Celtic legend Bertie Auld once called me lovely... I’ll never forget that - Amy Canavan

Trepidation creeps in when rushing to social media in moments such as these. Don’t ask me why, but there remains a resistance to look, on my part anyway. I don’t know if I don’t want the clarification that Twitter will give me that news is true, or that I know upon opening the app, I’m going to be faced with floods of moving memories. I reckon it’s a combination of both.

But once the scrolling starts, I’m locked in. You can’t not smile from watching Bertie belt out ‘For it’s a grand old team to play for’ in video after video. Or chitter with tears brimming in the eyes when the pride in his voice is evident upon talking of being a Lisbon Lion.

So many memories. Some public, some personal. I count myself lucky and blessed that I had a personal encounter with Bertie. So, if you'll indulge me, here’s my memory of Mr Celtic...

It’s summer 2014. The Ronny Deila era is in its infancy – just over a month old, to be exact – and 13-year-old Amy is off to Tenerife for the first time with her family.

Like many footballing dads, one of their maiden missions on vacation is to find a sufficient pub to consume the games in – my dad always succeeds, and Tenerife was no different.

‘The Hoops Bar’. One could not find a safer bet. A chalkboard by the outdoor seating area confirmed that, not only were the Champions League qualifiers against KR Reykjavik on show in their premises, so too were all upcoming friendlies. Yaldy.

We head to the pub for the first leg in, what we believed, would be plenty of time. But even hours before kick-off no seats were to be found. Squashed in on makeshift tables, like many others, we watched on as Callum McGregor’s sole, debut goal gave Celtic the advantage heading into the second leg at home.

Folk gradually dispersed after the match and all those outdoors migrated in. Inside, my mum kept banging on that she recognised one of the apparent locals. My dad, of course, told her to take a run and jump.

Per the norm, he done what he was told and asked the man if there were any links to our hometown that would make my mum notice him. Again, per the norm, she was right. Same street as her growing up… small world. It turned into a long, late night. We had many there. Some of the best family nights in my childhood, to tell the truth.

Plastered all around the pub – a shrine to the Tic more like – were posters for the upcoming Charlie and the Bhoys gig. It was the talk of the town. I can vividly remember Stevie, the famous owner of the bar, urging my mum and dad to go but they had us, the bairns. I was 13 and my brother turned 12 while we were there. We were never going to get in...

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But parents always have something up their sleeve – and mine certainly did. On one of the many occasions that my brother and I were burning a hole in our dad’s pocket by firing euro after euro into the on-site pool table he, along with Stevie and my mum’s long-lost pal, got the ‘OK’ for us to get into the gig.

I can only describe the emotions like Christmas. Elation, confusion but joy, sheer joy. This was a big-people’s event, but we were going?

The gig fell on the Friday night, we were jetting off back to Glasgow on the Saturday afternoon – this was the last supper.

We didn’t really know what to expect, we spent the day before in the pool, throwing a ball while drawing up what the night could look like. Dad had been to many at home, but we were still left pondering. Whatever we imagined wasn’t even close to reality.

The venue was dark, but the tri-colour tinges beaming from the stage offered enough light to be able to decipher who the small figure on the faraway balcony was. Wee Bertie.

My mum and dad were too young to ever see Bertie play, never mind my brother and me. But he was not lost on us.

Charlie and the Bhoys were exceptional, anyone who has attended a night will vouch for that. But the highlight - and he was always the highlight - was the special guest. The stories were engaging, his mannerisms were infectious but his words were unforgettable.

Photo time came with the Lisbon Lion and the big cup. Not many were smaller than Bertie that night, but I fell into that category and so he carried the majority of the weight as my chubby cheeks beamed with joy.

I had time with Bertie Auld, my family had time with Bertie Auld. We discussed my favourite player among many other things– I was in a state of shock, still, from Joe Ledley’s switch to Crystal Palace in January of that year – so was unable to give a definite answer, I just rattled off some names.

Then it was the turn of my mum. She takes great pride in telling the story, so I won’t do it justice, but in their chat Bertie leaned in and said to my mum: “You have a lovely wee girl and a cracking wee boy. They’re so polite and mannerly, they’re a real credit to you.”

That may sound like nothing, but for Bertie Auld to utter those words about me, utter those words to my mum about her children, was everything. I’ve never had a grandad, but that is one of those moments that you feel the impact of a wise, older man’s words.

Bertie will never have thought about me, or my family again. But I can’t begin to count how many times one of us has told that story. When a legend speaks, you remember.

I might not please everybody, or be to everyone's taste, but Bertie Auld once called me lovely... I’ll never forget that.