As an ecstatic 19 year old I found myself at Shittodrie on 2nd May 1987.
I had memories of the mighty Rangers (instilled by father & grandfather) and a vague recollection of greatness aged 11 but most of my teens hosted memories of what might have been, the elegance of Russell and the moodiness of Cooper, league struggles, midweek cup games and euro cup games. By and large I remember getting beat when it really mattered and McLean & Ferguson turning us down.
And then - BOOM!
Fuck me the arrogance was immense, Ferguson had gone to Man Utd and McLean looked a shadow of his former self but none of that was relevant - there was a new sheriff in town, and he got us.
What a season, fiercely contested, every Scottish club fought twice as hard against us as they did against every other team. Send offs galore, Masonic conspiracy theories and undermined by the Scottish press - our rookie manager didn’t have the experience to go all the way (wee bit of déjà vu). My memory tells me we walked it, the reality is we pipped it.
But fuck me I cried like a baby that day, the right to win wasn’t to be taken for granted and it felt sweet to be on top. By 1990 I just expected to win, and by and large we have, through most of my adult life.