Love Street ’86

It was all thanks to Keith Carlyon really. Keith was the year above me at school, a Jambo, nice wee guy but prone to the odd provocative comment about football. Some years later, his dad Charlie would become Scotland’s first heart transplant patient (true story). I’d been prevaricating all week about whether to trail through to Paisley on the Saturday, our recent run of form had been great but I still wasn’t wholly convinced we’d manage to get over the line, given the advantage Hearts had at that point & the fact they hadn’t lost in so long. I worked in the local bingo hall, and when the shifts for the coming week had been posted on the Monday, I was down to work a double Saturday shift, afternoon & evening. That combination of factors had pretty much convinced me to give the trip west a miss on Saturday. That is, until I saw Keith Carlyon on the Friday morning.

I was standing at the main door of the school when he walked in. chatting to a couple of the girls in my year about music probably (that was the only angle I had to talk to girls at that point). He caught my eye as he walked toward me and smirked, and I saw him reaching down to unzip his bomber jacket. I could see a maroon t-shirt with writing on it, but not clearly. So he stopped, right in front of me, to show me: “Heart of Midlothian: Double Winners 1985-86”. He gave a little laugh to himself and walked away happy as a dog with two cocks. That was the point at which my decision to go to the game the following day was sealed. Thanks Keith.

I had a bit of organising to do that night before I could get to the game. Our local supporter’s bus was a shambles at that stage so I knew I couldn’t travel with them (a year later, my mates and I started our own bus, but that’s another story). For various reasons only one of the guys I knocked about with could go, and he was already guaranteed a seat in his brother in law’s car, so I was on my own. I worked out I could get a bus to Glasgow in the morning and make my way to Paisley from there, at that stage I wasn’t quite sure how, but I’d cross that bridge when I got to it. I had to go into work that night and throw myself on the mercy of my boss, a lovely guy called Robert Wemyss, who stood there in his red blazer, white shirt & black bow-tie listening sympathetically as I outlined my plan and prepared to beg for a late notice double shift day off. Not remotely a football guy, I expected the worst. But Robert was fundamentally one of life’s good guys, and he clearly understood this one meant a lot to the babbling 16-year-old me. Shift changes secured, I prepared for glory. 

On the morning of the game I had to get the bus from Uphall to Ratho, cross the pedestrian airbridge on the busy A8, then catch the Citylink bus for Glasgow Airport from there. It hadn’t crossed my mind that I’d actually probably have been as well getting the bus all the way to the Airport and getting to Paisley from there, so I piled off at Buchanan Street Bus Station and got directions to catch a bus to Paisley. A quick pitstop for some chips later, I was on my way. The town was swarming with Celtic fans as I remember, and given I had no idea how to find Love Street from the bus stop that was just as well. I followed some other fans who were obviously on their way to the game, young guys like me, but unlike me they had clearly had a few refreshments on the way beyond the can of Irn Bru I’d managed to bring with me on the bus. It was a good laugh hearing the songs and watching them joke around with each other ahead of the game, I wasn’t really nervous as my expectations were low, but I definitely needed the distraction at that point. 

I don’t remember how I got into the game. I certainly had money with me to pay at the turnstiles, but despite being fully six feet tall at that point, I’d rarely had to pay into a game due to the comparatively easy ability to get a lift over at the gate. I’d been at Love Street a couple of times in the past with the supporter’s bus, so I headed for a high vantage point at the very back of the terracing, easy enough to get a decent view because of my height, but mainly as I was on my own and quite self-conscious as a result. The place was rammed so this seemed a good shout. 

The game itself is a bit of a blur. I’ve seen the images so many times since then that it’s burned into my consciousness and as a result probably messes a bit with my own memory. A couple of guys next to me were pointing at someone they said was Billy Connolly, and to this day I like to believe that I saw who they were pointing at, but I don’t think I really did. I remember the quickfire start and being so far ahead at half-time, but the guys around me with radios glued to their ears were still looking pensive as the game at Dens Park wore on. Even at 5-0 the mood was of defiance rather than joy, and the expectation levels I’d set for myself remained firmly in place. Then…utter bedlam. I looked around as the noise started to ripple across the crowd and when I saw the same radio-guys who’d looked so tense minutes before hugging their pals I allowed myself to believe we were maybe, just maybe, going to do it. It felt like seconds before the second goal went in and the place just erupted. You could see the players on the pitch starting to realise what was about to happen. I’ve a vague memory of Tommy Burns gesturing up to the Celtic fans, then it was the final whistle and the place just went bananas. When you look at the scenes on YouTube it’s hard to believe you were there. It’s like an out-of-body experience for me even now 34 years later. 

We must have been in Love Street for at least an hour after the game, maybe even longer. I didn’t budge from where I stood. It was National Hug A Stranger Day; I think I got to know everyone around me quite intimately that afternoon! Eventually once the celebrations started to calm a bit and people’s minds turned to drink, we started to drift out of the ground and for me it was time to retrace my steps and head back into Glasgow. The bus was absolutely bouncing, rammed with delirious supporters like me, not quite believing what we’d just experienced, but determined to party like there was no tomorrow as a result. Another chips-related detour at Buchanan Street, then I was back on the Citylink bus heading for home, unexpectedly by that stage the only obvious Celtic fan, albeit there were a few very moody-looking Huns near the back of the bus I elected to steer well clear of. 

I arrived back in Broxburn late, probably about half-Nine by the time the various planes, trains & automobiles had managed to get me home. Our Saturday night congregation point was the local snooker club, and because I worked for the owners (who also owned the bingo hall next door) we never got any hassle despite being under-age, provided we stuck to soft drinks. My mate Martin, who’d been at the game with his brother in law, greeted me with tales of Billy Connolly and the longest scarf he’d ever seen: I had a wry laugh to myself as I realised the guys next to me had been right all along. Broxburn back then wasn’t a particularly Celtic-friendly town, so that night the mood was generally sombre rather than celebratory, other than the small group of friends planted in front of the big projector-TV screen in Millers Snooker Centre waiting on Sportscene coming on. Happy days. 

I’ve a couple of postscript stories that always make me smile when I think of Love Street ’86. The first one is my wife’s story. We started going out together in 1989, she was at that stage a Hearts season-ticket holder and went to most games with her dad & her sister. She told me the story of the morning of Dens Park: while I’d been getting myself ready for the trip to Paisley that morning, she’d been hunting high and low for her lucky scarf: the three of them had been wearing the same scarves all season, none of them having been washed for the duration “for luck’. Imagine her horror to go downstairs that morning and see all three scarves hanging pristinely on the washing line, her mother having decided to wash them the night before “so you’d all look nice for winning the League”. My now-Mother-In-Law is a lifelong Hibbee: this may be one of the best undercover double agent stories ever. 

Lastly, my pal Craig Malcolm, sadly no longer with us. Malcs and I were veterans of gigs up and down the country together, one of the best guys I ever had the pleasure of meeting. However, sadly he was a hardcore Hearts fan. I was sitting on a break at work sometime I think around 1996, flicking through the pages of The Scotsman, when I chanced across a letter in the weekly Sports letters section that Malcs had written about 1986 and all that: the conspiracy, St Mirren lying down, all that nonsense. I sat at home that night and wrote my own response, painstakingly pointing out that, indeed, Hearts had lost the League in tragic circumstances due to goal difference, and it was St Mirren’s fault, but not for the reasons Malcs had outlined. I pointed out that the last game Hearts lost in the League prior to Dens Park had been at Love Street, to St Mirren, by six goals to two. That four-goal difference had indeed been the deciding factor at the end of the day. A week later my phone at work rang early on the Monday morning. It was Malcs. He was reading The Scotsman Sports letters page. And he wasn’t happy…

Keith Carlyon is still around, still supporting Hearts, and still gets a little bit peeved when people bring up the t-shirt. Thanks again Keith.