at the Parkhead ‘buroo.’ I phoned him and he offered to stay on late that day if I got there with my photo, which I duly did from a booth.
My boss was a Rangers supporter, but he let me have the leave and wished me well. After all Rangers were in the final of the Cup Winners cup and the so-called great Glasgow double was on the cards.
That night, feverish with excitement I phoned Gerry. There was one nagging doubt however. We weren’t leaving until the Monday evening. I expressed my concern. Three days to get to Lisbon from Glasgow? No problem, he reassured me; there would be plenty of time. Surprisingly, I never asked why we couldn’t leave at the weekend, but I wasn’t organising the trip, so I let it pass.
Monday came. I left work with colleagues’ good wishes ringing in my ears, although with a suspicion that a few of them didn’t really mean it. Along with a host of well wishers we met in ‘The Admiral’ in Waterloo Street.
I was introduced to my fellow travellers, whom apart from Gerry, I had never met before. They were Laurence Donnelly, John Hughes and Jim McDaid. We had only two drivers, and I wasn’t one of them. A couple of my friends raised doubts, about our timetable and relying on two drivers for what was not much short of a 4,000 mile round trip. It was going to be a hard slog for them, they surmised.
We set off around six o’clock. I felt like we were competing in the Monte Carlo Rally as everyone poured into the street to wave us off.The car was an Austin Cambridge, from the British Leyland stable, not known for the last word in reliability.
It was a big car, probably the equivalent of today’s Mondeo. Both sides of the car had ‘CELTIC’ spelled in large letters with green sticky tape. We also had a banner with two poles which stretched the width of the car. Two of us held it tightly through the back window as we sped off. It was to make many appearances throughout the journey.
Unfortunately, time has erased the memory of what was on it. As an aside, unbelievably none of us had brought a camera and there was never a pictorial record of our epic trek. It is also perhaps worth a note (gasp) that neither were there mobile phones nor GPS in 1967.
Three of us fitted in the back seat OK, but with hardly an ocean of space between us. We had no plans to stop for overnight accommodation. In fact the schedule meant that we would have to drive much of the three nights before reaching Lisbon.
It was comfortable enough as we headed along London Road and past Celtic Park with a loud toot of the horn, but being in the back seat trying to sleep for three consecutive nights was going to be a challenge.We were heading for Southampton and a morning ferry to Cherbourg. Four hundred odd miles in thirteen or so hours looked perfectly manageable and we settled down for a long night.
We broke down near Lockerbie!End of a dream we thought. We had no leeway with regards to time and if the fault couldn’t be fixed soon we were snookered. The thought of not getting to the game was bad enough; worse was the vision of sneaking home only hours after leaving.
Fortunately, we had AA 5 star insurance. A roadside phone was found and a local garage was summoned, although it took them over an hour to arrive. I can’t remember now what the actual fault was. I just recall the engine cutting out. To our great delight it was a simple electrical fault, a loose connection somewhere, I think.
We were off again 90 minutes or so after stopping. We drove all night with only a couple of brief breaks, and the three in the back began to realise how uncomfortable the experience was going to be. The front passenger seat was reserved for the driver not at the wheel, to stretch out and try to get some kip. The rest of us were too excited to sleep.
We reached the ferry terminal with minutes to spare, the ship’s crew astounded we had left it so late. There was only one other party heading for Lisbon. It was two couples, two Celtic and two Rangers supporters. After Lisbon they were driving up to Nuremberg for the Rangers final. After we disembarked we never saw them again and did not know if they made it.
A four hour or so crossing gave us the chance to lie down and catch up on sleep, and then off at Cherbourg and on the road again, the excitement heightened by being in France. At Cherbourg the banner came out again. We drove through the city streets getting many puzzled looks, but some waves and thumbs up from several people who knew where we were going.
We drove down the Cotentin peninsula. I don’t remember much about that day, as I probably slept through most of it. We did stop at a cliff top near Granville and had a game of football, getting the odd toot from a passing vehicle. Later, we realised, that was precious time wasted.
Come night-time and the drivers declared that they had to sleep. They were knackered. We were near Nantes and drove into the centre (remember Celtic put Nantes out in an earlier round) and parked at the station.
Us non-drivers vacated the car to give the other two space to sleep and went into the station buffet. The opportunity for a few beers was enticing and we settled down for a few hours. The waitress was an attractive young lady called Ghislaine, and I tried to converse with her in my schoolboy French.
The bar had only another few customers and after they ascertained who we were and where we were going they went back to their drinks. My two companions, after a couple of beers, started nodding off, taking advantage of the long seats.
I fell in love with Ghislaine straight away as we started up a faltering conversation, her English being less than my French, but we got on like a house on fire. She was fascinated by our journey and I waxed lyrical about Celtic, although she had never heard of them and didn’t know they had played in Nantes.
Nowadays the bar would have been full of Tims before and after the game, but in the sixties few fans travelled away on European nights. That, of course changed in May 1967!Ghislaine tried to coax my Celtic scarf from me, but I wasn’t parting with it. I wanted it to be in Lisbon with me. However, I promised to come in on the way home, give it to her, and probably ask her to marry me.
The buffet closed at 2AM. Ghislaine, to my delight, flung her arms round me, slapped a kiss on my cheek and bid us bon voyage. Even more in love, I returned to the car with the others. Several times during the journey I was told emphatically to shut about my new love.
The drivers were asleep and we were loath to waken them. Fuelled by drink we drifted off to sleep. I was first awake at just after 7 o’clock. After finding a discreet spot to get rid of the beer, I wakened everybody. We had planned to leave Nantes much earlier, and a sense of disquiet crept over us. By our calculation we still had about a thousand miles to go; in about 33 hours.
On paper it looked easy – an average of just over 30 miles an hour. But we had to stop to eat, have toilet breaks and it would be impossible to drive non-stop for that amount of time. The drivers felt refreshed, however, after their sleep and we vowed to press on, come what may. By 7.30 we were on the road again.
It was going well as the miles flew past. But it was too good to last. Suddenly a roar came from the back of the car. On inspection it looked as though the exhaust had parted from the silencer. We drove on a bit to test it, but we knew we couldn’t drive to Lisbon with that amount of noise coming from the car. Once more it looked as though our trip was doomed.
There was a handbook in the car which listed British Leyland dealerships. Incredibly, there was one in La Rochelle, not too far way; not on our route, but not far off it. But did they have an exhaust in stock?
We headed into the city stopping frequently to get half-understood directions. Finally we reached the dealer. They had the right exhaust, it was fitted promptly and we were on our way again with Gallic good wishes ringing in our ears, probably mixed with incredulity at our venture.
The diversion to La Rochelle, finding the correct address, having the exhaust fitted and getting on the correct route again had cost us about two hours. But we were still hopeful as we headed south towards Bordeaux. The traffic was heavy, but soon we were beyond Bordeaux, heading towards Biarritz and the Spanish border. We allowed ourselves an hour break to eat and freshen up a bit.
This was before Spain joined the then Common Market and there were full passport controls at the border. It was early evening (Wednesday) and a long queue on the French side. The banner appeared again, and with the tape at the side we were a bit of a spectacle as fingers were pointed and smiles and thumbs-up given.
It looked like another hold-up to cross the border, but suddenly a Guardia Civil officer appeared at the car. With an incredulous ‘ustedes son muy tardes’ he waved us out of the queue and walked beside us up to the top where we were waved through with a quick passport check, big smiles and cries of ‘buen viaje.’ We assumed that many more Tims had preceded us.
We had about 700 miles to go and less than 24 hours in which to do it. The game started at 5PM, so we didn’t have the luxury of a 7.45 kick-off to aid us. At around eight o’clock we stopped in a small town between San Sebastian and Burgos and entered a bar for food and drink and life-inducing coffee for the drivers.
We had a pow-wow. We had driven around 500 miles since Nantes. The drivers were becoming exhausted again, and even with sharing the driving neither of them had slept during the day. We talked, we argued. Do we call it a day? Will we just stay in Spain and watch the game on TV, book into a hotel and get some proper rest, and, almost as importantly, a shower?
We had stripped to the waist in a cafe toilet in France for a wash and changed our shirts, but we felt far from clean. To my shame I was coming round to thinking of giving up.
Incidentally, that night Spain were playing England in a friendly and the bar was full. There was a priest there and I spoke to him as the only one with any Spanish and told him of our predicament. I can’t remember his exact reply, but it amounted to ‘go for it.’ My friend Gerry was adamant that he would not countenance giving up after all we had been through and we decided to press on.
The priest gave us and the car a blessing (it needed one), and most of the bar customers piled out into the street to wave us off as we piled back into the car, our minds made up. We drove all night, passing Burgos, Valladolid and Salamanca.
I had a special interest in Valladolid as my father’s cousin, Monsignor Philip Flanagan had been the rector of the Scots seminar there, but of course we had no time to stop and sight-see. The non drivers talked all the time, telling jokes and ghost stories to keep the current driver awake as the other one tried to sleep. It was a beautiful night, the roads were empty and at one point we came across a Spanish army column marching in formation. We stopped, and so did they. We cried ‘Celtic, Celtic’ at the top of our voices and waved our flags.
They in turn waved their rifles in the air and hollered back.We reached the Portuguese border beyond Ciudad Rodrigo and another potential disaster. Portugal was still a dictatorship and the border closed overnight. There was a small queue of vehicles waiting to cross. Then came pure farce. A couple of the Portuguese guards came up, looked in the car, and nodded ‘Celtic, Lisboa.
I tried in Spanish to explain that we might miss the match. They nodded and stroked their chins. One of them smiled and did a little dance with his hands in the air. We finally got it. In the car were the two poles for the banner. We laid them cross-wise on the ground and four of us did the highland fling to the great delight of the guards and the onlookers.
I still have an overhead camera shot in my head, looking down on this madness at a border crossing at dawn. After much cheering and clapping they raised the barrier and let us through. I don’t know if they took pity on the others, although it didn’t occupy my thoughts much.
We raced on, fearful that we would miss the 5 o’clock kick-off. I remember the snaking drive through the mountains, women selling oranges at the side of the road, and a tragedy that we came across at one point in the late morning. There was a Hillman Imp, with its big end or something else knackered.
We stopped and spoke to the poor fellow in it. He had broken down the previous evening. He had been with three mates and they had all got lifts and deserted him. They had promised to phone his recovery company in the UK to get him rescued and he was still waiting for someone to arrive. We commiserated but had to leave him. I’d love to know how he fared.
Finally, we reached the outskirts of Lisbon and met up with buses full of Tims coming from the airport. We felt like pioneers as they hung out the windows (yes they could do that) and waved and yelled at us. We had made it! But there was still a twist in the tail that many will find hard to believe.
As I said earlier, I had never met three of my fellow passengers before. They were nice guys. Two of them had trained for the priesthood, but had left and were still devout Catholics. That day was a holyday of obligation, either the Ascension or Corpus Christi, and they felt we should at least try to get to mass.
With the rest of us astounded, not to say raging, we traipsed around for about an hour that could have been spent soaking up the atmosphere at the stadium, looking for churches, but never found one with an ongoing mass. Finally, threats of real violence persuaded them to head for the stadium.
The rest, they say, is history. More eloquent writers than me have eulogised about that afternoon in the sun.Particular flashes of that day come back often – the sheer joy at winning, the guy in the green Glasgow Corporation transport uniform which a Portuguese next to us thought was him dressing for the game instead of finishing his shift and heading for the airport.
The police car racing past us after the game with its siren on and the driver wearing a Celtic scarf; the sheer mayhem after the game; the wild dancing up and down; and, oh aye, the two goals.
We ended up in a packed square in Lisbon that night in sheer celebration, and I’m sure mingled with fans who said ‘bugger, I’m staying’ instead of catching their flight home, and I believe the queue at the British embassy the next morning testified to that.
Regretfully, we left Lisbon before dawn and started on the hard slog back home. To appease our two devout friends we went to Fatima later that morning to visit the shrine to the Virgin Mary. It didn’t take us much off our route. It was then Friday morning in southern Portugal and we were booked on the ferry at Cherbourg for Sunday afternoon, so the driving would still be a hard slog.
We had been on our own on the outward journey, but were part of a cavalcade on the way back. Every bar, cafe and restaurant we stopped at was full of supporters. We were waved at in every town and village we passed through in Portugal, Spain and France. I remember having a pee in a restaurant in Spain and someone I knew came in.
We stood chatting for a minute and then parted as though we’d been in a pub in Glasgow.As on the way down, we drove all night with short breaks Early on Saturday afternoon we reached Biarritz. We were filthy and unkempt as we gazed out on the town’s wonderful beaches. Not hesitating, we ran on to the beach stripped to our underpants and ran into the warmish sea.
The feeling was sublime. We relaxed and dried off before setting off again.Just south of Bordeaux, in the early evening, the drivers had had enough. They had brought a two-man tent, which they hadn’t had the opportunity to use. Erecting it at the side of the road, they got sleeping bags and retired, stating their intention to set an alarm for 2AM.
Setting off again I had a sudden realisation. We would be reaching Nantes at around 5AM. The station bar would be closed and I would not be having my tryst with Ghislaine. There was no point in asking the boys to wait there until it opened.
Back home I put my scarf in an envelope, addressed it to ‘Ghislaine, Bar de la Gare, Nantes,’ accompanied by a letter in execrable French. I asked her to write and was already planning a return trip to France, but I never heard from her. Ah, well!
There was a big contingent of Tims on the ferry. A party was started and I think we drank the ship dry. Someone had a replica of the cup. He held it aloft and we did a conga round the decks to the delight of other passengers, who were mainly English and joined in the celebrations, gratefully accepting slugs from the bottles of duty free which were passed around.
We drove north for a while until we had to stop at a services to let the drivers sleep. Many people came up to us and congratulated us. Before we left the next morning, Monday, a driver in a car pulled up. He told us he had been on our ferry and joined in the fun. Disembarking, he realised he had drank and had to book into a hotel.
Our reception driving through England was also great, as people waved to us on the motorways and congratulated us at the services. At last, seven days later and seven nights sleeping in a car, tired and extremely grotty we arrived back in Glasgow to joyous greetings from some citizens and a different kind of greeting from others who seemed to be giving us a V for victory sign.
POSTSCRIPTOn January 3rd 1999, after seeing Celtic draw 2-2 at Ibrox (an honest mistake from referee McCluskey denying The Hoops a penalty; plus ca change) I set off on another European adventure. My wife and I had taken early retirement and we decided to have a couple of winter months in Benalmadena in Spain. My wife refused to fly and I decided I would drive.
As I planned the trip I realised that I could replicate a big chunk of the 1967 experience.We drove all night, got the same ferry crossing from Southampton to Cherbourg and drove down through France. The difference this time was that we had a night in a hotel near Nantes (no I didn’t pay a pilgrimage to the station bar!), another at Bordeaux and then a short hop for a 3rd overnight in Biarritz
Down through Spain I parted company with the road to Lisbon at Burgos. We had another overnight south of Madrid after nearly having had a nervous breakdown on the ring road during rush hour. All through France and Spain the roads were vastly improved from 1967, most of the journey was on dual carriageways or motorways and we had to traverse very few towns.
The reason I am writing this is, even with four overnight rests, if for some reason I had had to turn around and do the return journey soon after arriving I would have freaked out. But that’s exactly what our drivers, and many others no doubt, had to do and even after fifty years my admiration for them is immense. Of course they were young, but even at that it was a gargantuan feat.

Sir Alex Ferguson: Lisbon Lions triumph is ‘the greatest feat in football’

http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/football/40053489

Sir Alex Ferguson has described the Lisbon Lions’ 1967 European Cup win as “the greatest feat in football”.

Celtic’s 2-1 win over Internazionale 50 years ago established the team as “pioneers of doing the impossible,” Ferguson insisted.

“They set the pattern for a period, particularly when Manchester United the next year did it,” the Scot said.

“From ’65 to ’67, if someone had written a book about it they would call it fiction. It was amazing.”

Ferguson was speaking at an event at Glasgow’s SSE Hydro to celebrate the achievement of Jock Stein’s Celtic side on 25 May 1967.

The former Manchester United manager said the European Cup win paved the way for other British sides to follow.

“They were [pioneers] for British football, there’s no doubt about that,” Ferguson said.

“Sir Matt [Busby] at Manchester United was rebuilding the team after the Munich air disaster, but they got to a semi-final, which was a great achievement for a very young side.

“For Celtic to do it with 11 players from within 25 miles of each other is astonishing. This [event] will recognise the achievement, but [also] applaud the players and management staff who achieved it. It will never be done again.”

Relive how Celtic won the European Cup

Ferguson arrived in Glasgow after watching Manchester United’s 2-0 win over Ajax in Stockholm to win the Europa League. He said the victory “gave the city a lift” after the bomb blast at the end of an Ariana Grande concert at the Manchester Arena last Monday night that killed 22 people and injured 116 more.

“Manchester is a city like Glasgow, it’s working class, they’ve got fantastic people there and they’ll get together,” Ferguson added.

“They’ve been through some difficult times in the past, the bombing in the Arndale Centre in 1996, they recovered from that, and they will get together because they have the working class ethic about them and there’s a great unity now in the city.

“We’re all proud of the [United side], it was a great achievement.”
Former Celtic captain Roy Aitken
Only three players have made more appearances for Celtic than former captain Roy Aitken

Former Celtic captain Roy Aitken also attended the event at the Hydro, and he talked of the Lisbon Lions setting the standards that others had to follow at the club.

“They’ve been the benchmark for all the teams since 1967,” Aitken said.

“It’s never going to be achieved again, it’s iconic considering the group of players who were there at that time. Celtic demand success and these guys showed what it took to be winners, they were top quality and top guys. Everything that you need in a footballer, they had.

“When I came into the team at 16, 17, I was from Ardrossan, Bobby [Lennox] was from Saltcoats, he was my mentor throughout my early years. He showed what it took to be a Celtic player and gave me the guidelines and tools required.

“I owe a lot to him and it’s great to be here tonight to celebrate with the fans and the team. They were the ones we all looked up to.”
Clipped on 26-May-2017, 11:53:10 AM from Lisbon Lions

Sir Alex Ferguson on the Lisbon Lions and the 50th anniversary of Celtic’s most famous night: ‘What Jock Stein achieved will never be done again’

• Jock Stein took Sir Alex Ferguson on has his No 2 when manager of Scotland
• Ferguson was at a celebration of Stein’s famous Lisbon Lions squad in Glasgow
• The Scot believes what his old mentor achieved will never be replicated again
By Hugh Macdonald For The Daily Mail
Published: 22:30, 26 May 2017 | Updated: 01:57, 27 May 2017

If you could listen in to one conversation about football, a seat at the table with Sir Alex Ferguson talking about his great friend and mentor Jock Stein would be the place to be.
Imagine being given the opportunity to hear the secrets of the mighty Lisbon Lions, 50 years after the team packed with local Celtic boys defeated Inter Milan 2-1 to win the first European Cup for a British team. Not to mention how such glory inspired Ferguson to win trophies galore of his own in the years that followed.
Ferguson and Stein, two brilliant and remarkable Scotsmen, worked together for the national side — Stein as the studious manager, Ferguson as his fledgling No 2. You can hear the respect when Sir Alex recalls those days.
The former Manchester United boss was in Glasgow at the Celebrate ’67 event on Thursday
‘The great value was in the Saturday nights we met in the hotel at home or when we were abroad,’ says Ferguson of his duties as assistant to Stein during Scotland’s qualifying campaign for the 1986 World Cup. ‘It was fantastic. He was not a great sleeper so he would have you still up at three or four in the morning with (masseur) Jimmy Steele making pots of tea.
‘I would say to him, “Jock, we need to get into our beds now. I am taking training in the morning”. He would reply, “You will be all right, son. You will get a sleep in the afternoon. Steely! Get another pot of tea on”.
‘He was one of the greatest managers of all time. Without question. He did something that has not been done before and will not be done again. You cannot overstate that. This is what makes him unique.
‘It is what Alexander Fleming did when he discovered penicillin in a wee laboratory. It is what Alan Turing did when cracking the Enigma code. That is one standard of greatness and Jock met it.

+‘The Lisbon Lions were brought up within 30 miles of Celtic Park. That was never done before Jock. It will never be done again.’
The relationship had been forged some years earlier in meetings at the Beechwood restaurant in the south side of Glasgow.
Ferguson and his wife Cathy lived in Simshill and would go to the local restaurant where Jock and Jean Stein and Sean Fallon, assistant manager at Celtic, and his wife Myra had a regular Saturday evening dinner date.
‘Inevitably, I would get a table beside them,’ says Ferguson. ‘It was great to have a chat with him but, remember, I was a player then and I would never at that stage be too forward.
‘I would never ask how his game went that day or anything like that. I would never be that familiar. You were not at the level to ask such questions. He was a top manager at Celtic and I was a player at Rangers, totally different stations in life. But he was always really good to me.’
As the friendship deepened, Stein and Ferguson talked every week on the phone. It was no surprise that Ferguson invited the manager who won the European Cup in 1967 to Gothenburg, where Aberdeen would defeat Real Madrid in the European Cup- Winners’ Cup final in 1983.
‘He was brilliant, never intrusive or overbearing. He told me, “I am not going to get in your road. Get on with your business. If you need me, you know where I am”.’
Ferguson acted on two pieces of advice from Stein. ‘He told me to make sure we took the second training session at the stadium on the night before the game,’ recalls Ferguson. ‘Jock said that Alfredo di Stefano, the Real manager, would think we would have watched his session and might be unsettled by that.

‘Jock also bought a bottle of, I think, Black Label and he told me, “Give that to Di Stefano as he comes off the pitch after the training session”. I said, “Why?” Jock replied, “He will think you are a wee guy from Aberdeen, that you are dancing to his tune, lying at his feet”. I gave him the bottle of whisky and he did not know what to say to me. It was a sort of mumbled “Gracias, gracias”. I caught him on the back foot.
‘It may have gave him the impression that we were a wee club from Aberdeen and we had no right to be playing Real Madrid, that we were just grateful to be there.’
He adds: ‘It seems like a superficial thing, but it was profound. Clever.’ Aberdeen won 2-1.
Soon Ferguson and Stein were working for Scotland in the successful campaign to qualify for the 1986 World Cup, although he admitted he felt ‘apprehensive’ about working with someone of Stein’s stature.
‘You are working with someone who has won the European Cup, nine championships in a row. But I was starting to do well at Aberdeen. When he offered me the job I jumped at it. It was a boost for me at that time in my career. I was basically learning all the time and keen to do so. It was an honour first of all. But what an opportunity, the chance to learn from someone like Jock Stein.
‘To be honest with you, I bombarded him with a million questions every time I was in his company. It was just football, football, football.
‘But I learned, too, about the power of information. He was a great networker, knew everything that was going on. He used to phone me on a Saturday night and tell me all that was happening in the game.
‘He was sharp. He would tell me on Scotland duty that such and such a club official would be phoning in later to tell him that certain players had pulled out. And it would happen. He was always prepared for it.’
What did the young Ferguson provide for Stein? ‘My energy was important,’ says Ferguson, now 75 but in his forties when working with Stein. ‘He had health problems and he maybe saw me as a driver on the training field.
‘I remember when he was offering me the job he told me I would do the training. I said, “What about picking the team?” And he replied, “Aw no, son, that is my department. I will discuss it with you. You will be helpful in that area and don’t be afraid to give your opinion, but that is my job”.’
Ferguson learned another lesson that has accompanied him through life. ‘There was a great level of trust in me. There was respect,’ he says. ‘I appreciated that. I have learned that when you pick an assistant the first thing, the most important thing, you need to look at is, “Can I trust this man?” He got trust from me. I idolised him.’
Stein, he says, was a man of ‘extraordinary intelligence’, adding: ‘He made it his business to find out everything. I was working with him with Scotland and he asked me to accompany him to the press conference. I told him I was taking one of the players to the gym. He said, “No, come to the press conference, you will learn something”.’
Ferguson adds with a chuckle: ‘Sitting outside the press conference, he would tell you something about each and every journalist: who liked the bookies too much or the drink or women, or whatever. He knew everything about them.’
This knowledge stretched into every area. ‘You knew he knew everything,’ says Ferguson. ‘So when I became a manager I would tell him everything. You were frightened he would catch you out.
‘He would phone me every weekend. I would say something like, “I have made a bid for Billy Stark”. He would say, “Oh, that’s a good move, he will be a good signing for you, I like him myself”. Or I would tell him I thought one of my players was ready to leave and he asked me what I was thinking about in terms of replacing him, and would ask, “What are you thinking about and have you thought of this or that?”’

Ferguson transformed all the clubs he worked for but his major impact was, of course, with Aberdeen and Manchester United — where he won a glut of European and domestic trophies.
‘I always believe I should address matters straight after the game,’ says Ferguson. ‘But Jock was different. He always said it was better to leave it to the Monday, when everyone had calmed down a bit. He said, “You will have a clear mind yourself and that helps”. He was right for most people but that was not my nature. My nature was to get it all out the road and start afresh the next day.
‘His advice was great to hear but he was very understanding of my character, too. He understood that people would like to do things their way and he would help individuals match their character to a good way of working,’ explains Ferguson, who recalled Stein’s immediate and dramatic impact at Celtic.
‘The size of the revolution was incredible. He took over a Celtic team in 1965 who were far from world-beaters. Two years later — with the addition of Willie Wallace and Joe McBride — he took them to the European Cup final and victory against a very good Inter Milan.
‘Think about it. It is astonishing. How did he do that in terms of changing not only personalities of the players but the very character of a team?
‘He recognised greatness when others could not. He saw potential when others missed it. For example, I played against Bobby Murdoch in reserve matches in the early 1960s and he was an outside right. All of a sudden he is playing centre midfield. He was the fulcrum for Celtic, hitting those long, diagonal passes or the short incisive pass or striking from outside.
‘I think Celtic had two world-class players who would have graced any team at any time. One was Bobby, the other was Jimmy Johnstone.

The event at the SSE Hydro on Thursday was attended by a host of fans, and former managers
‘Bertie Auld was nearly in that class, too. The rest were very, very good players but Jock transformed them into perennial winners.
‘Big Billy and John Clark were not the quickest but they never got caught out. They dropped off, never leaving space behind. Billy would win everything in the air, John would pick up second balls and cut off space. It was simple but very, very clever.
‘He basically always played with two wide. This left the opposition with a dilemma. In the cup final of 1965 I remember thinking, “Do we push our full backs right on top against their wingers?” ’
His overwhelming sense is that he was blessed to have known Stein. ‘Every Celtic fan will have that sense of gratitude. It was an incredibly exciting ride for the club. And don’t I know it. I had to suffer it for some time as a Rangers player.’

Another tale of Lisbon – A Letter To Eugene

by St Anthony

Another tale of Lisbon – A Letter To Eugene

The Celt fanzine is arguably the longest running football supporters’ publication in the UK having first been published 34 years ago in August of 1983.

Strictly speaking it’s not a fanzine in the true sense. Although it does comment on current affairs at Celtic Park the main reason is to report and examine players and events in Celtic’s long colourful history and it has had some notable contributors through the years including David Potter, Tom Campbell, Pat Woods and George Sheridan who have all went on to write notable Celtic books and publications over the years.

The late Eugene McBride was once the editor of ‘The wee rag’. Eugene was a remarkable man who had had a fascinating life and was a devout fan of Celtic all his days despite his exile in the south of England in his later years.

To note his contribution to The Celt publication Alex Ferguson (as a proud born and bred Govanite I refuse to refer to him as Sir) took time from his busy schedule to write a letter to Eugene. He has a story worth sharing and it is printed below:

Dear Eugene,

May I congratulate you on your service to the Celt fanzine, you have had a truly remarkable career there.

I know there are many fanzines throughout the length and breadth of Great Britain, some satirical, some extremely critical and really you get a cross section of how the most important people – the fans – think about their team.

I think you have had some great moments and pleasure in these last six decades of chronicling the history of Celtic football club and I would like to recall a story of a day which is very special in the history of Celtic.

On 25th May 1967, my Granny’s birthday, I was in Hong Kong playing for Scotland against a Hong Kong select and we won 4-1 and because of the time difference it was some hours before Celtic played in Lisbon. The humidity was terrible and none of us could sleep so a few of us sat down to play cards.

One of them was a goalkeeper called Harry Thomson who played for Burnley another was a young Clyde player called Harry Hood, anyway Thomson was quite scathing on Celtic’s chances and gave very generous odds against them winning to which all the home Scots immediately plunged in with some good wagers.

Harry Thomson was sitting sweating his socks off worrying about the score, back then of course Hong Kong was far in advance of Great Britain in terms of television news, it came over every hour from all over the world. The news reader read about all the world news and ended by giving the half time score – Inter 1-0 Celtic. Well, we were as sick as pigs , not that we were all Celtic fans I stress ! But money does change people.

Harry Thomson was ecstatic and he was having a ball ridiculing Scottish football so then he decides he is going to up the odds and even went further and erased the goal lead that Inter had at half time, from memory I think he was giving 5/1 odds on Celtic for the second half. So we all plunged in again more out of anger but also in genuine hope that Celtic could pull off a miracle.

On went the card school for another hour until the next broadcast and the first words that came over from the news reader were not about world news but the score from Lisbon. ‘ Glasgow Celtic have become the first British club to win the European Cup’ and you can imagine the bedlam as poor Harry was being battered by all the lads and he lost a fortune. As the story goes he had to go to the treasurer of the SFA and get a loan covered by hos match fees to pay off the bets.

A great moment for all Celtic fans and I believe all of Scotland supported them that day.

Eugene, I hope you find my recollections of that day worthy of a place in your magazine. Take care of yourself and God bless.

Yours sincerely,

Alex

Note: Sadly Alex Ferguson and his team mates did not receive Scotland caps for playing in these games as the SFA did not deem them as full internationals. In the above picture Ferguson is seen with team mate Jim McCalliog.

Sir Alex Ferguson: Lisbon Lions triumph is ‘the greatest feat in football’

http://www.bbc.co.uk/sport/football/40053489

Sir Alex Ferguson has described the Lisbon Lions’ 1967 European Cup win as “the greatest feat in football”.

Celtic’s 2-1 win over Internazionale 50 years ago established the team as “pioneers of doing the impossible,” Ferguson insisted.

“They set the pattern for a period, particularly when Manchester United the next year did it,” the Scot said.

“From ’65 to ’67, if someone had written a book about it they would call it fiction. It was amazing.”

Ferguson was speaking at an event at Glasgow’s SSE Hydro to celebrate the achievement of Jock Stein’s Celtic side on 25 May 1967.

The former Manchester United manager said the European Cup win paved the way for other British sides to follow.

“They were [pioneers] for British football, there’s no doubt about that,” Ferguson said.

“Sir Matt [Busby] at Manchester United was rebuilding the team after the Munich air disaster, but they got to a semi-final, which was a great achievement for a very young side.

“For Celtic to do it with 11 players from within 25 miles of each other is astonishing. This [event] will recognise the achievement, but [also] applaud the players and management staff who achieved it. It will never be done again.”

Relive how Celtic won the European Cup

Ferguson arrived in Glasgow after watching Manchester United’s 2-0 win over Ajax in Stockholm to win the Europa League. He said the victory “gave the city a lift” after the bomb blast at the end of an Ariana Grande concert at the Manchester Arena last Monday night that killed 22 people and injured 116 more.

“Manchester is a city like Glasgow, it’s working class, they’ve got fantastic people there and they’ll get together,” Ferguson added.

“They’ve been through some difficult times in the past, the bombing in the Arndale Centre in 1996, they recovered from that, and they will get together because they have the working class ethic about them and there’s a great unity now in the city.

“We’re all proud of the [United side], it was a great achievement.”

Former Celtic captain Roy Aitken

Only three players have made more appearances for Celtic than former captain Roy Aitken

Former Celtic captain Roy Aitken also attended the event at the Hydro, and he talked of the Lisbon Lions setting the standards that others had to follow at the club.

“They’ve been the benchmark for all the teams since 1967,” Aitken said.

“It’s never going to be achieved again, it’s iconic considering the group of players who were there at that time. Celtic demand success and these guys showed what it took to be winners, they were top quality and top guys. Everything that you need in a footballer, they had.

“When I came into the team at 16, 17, I was from Ardrossan, Bobby [Lennox] was from Saltcoats, he was my mentor throughout my early years. He showed what it took to be a Celtic player and gave me the guidelines and tools required.

“I owe a lot to him and it’s great to be here tonight to celebrate with the fans and the team. They were the ones we all looked up to.”

Sir Alex Ferguson on the Lisbon Lions and the 50th anniversary of Celtic’s most famous night: ‘What Jock Stein achieved will never be done again’

• Jock Stein took Sir Alex Ferguson on has his No 2 when manager of Scotland
• Ferguson was at a celebration of Stein’s famous Lisbon Lions squad in Glasgow
• The Scot believes what his old mentor achieved will never be replicated again

By Hugh Macdonald For The Daily Mail

Published: 22:30, 26 May 2017 | Updated: 01:57, 27 May 2017

If you could listen in to one conversation about football, a seat at the table with Sir Alex Ferguson talking about his great friend and mentor Jock Stein would be the place to be.

Imagine being given the opportunity to hear the secrets of the mighty Lisbon Lions, 50 years after the team packed with local Celtic boys defeated Inter Milan 2-1 to win the first European Cup for a British team. Not to mention how such glory inspired Ferguson to win trophies galore of his own in the years that followed.

Ferguson and Stein, two brilliant and remarkable Scotsmen, worked together for the national side — Stein as the studious manager, Ferguson as his fledgling No 2. You can hear the respect when Sir Alex recalls those days.

Sir Alex Ferguson was Jock Stein’s No 2 with Scotland, and has immense respect for his mentor

The former Manchester United boss was in Glasgow at the Celebrate ’67 event on Thursday

‘The great value was in the Saturday nights we met in the hotel at home or when we were abroad,’ says Ferguson of his duties as assistant to Stein during Scotland’s qualifying campaign for the 1986 World Cup. ‘It was fantastic. He was not a great sleeper so he would have you still up at three or four in the morning with (masseur) Jimmy Steele making pots of tea.

‘I would say to him, “Jock, we need to get into our beds now. I am taking training in the morning”. He would reply, “You will be all right, son. You will get a sleep in the afternoon. Steely! Get another pot of tea on”.

‘He was one of the greatest managers of all time. Without question. He did something that has not been done before and will not be done again. You cannot overstate that. This is what makes him unique.

‘It is what Alexander Fleming did when he discovered penicillin in a wee laboratory. It is what Alan Turing did when cracking the Enigma code. That is one standard of greatness and Jock met it.

+‘The Lisbon Lions were brought up within 30 miles of Celtic Park. That was never done before Jock. It will never be done again.’

The relationship had been forged some years earlier in meetings at the Beechwood restaurant in the south side of Glasgow.

Ferguson and his wife Cathy lived in Simshill and would go to the local restaurant where Jock and Jean Stein and Sean Fallon, assistant manager at Celtic, and his wife Myra had a regular Saturday evening dinner date.

‘Inevitably, I would get a table beside them,’ says Ferguson. ‘It was great to have a chat with him but, remember, I was a player then and I would never at that stage be too forward.

‘I would never ask how his game went that day or anything like that. I would never be that familiar. You were not at the level to ask such questions. He was a top manager at Celtic and I was a player at Rangers, totally different stations in life. But he was always really good to me.’

As the friendship deepened, Stein and Ferguson talked every week on the phone. It was no surprise that Ferguson invited the manager who won the European Cup in 1967 to Gothenburg, where Aberdeen would defeat Real Madrid in the European Cup- Winners’ Cup final in 1983.

‘He was brilliant, never intrusive or overbearing. He told me, “I am not going to get in your road. Get on with your business. If you need me, you know where I am”.’

Ferguson acted on two pieces of advice from Stein. ‘He told me to make sure we took the second training session at the stadium on the night before the game,’ recalls Ferguson. ‘Jock said that Alfredo di Stefano, the Real manager, would think we would have watched his session and might be unsettled by that.

‘Jock also bought a bottle of, I think, Black Label and he told me, “Give that to Di Stefano as he comes off the pitch after the training session”. I said, “Why?” Jock replied, “He will think you are a wee guy from Aberdeen, that you are dancing to his tune, lying at his feet”. I gave him the bottle of whisky and he did not know what to say to me. It was a sort of mumbled “Gracias, gracias”. I caught him on the back foot.

‘It may have gave him the impression that we were a wee club from Aberdeen and we had no right to be playing Real Madrid, that we were just grateful to be there.’

He adds: ‘It seems like a superficial thing, but it was profound. Clever.’ Aberdeen won 2-1.

Soon Ferguson and Stein were working for Scotland in the successful campaign to qualify for the 1986 World Cup, although he admitted he felt ‘apprehensive’ about working with someone of Stein’s stature.

‘You are working with someone who has won the European Cup, nine championships in a row. But I was starting to do well at Aberdeen. When he offered me the job I jumped at it. It was a boost for me at that time in my career. I was basically learning all the time and keen to do so. It was an honour first of all. But what an opportunity, the chance to learn from someone like Jock Stein.

‘To be honest with you, I bombarded him with a million questions every time I was in his company. It was just football, football, football.

‘But I learned, too, about the power of information. He was a great networker, knew everything that was going on. He used to phone me on a Saturday night and tell me all that was happening in the game.

‘He was sharp. He would tell me on Scotland duty that such and such a club official would be phoning in later to tell him that certain players had pulled out. And it would happen. He was always prepared for it.’

What did the young Ferguson provide for Stein? ‘My energy was important,’ says Ferguson, now 75 but in his forties when working with Stein. ‘He had health problems and he maybe saw me as a driver on the training field.

‘I remember when he was offering me the job he told me I would do the training. I said, “What about picking the team?” And he replied, “Aw no, son, that is my department. I will discuss it with you. You will be helpful in that area and don’t be afraid to give your opinion, but that is my job”.’

Ferguson learned another lesson that has accompanied him through life. ‘There was a great level of trust in me. There was respect,’ he says. ‘I appreciated that. I have learned that when you pick an assistant the first thing, the most important thing, you need to look at is, “Can I trust this man?” He got trust from me. I idolised him.’

Stein, he says, was a man of ‘extraordinary intelligence’, adding: ‘He made it his business to find out everything. I was working with him with Scotland and he asked me to accompany him to the press conference. I told him I was taking one of the players to the gym. He said, “No, come to the press conference, you will learn something”.’

Ferguson adds with a chuckle: ‘Sitting outside the press conference, he would tell you something about each and every journalist: who liked the bookies too much or the drink or women, or whatever. He knew everything about them.’

This knowledge stretched into every area. ‘You knew he knew everything,’ says Ferguson. ‘So when I became a manager I would tell him everything. You were frightened he would catch you out.

‘He would phone me every weekend. I would say something like, “I have made a bid for Billy Stark”. He would say, “Oh, that’s a good move, he will be a good signing for you, I like him myself”. Or I would tell him I thought one of my players was ready to leave and he asked me what I was thinking about in terms of replacing him, and would ask, “What are you thinking about and have you thought of this or that?”’

Ferguson transformed all the clubs he worked for but his major impact was, of course, with Aberdeen and Manchester United — where he won a glut of European and domestic trophies.

‘I always believe I should address matters straight after the game,’ says Ferguson. ‘But Jock was different. He always said it was better to leave it to the Monday, when everyone had calmed down a bit. He said, “You will have a clear mind yourself and that helps”. He was right for most people but that was not my nature. My nature was to get it all out the road and start afresh the next day.

‘His advice was great to hear but he was very understanding of my character, too. He understood that people would like to do things their way and he would help individuals match their character to a good way of working,’ explains Ferguson, who recalled Stein’s immediate and dramatic impact at Celtic.

‘The size of the revolution was incredible. He took over a Celtic team in 1965 who were far from world-beaters. Two years later — with the addition of Willie Wallace and Joe McBride — he took them to the European Cup final and victory against a very good Inter Milan.

‘Think about it. It is astonishing. How did he do that in terms of changing not only personalities of the players but the very character of a team?

‘He recognised greatness when others could not. He saw potential when others missed it. For example, I played against Bobby Murdoch in reserve matches in the early 1960s and he was an outside right. All of a sudden he is playing centre midfield. He was the fulcrum for Celtic, hitting those long, diagonal passes or the short incisive pass or striking from outside.

‘I think Celtic had two world-class players who would have graced any team at any time. One was Bobby, the other was Jimmy Johnstone.

The event at the SSE Hydro on Thursday was attended by a host of fans, and former managers

‘Bertie Auld was nearly in that class, too. The rest were very, very good players but Jock transformed them into perennial winners.

‘Big Billy and John Clark were not the quickest but they never got caught out. They dropped off, never leaving space behind. Billy would win everything in the air, John would pick up second balls and cut off space. It was simple but very, very clever.

‘He basically always played with two wide. This left the opposition with a dilemma. In the cup final of 1965 I remember thinking, “Do we push our full backs right on top against their wingers?” ’

His overwhelming sense is that he was blessed to have known Stein. ‘Every Celtic fan will have that sense of gratitude. It was an incredibly exciting ride for the club. And don’t I know it. I had to suffer it for some time as a Rangers player.’

Alexander McConnell

Driver of the truck that took the Lisbon Lions round Celtic Park in the celebrations.

Hi my name is Paul Gallagher and I Knew Alec my whole life, well I should have as he was my granda. Now for those here we all know he wasn’t one for too much fuss or ceremony so I won’t go on for too long. My granda was born Alexander McConnell on the 11th July 1933 in shettleston, and so began the life of the man that the people gathered here today were proud to call their husband, their dad, brother, uncle, granda, great-granda & their friend. He spent his early years as the well looked after younger brother of Nan, Betty & Jean and the son of lizzie and Alec. He was spoilt but this didn’t stop him running off to join the navy and then the army and I know this was a source of many of his stories that would have many of us here laughing. It was while working his ticket that he met my gran Rena and they married in July 1955. Not long after this followed their 3 children, Catherine, Alec & Richard. It was during this time they moved and settled in edderton place in easterhouse before finally moving to greenfield where he spent the last 23yrs. He was a hard working man who done so many jobs but spent many years with RD Stewart and as part of this job he worked at Celtic park at the time of the Lisbon lions and the stories he tells of how they trained, in fact how they didn’t train and drank was more like. How every Monday he would collect his drink for the week from the terraces and even the pride in his voice when he told you he was the driver of the lorry that took them round after they won the European cup, it’s the same pride you can hear in my voice now. And all this for a rangers fan as well. Right up until recently he was a fit man, how many of us met him walking by, both sober and drunk. Or seen him cycling by on his way to do the lollipop man at st bridgettes that he loved. I can remember a family holiday and this wasn’t one of the many Blackpool, devon, jersey or Spanish holidays he loved but in fact Corfu and he and my dad lead the line making us walk about 10mile and I can remember my gran just shaking her head and that’s how they were one would do something the other would shake their head but they definitely always made sure each other was alright no matter what. Many here knows that he loved his bowls and after retirement this took up a massive part of his life, I mean he got the opportunity to mix his 2 favourite pass times, bowling & drinking. He talked fondly of the people he met through this and throughout his colourful life, he would sit with me in the pub for hours every week telling me so many tales that no doubt we’ve all heard and I could talk for hours about, how he and my gran went on holidays and nights out. About the funny stories of my mum and uncles growing up, the moments he shared in almost every pub in the east end of Glasgow and who he shared them with, from the old boss in the crystal bells to the roofing squad in griers. He was the proudest man I know and sometimes even we didn’t see eye-to-eye and I know others will agree but at least he told it to you straight and you knew were you stood. I was thinking like many just how sudden it was with him and even in the sudden illness he handled himself with dignity and pride and for the independent man that he was it was fitting of him, I’m going to read this as I found it and thought it was perfect for today and his time in hospital

EXPLODING THE LISBON MYTH
1
By CQN Magazine on 26th May 2023 Lions & Legends

AUTHOR Alex Gordon, who has penned fifteen Celtic books, insists it’s time to explode a Lisbon myth for ever.

In another CQN EXCLUSIVE, Alex sets the record straight to ensure Jock Stein’s All-Stars receive the accolades they so richly deserve following their unforgettable and historic 2-1 triumph in the Portuguese capital.

Billy McNeill and his team-mates, of course, became the first British club to conquer Europe after battling back from the loss of an early goal via Sandro Mazzola’s expertly-taken penalty-kick to overcome the famed Italian outfit with second-half strikes from Tommy Gemmell and Stevie Chalmers.

But did Celtic get enough praise for their mighty efforts? Alex rights the wrongs in this article.

Please enjoy.

READ ALL ABOUT IT…Alex’s tribute publication, ‘Lisbon Lions: The 40th Anniversary Celebration’.

OVER the years, I have read several irresponsible stories and heard far too many inaccurate tales of Celtic taking advantage of an ageing Inter Milan team to lift the European Cup in Lisbon on May 25 1967.

This is a monumental fallacy and, I believe, it’s a misrepresentation that is long overdue being corrected once and for all.

If the myth was ever designed to take the gloss off Celtic’s marvellous accomplishment, I think it’s had a boomerang effect and, if anything, attracts attention to the historic feat of Jock Stein’s team.

Four of the Inter Milan players who faced Celtic in the Portuguese capital were so ‘over the hill’ they were still deemed good enough to represent Italy in the memorable World Cup Final against Brazil in Mexico – THREE years after the European Cup spectacle.

Tarcisio Burgnich had sufficiently recovered from his exertions against Jimmy Johnstone at the Estadio Nacional to line up against Jairzinho in the Azteca Stadium in front of 107,412 spectators on Sunday June 21 1970. He was thirty-one years old.

HISTORY BECKONS…Billy McNeill shakes hands with Inter Milan captain Armando Picchi before the European Cup Final. West German referee Kurt Tschenscher looks on.

On the left defensive flank was Giacinto Facchetti, his nation’s captain. He was twenty-seven years old. On the right wing was Tommy Gemmell’s old mate Angelo Domenghini. He was twenty-eight years old.

Lending assistance in the midfield and attack was Inter’s astute penalty-kick expert Sandro Mazzola, who, of course, netted from the spot in the Portuguese capital. He was twenty-seven.

So, no-one needs a degree in maths to realise they were all three years younger in Lisbon! And yet that quartet provided the backbone of their national team in Mexico. By the way, it was a team good enough to beat West Germany, Franz Beckenbauer, Gerd Muller et al, in the semi-final after extra-time.

Of course, the history books will show the Brazilians claimed the old Jules Rimet trophy by dint of their 4-1 triumph over the Italians in Mexico City, but, remember, Pele and his pals were in their pomp at the time. It was no disgrace to be turned over by this mesmerising mixture of skills and talents.

And just to keep the observation going, Burgnich, Facchetti and Mazzola were all in the Italian World Cup Finals squad for the tournament in West Germany in 1974. Before that competition, the Inter trio had amassed over two hundred caps among them. Not bad for has-beens.

On May 25 1967, Burgnich was twenty-eight, Domenghini twenty-six and Facchetti and Mazzola both twenty-four.

THE EQUALISER…Tommy Gemmell powers in an unstoppable right-foot first-timer to make it 1-1.

Goalkeeper Guiliano Sarti was the oldest Inter player in Lisbon at the age of thirty-three – three years younger than Ronnie Simpson. Second oldest was defensive midfielder Mauro Bicicli at thirty-two. The only other player in his thirties was captain Armando Picchi at thirty-one.

Central defender Aristide Guarneri was twenty-nine, Mario Corso twenty-five, Renato Cappellini twenty-three and Gianfranco Bedin was the youngest at twenty-one.

The average age, therefore, was a shade under twenty-seven. Hardly ancient. World-class midfielder Luis Suarez would have played against Jock Stein’s team had he been fit. I’ve been assured he had reached veteran status. Just for the record, he celebrated his thirty-second birthday twenty-three days before Lisbon.

Contrast that with the ages of the Celtic performers. The most senior member of the Lions was, of course, goalkeeper Ronnie Simpson at thirty-six.

THE WINNER…Stevie Chalmers turns the ball beyond the helpless Guiliano Sarti for the goal that conquered Europe.

Then came winning goal hero Stevie Chalmers at thirty-one, Bertie Auld twenty-nine, Billy McNeill twenty-seven, John Clark and Willie Wallace, both twenty-six, Jim Craig, Tommy Gemmell, who clobbered in the equaliser, and Bobby Lennox, all twenty-three, and Bobby Murdoch and Jimmy Johnstone, both twenty-two.

The youngest of the iconic Celts was Murdoch, forty-four days the junior of Johnstone. The average age was a mere fraction over twenty-six.

So, arithmetically, there wasn’t much in it. In footballing terms, though, the teams were worlds apart.

So, please, let’s have no more erroneous histrionics about Celtic walking all over a pitiful collection of decrepit football geriatrics in Lisbon. No more dastardly slurs and outrageous innuendo. Give credit where credit is due.

Celtic were crowed the Kings of Europe on May 25 1967 in Lisbon purely on merit.

End of story for all time.