Hats, Scarves and Badges by David Kerr
Hairs stood on the necks of the grown men of Govan as the shriek echoed through the red sandstone canyons of Mount Florida.
‘Hats, scarves and badges! Get yer hats, scarves and badges!’ ‘This is it, we’re on for the treble, the first since 1964!’ declared my Uncle Andy.
‘Aye, We’re Gonna Celebrate.’ half-sang his brother-in-law. ‘Is that right, Davie-Boy?’ bellowed George, as he ruffled my 9 year-old blond mop and gave a reassuring pat on my fermented bump, knowing that the six cans of lager and bottle of champagne were safely stored in the Aladdin’s cave of my snorkel parka. Ah, that zipped-up cavern, the third greatest icon of 1970’s, with the zip-up hood blocking out the annual soaking of Cumbernauld’s horizontal rain, and the drawn cord waist band tightened to create a concealed chamber, capable of escorting Tennents’ top six dollies into every ground in the newly founded Scottish Premier League.
‘Stop drawing attention to the boy!’ barked my Dad, as the backside of a police horse directed us into the queue for turnstile J. How glad my dad was that he had four Scottish Cup Final tickets in his hand, and there was no need to ask the feared ‘Lift the boy over?’ when he got to the chipped paint, cast iron turnstile. By the fade of the fourth turnstile click we were through the red brick entrance, George and Andy had been searched and I was next. My Dad raised his hands and pushed himself between the police man and me for the routine oxter-to-ankle touch search.
He was clear! ‘Enjoy the game lad!’ instructed Pitt Street’s finest, as he patted my head and we climbed the steps to join the thousands standing under the roof of the Rangers end.
‘Hello, hello!’ shouted George, as we acquainted ourselves within the fine, surrounding folk of Larkhall, Cambuslang and Newlands. My parka zips were undone as the boys in blue patrolled the steaming, sodden steps below and the bottle and cans were distributed between my elders.
‘Well done David, here’s a can of Coke and a macaroon bar for half-time’, gestured my Uncle Andy. The best exchange since Jock Wallace convinced Tam Forsyth that playing in defence was better than in midfield, and all three of us looked on from our own individual standpoint as the game kicked off a whole minute before 3pm. Within forty-three seconds the ball was in the back of the Hearts net and we choked within a cloud of fine, ground and brown dust as it climbed from the century of eroded steps, and rebounded back off the roof transforming my scarf to a fine shade of red, blue and brown. At least it wisnay green!
‘Nae bother!’ shouted George, as he swigged on the Champagne and the disorientated pre-Mexican wave reassembled back up the incline from the fifteen foot high security fence. We laughed at the guy in front’s jacket, soaked with a champagne map of Africa on the back, as we drunk ourselves dizzy on the pleasure of knowing the treble was ours. By half-time The Cup was as good as in John Greig’s hands, which was almost as sweet as the taste of that well earned can of Coke and macaroon bar!
