I was only 13 years old.
Unlike many Celtic supporters, I didn’t become a fan because of my family.
I went to a school where almost everyone supported Rangers. It would probably have been easier to follow the crowd. Instead, from as far back as I can remember, I was always drawn to the green and white hoops.
I can’t fully explain why.
To a young boy, Celtic just seemed like the good guys.
There was something about the club that captured my imagination long before I ever walked through the turnstiles of Celtic Park. The colours, the history, the supporters and the songs. It all felt different. It felt like where I belonged.
Then came 1987.
The Centenary Season became my first full season following Celtic home and away. Looking back now at 52 years old, I realise I wasn’t simply going to football matches.
I was discovering where I belonged.
Everything felt enormous through the eyes of a 13-year-old. Billy McNeill wasn’t just a manager; he was a giant. Paul McStay wasn’t just our captain; he was a footballing genius. Tommy Burns wasn’t simply a player; he was Celtic personified, playing with a passion that made every supporter feel he was one of us.
These weren’t names in a programme.
These were heroes.
And there I was, standing just yards away from them, hardly believing I was seeing them in the flesh.
Every second Saturday there was only one place I wanted to be.
The Jungle.
You didn’t just hear it—you felt it. The noise hit your chest before it reached your ears. The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with burgers, Bovril and damp concrete. Men squeezed through the terraces carrying their carry oots, already half-cut long before kick-off, laughing, singing and debating the team.
Then came the familiar cries from the old boys weaving through the crowd.
“Macaroon bars!”
“Wrigley’s chewing gum!”
Those voices are still etched into my memory nearly 40 years later.
Football wasn’t sanitised then.
It was rough around the edges.
If somebody had enjoyed one too many pints before the game, they weren’t leaving their place on the terrace. Men simply turned around at the back of the Jungle and the piss ran down the concrete steps beneath your feet. You lifted your shoes, laughed about it and carried on singing.
It sounds grim now.
Back then, it was just football.
Raw.
Honest.
Real.
Then there were the songs.
Nothing will ever compare to tens of thousands of Celtic supporters singing…
“Happy Birthday dear Celtic… Happy Birthday to you.”
As a 13-year-old standing in the middle of the Jungle during the club’s centenary year, it genuinely felt like I was part of something bigger than football.
It felt like family.
Then came Ibrox.
The game that still stands above every other.
Graeme Souness had arrived at Rangers and was changing Scottish football. England internationals were arriving one after another. There seemed to be no spending limit. As a young boy, it looked like Rangers could buy anyone they wanted.
And yet Billy McNeill’s Celtic refused to be intimidated.
When Paul McStay met that dropping ball on 67 minutes and smashed that unforgettable left-foot volley into the net, time stood still.
Then came bedlam.
When Rangers equalised ten minutes later through a fortunate deflection, there wasn’t even time for disappointment.
Two minutes later Andy Walker had restored Celtic’s lead from close range after Anton Rogan headed Tommy Burns’ corner into his path.
The away end erupted.
To this day, I’ve never celebrated a goal quite like it.
At 13 years old, I wasn’t thinking about league tables or title races.
I just knew we’d gone to Ibrox and beaten them.
Our heroes had beaten theirs.
Billy McNeill had out-thought them.
Paul McStay had outplayed them.
Tommy Burns had out-fought them.
Those moments stay with you forever.
The title-winning day against Dundee at Celtic Park was unlike anything I’d ever seen.
We headed for our usual place in the Jungle.
There wasn’t a chance.
The stadium was overflowing hours before kick-off. The Jungle had completely filled up and supporters spilled onto the running track around the pitch. We were moved into different sections because there simply wasn’t room.
Everywhere you looked there were green and white scarves.
Bodies packed together.
Songs rolling around the stadium.
Looking back now, it was probably dangerous.
At 13 years old, it felt magical.
Little did I know what lay ahead.
I couldn’t have imagined the barren years of the 1990s. I couldn’t have known that Rangers’ spending would eventually become one of the biggest controversies in British football through years of financial excess and the use of Employee Benefit Trusts.
None of that entered my head then.
All I knew was Celtic.
Billy McNeill.
Paul McStay.
Tommy Burns.
The Jungle.
The roar of Paradise.
The smell of burgers and cigarette smoke.
The cries of “Macaroon bars!”
The men with their carry oots.
The laughter.
The songs.
The feeling that I’d found my place in the world.
I’ve experienced countless unforgettable moments since then. European nights under the lights. League titles. Cup finals. Trebles. Memories I’ll treasure forever.
But whenever someone asks me what my favourite season was, I never need to think.
It’s the Centenary Season.
Maybe that’s nostalgia.
Or maybe some seasons are simply impossible to top.
Because sometimes football isn’t really about football.
Sometimes it’s about a 13-year-old boy who chose Celtic when almost everyone around him chose Rangers. A boy who walked into the Jungle and found heroes, belonging and an identity that would stay with him for the rest of his life.
I’m 52 now.
That 13-year-old boy is still in there somewhere.
And every time I hear “Happy Birthday dear Celtic…”, he’s standing in the Jungle once again, believing there could never be anything more magical than wearing the green and white.
For me, there never has been.
