THE voice on the Tannoy was steady, his message surely definitive. “If you want a refreshment come to coach C for Charlie.” Who could resist? Unfortunately the only Charlie in coach C of the Glasgow Central to London train seemed to be a man in a skip bunnet clutching a cup of tea and the sole Columbian influence was the coffee that served as my only pick-me-up for the day.
Such is life. I am destined never to be where the action is. I am sort of the Not Ally McCoist of Scottish journalism. Mr Ally was celebrated for being in the right place and the right time when loitering with intent in penalty boxes. I am in the wrong place at the wrong time, the right place at the wrong time, the wrong time in the right place but rarely ever there when history is being made. On the last day league decider of 2008, I was despatched – they sent me by UPS as it was cheaper than the pool car- to cover Aberdeen v Rangers. Such is my reputation as someone who is as far from the action as the general staff in the First World War, this posting precipitated a gamble on Celtic winning at Dundee United and thus clinching the league. This, of course, duly occurred.
Similarly I was not among the 1,750,673 who attended the St Mirren v Celtic match at Love Street in 1986. I can be certain about the precise number because that is how many people have told me they were there over the course of the past 30 years. Celtic won the league by winning 5-0 while Hearts lost 2-0 at Dundee. You may have read about it. I was sitting in front of the telly in the bijou hamlet of Cowie, Stirlingshire, at the dacha of mater-in-law.
My first intimation of the astonishing development in the title race occurred when the chap on BBC Grandstand made a throwaway remark about Hearts losing before swiftly turning to the swimming at Alexandra Palace. These were the days before Twitter, the internet and instant updates on everything. Frankly these were the days when information was relayed by pony express though not so much in Cowie where the expression that one could eat a horse sometimes was literal rather than metaphorical.
On hearing the news, I decamped to the motor outside which, blessedly, was mine and listened to the coverage on Radio Clyde. This all came back to me as I read Stephen McGowan’s tale of the events of season 1985/1986. The wonder of it is not that is exciting, gripping and seamlessly entertaining. It is all of that but the greatest achievement is how fresh it is after 30 years.
It is also as poignant as a family photie found at the back of the sideboard. It tells us of the way we were. This was a season when Celtic were underdogs, Rangers an irrelevance, though the latter situation was soon to change dramatically. It was the final season of Fergie at Aberdeen where the Dons had to be content with just the two cups. It was the time of a strong Dundee United. Most spectacularly, it was the time of what appeared to be an irresistible run by Hearts to a title, perhaps even a double.
But to look back with the aid of McGowan’s breathlessly pacy account is to be astounded at Scottish football’s unending capacity for drama and controversy. Geez, there was even the obligatory ref row, It was strange, though. Briefly, Hearts fans have nursed a grievance over the years that the SFA appointed a Hearts-supporting referee for a Hearts championship decider. Go figure, as the coach said to the ice skater. There has also been the lingering resentment from Hearts fans who believe that St Mirren did not only lie down but preceded Tracey Emin in constructing a bed as an artistic if not athletic statement. This, of course, ignores the reality that the Tynecastle side only had to avoid defeat to Dundee to win the title.
They did not, of course. This had something to do with Albert Kidd, the only Dundee player as revered as a Lisbon Lion. But it also had much to do with Hearts, well, not scoring any goals, for starters. The events are all meticulously laid out by McGowan and the narrative gains a pace that is all the more creditable given that all of us – not just the 1,750,673 who were at Love Street – know how the story ends.
The sense of warm remembrance is made all the more profound when the leading characters are interviewed. There is Alex MacDonald, still stunned after all those years that a season ended so calamitously. There is the awful reminder of the absence of Sandy Jardine, a proper player who was so outstanding for Hearts that season. There is Davie Hay, galvanising his Celtic team for the dramatic decisive push. This, too, was the Hearts of John Robertson, the Celtic of Danny McGrain and, spectacularly, the Dundee of Albert Kidd who came off the bench to write history.
It is a story sprinkled with wonderful detail and frank recollection. It also has a terrific tale of how Archie Knox greeted Kidd after the game. But you will have to read Heartbreakers for that. After all, I wasn’t there.
Heartbreakers by Stephen McGowan is an ebook available at £2.49
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