Tony Haggerty's Down Under Celtic Diary: Bobo Balde & haggis smuggling

G'day cobbers.

See, I'm speaking 'Stralian like a native already. I knew I'd love it Down Under. Jet lag has not kicked in yet but rest assured it's in the post

They say travel broadens the mind but I tell you what it also frazzles the brain. Dear reader, Celtic hadn't even kicked a ball in the Sydney Super Cup in earnest and I already had my fair share of trials and tribulations. Let me tell you.

Now it turns out that first-class ticket on the third leg of the journey – the flight from Seoul to Sydney – was pure speculation and paper talk. My contact must have spoken to the wrong agent or something. It was economy class all the way. You can't have everything in life, can you? Anyway, this wasn’t before what will simply be referred to as ‘boarding pass-gate’.

Not content to be stuck in Seoul for the best part of 12 hours before my connection to sunny Sydney, I also did not have a boarding pass for the third part of the journey. For the third part of the journey, I was trying to board a plane with no name. I’m sure that’s the words.

It didn't help that nobody could really reassure me and give me a definitive as to where I would pick up said boarding pass.

Cold and hot sweats, stomach-churning and constant WhatsApp messages to the boss man Sean, the wife, my mum and dad… anybody who would listen to me. I described the scene of a worried man marking departure gate 113 of Seoul concourse like Bobo Balde in his heyday.

It had me stressed out to the max. Somehow, Tony's gonnae get ye! didn't quite carry the same air of menace. Tony really just wanted a boarding pass before the tears of self-pity started.

With 30 minutes to go before boarding the flight, my prayers were finally answered – only for the printing machine to go on the blink. The jaw-dropping sight of a Jetstar air hostess going all Usain Bolt with a 100-metre dash down the vacuous airport (with my passport in hand) trying to locate a new machine was perplexing, to say the least. It did little to ease the nerves or tension. It's not all glamour this Celtic Way malarkey, you know.

Anyway, that was enough for one man to bear and 10 hours later we landed in Sydney. Strewth, mate! I'll say that again for dramatic effect: strewth, mate!

Immigration was a breeze and it was all going too well... too well at this point. Then came a boot to the solar plexus as my bags were nowhere to be seen. Surely they had been checked through to Sydney from Glasgow? Airplane? I was having some real Ted Striker moments here.

An hour later said suitcase duly turned up, much to my relief. Not only was I looking like the guy from the film The Revenant but I also reckoned I was beginning to smell like him too. That Wild Man of Borneo look had nothing on yours truly.

"Anything to Declare?"

"Nope."

Green section, then. Nice one.

"Wait a minute… I've got a bit of haggis in my bag, does that count?"

It did count.

It was meant as a gift for somebody, a taste of Scotland. You know the drill. A miniature of Highland Park, some tablet, shortbread, Edinburgh rock and some haggis neeps and tatties flung in for good measure.

A very helpful man told me to change answer number six on my card to 'yes' thus avoiding the small matter of an $8,000 fine.  

You should have seen the look on the Australian Border Security Patrol man's face as I tried to describe what haggis, neeps and tatties were to him. Neeps and tatties was the easy part but the concept of a Scottish delicacy consisting of a sheep's liver, heart, lungs and intestines all wrapped up in its stomach was too much for this guy to take in.

I don't know who laughed more as he scanned the packaging paced to and fro and stared at a list of banned food products before exclaiming "you're OK. That's good to go, mate."

It was the kind of 'mate' Celtic boss Ange Postecoglou has been adept at dishing out over the last 18 months at the Parkhead helm when you knew deep down things weren't alright mate, were they?

Don't shoot the messenger, mate. I just want to cover Celtic in the Sydney Super Cup. Beware of geeks bearing gifts and all that.

Tired, weary and hot, I made it to the confines of the Great Southern Hotel on George Street which would be my base camp for the next three days.

My WhatsApp on my phone then pinged. It was Stevie Blair. Postecoglou's best mate from Down Under. He wanted to know if I was around for lunch. Australian time or Azerbaijan time? It didn't really matter.

Blairy is one of life's good guys. Postecoglou and Blairy are tight due to the friendship the duo forged when they played for South Melbourne. He is an ex-pat living in Oz and is Celtic daft.

I had written a piece with him for the Celtic Way earlier in the year and he couldn't have been any nicer. It was finally wonderful to meet him in person. We had a mutual understanding of each other.

On a day when my stress levels were off the charts, it was the one good part of the travel diary, dear reader. It was good for the soul (Seoul?) to see Stevie.

"What would you like to eat Tony"?

"Anything, Blairy... as long as it's not haggis!"

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