It was during the era of the troubles in Northern Ireland that I left Scotland and headed to mainland Europe for some factory work. I had found a well-paid summer occupation; a physical job, and it was cheaper to live on the factory site in shared accommodation than to find digs of my own.
One free meal a day was provided; a single portion of meat, as many potatoes as a man could eat, and an unlimited supply of cooked vegetables.
Five days a week I worked a sixteen-hour shift and then strolled a few hundred yards to the dormitory which I shared with eleven other guys: all from Dublin.
Imagine that: eleven guys from the Irish Republic discovering that the stranger in their midst was a Scot - and a Rangers supporter.
I didn't know it at the time, but they were wary of me. Glasgow's reputation can be quite daunting to people who don't know the place: no mean city.
My Dublin roommates were on edge from the beginning. Living with a Rangers supporter in such close proximity, they thought, was a recipe for trouble, but as the days passed, and as we worked and played football together, attitudes changed and we soon became friendly: so friendly we enjoyed heated arguments over a beer and kept it civilised.
Saturday night was the social event of the week, and while guys from other dorms headed for the bright lights, my Irish workmates remained on site to have a beer, and so did I. We wanted to return home with a large wedge at the end of the summer, and carefree spending wasn't an option.
We each purchased a crate of beer and settled down in the canteen to enjoy the 'craic'. These sessions lasted around twelve hours, just long enough to finish the firewater, and the debates and arguments were quite brilliant. The situation in Northern Ireland was a frequent topic, and at times it was me against the rest. It was a learning experience for everyone.
It turned out that two of my roommates were Protestant, which was a mild shock to their compatriots, and this meant that in our discussions - which were always political - there were a couple of people who viewed the Irish Republic from a minority perspective.
One day, three of us were working just outside the factory. We were apart from the rest of the crew and on top of the job, so we had some time to kill. The subject of university came up - all the Irish guys were students - and while one of them attended UCD, the other one, a Protestant, attended Trinity, and suddenly I was witnessing a full-on argument about the nature of these seats of learning.
It all came out; Trinity, apparently, was for the better off; for the Prods and the middle-classes, while UCD was for the downtrodden masses. I couldn't believe it. There I was keeping a lid on a situation where a Dublin Protestant and Dublin Catholic had reached into history and come out fighting. Trinity had been exclusively for Prods in its early years, and possibly because the UCD lad had been knocked back after applying to it, he was in a mood to be highly critical of the place.
It never came to blows, and this Glasgow guy was the peacemaker, but it was a reminder that within the Dublin community, a degree of religious tension still lingered on.
Most of the Irish students were studying medicine. Some of them had an affection for English football clubs, but they had more passion for rugby than the beautiful game. None of them supported or had any feeling for Celtic. They were quite a discerning bunch.
In truth, my dorm was a harmonious environment with everyone getting on famously, and the weekends were looked forward to by all. The craic was excellent.
Unfortunately, the peace was disturbed one Saturday night when a drunken new-start walked into the canteen, picked up a crate full of empty bottles, and chucked it menacingly across the room. Silence reigned until the lout burst into song. It was an Irish rebel song, but no-one joined in. Meet Joe.
I was asked to sort out the interloper. Why me? Well, as Joe was a drunk Celtic fan from Glasgow, the Irish guys felt that I'd understand him better than they ever could. They hoped that I might be able to reason with him.
I wandered over to him and explained that he wasn't exactly enhancing Glasgow's reputation. He seemed to think that being more Irish than the Irish would endear himself to them, but they didn't want to know. The Irish lads had more in common with this Rangers-supporting Protestant than they had with a drunken Scottish Celtic fan.
I spent a good half-hour making sure that our new friend was going to behave before suggesting that he retire for the evening, which he did, thankfully, to his own dorm, but over the next few months there were other occasions when Joe would blow his drunken top, and it was always me who was asked to settle him down. I felt like a priest-substitute at times.
We came from the same Glasgow environment, and that bracketed us together far more than any tenuous connection he thought he had with the many Irish folk around.
There he was, a Scot wanting to be Irish, and the Irish weren't interested. I never liked Joe, and he probably didn't like me, but no-one else gave him the time of day. His erratic and tiresome behaviour impressed no-one, and he paid a hefty price socially for being a nuisance, an irritant, and just occasionally, quite dangerous.
He reminds me of the current Celtic support; reluctantly Scottish, and with an aspiration to be Irish, but while Ireland has grown as a country, Celtic has become fundamentalist.
Celtic may be a Scottish and British club, but it clings to Irishness like a drowning man clings to passing driftwood. It has become a social misfit; crude, unruly, and downright embarrassing.
Just like Joe.