It has been a rather noisy day at work – raucous chanting, klaxons and air horns and general drunken cavorting. No, not my colleagues, but the 25,000 Celtic fans who descended on the city today for Roy Keane’s test (osterone) imonial match.
They went by our office from the station in good humour, many carrying enormous coolboxes. I don’t think they contained sandwiches and Scotch pies. I can fairly confidently predict that come the morning I will be picking my way past green and white hoop shirted bodies lying comatose on the pavement.
This isn’t Celtist or tartanist or whatever else ist-ism you’d like to accuse me of.
No 1.) It’s a well-known fact that you can’t be ism-istic about your own ism-ishness and there is a smidgin of Scots blood coursing through my veins, one of my great granddads having been born in Falkirk and 2.) my ism (or is it ist?) is based on previous experience of these ‘friendlies’ and subsequent tip-toeing round the bodies in Piccadilly Gardens.
PS: Happy to say I was proved entirely wrong. Lots of white flesh this morning in the sunshine, but zero bodies on the floor. And very little trouble, apart from in the ground after Christiano scored and the Green and White started singing pro-Liverpuddle songs.