If Celtic was a country, then March 4th would be our national holiday.
On this day 1994, in the age before mobile phones I phoned the Bean an tí from my work, and I told her there was something going to break tonight at Celtic Park and I wanted to be there.
Wrong.
I needed to be there.
I told herself that I would be home when I would be home.
The understanding girl I had married said she would leave something in the fridge for me to eat, and she would see me whenever.
I left my office and I walked down the Springfield Road, and turned into London Road.
At the front door of Celtic, there was a camera crew and another crew.
My crew.
The Celts for change lot were there, as they had been since the start.
Although that night we were helpless bystanders to what negotiations that were going on inside, the entire situation had been engineered by us and by the many thousands who had agreed with us.
We had indeed “sacked the board”, and it was a fantastic feeling.
Brian Dempsey got to say the words.
The rebels had indeed won.
Matt McGlone had come prepared for the result and popped a champagne cork.
However, it was the socially awkward little man with the Ben Turpin squint and an accountant’s fussy intelligence standing beside him, who was the big guy in this movie.
He was, undoubtedly an extremely unlikely superhero, but Fergus McCann rescued the Parkhead club.
Although managers found him near impossible to work with the wee man DID save Celtic.
Compare and contrast the financial health of the Parkhead club today with the ground zero at Edmiston drive.
March 4th should be Bunnet day.
