Still too raw to say too much about the 90 minutes which followed. Pretty much as expected, sadly, with the Norwegians never looking in any danger of blowing the tie after yet another early goal. I’m still defiantly shouting for Celtic even at 2-0, as that’s what we do, even though inside I’m gutted. Shades of the Amsterdam ArenA in 2013, with the same puzzled looks from the home support who noisily enjoy a wonderful night in their own club’s history.
The scene on the way back to the airport is straight out of Game of Thrones, the supporters forming one long, wet train of humanity as far as I can see on that bleak road which I walked along more hours ago than I care to remember now. Ghostly figures creating a surreal scene. The scene in the terminal itself is depressingly familiar, most supporters broken by a combination of weather and performance which crushes the early optimism of the afternoon pub chats. The delay is also inevitable, and I fill the gap by beginning yet another attempt to charge a phone which long since stopped playing ball. Eventually the silence is broken by a movement towards the departure gate and it looks like we’re on our way.
The flight home is a chance to finally get some shuteye and whilst not the most comfortable of trips that’s exactly what I do. I’m nudged by Stevie as the pilot announces landing protocols will be kicking in and all I can think of is that within an hour I will have the opportunity to prise these wet jeans and shoes off and start the process of feeling human again. Of course, by now I have told myself that this will be the last trip abroad with Celtic. It’s a young man’s game.
My wife has yet again gone above and beyond. My messages re the delays have – surprise, surprise – failed to send and with no flight update information online, the poor thing has been stuck on the outskirts of Glasgow Airport in her car since 11.30. It’s now gone 2am. Perfect end to the day, not. She asks me the usual question.
“I take it you won’t be doing any of these trips again?”
Definitely not,” I mumble.
We’re on the motorway heading home and the radio is playing quietly in the background. It’s a song from earlier in the Public, Thin Lizzy with Dancin’ in the Moonlight.
“It’s 3 o’clock in the morning and I’m on the streets again.”
I am, 24 hours after I set out.
Following Celtic is such a strange combination of madness and passion.
Hail Hail!
Matt Corr
The other Boola Vogue.
Best of luck tonight Ange.
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