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Before I left the hotel, I told Sammy that I probably would not be returning to play for the national side ever again. He was entirely understanding but said he hoped I would change my mind. I then spoke to most of the rest of the squad. I learned later that one or two had wanted the Irish FA to pull the team out of the match, but I insisted before the match that they should go on and do their best. My thoughts genuinely were for the team as I knew they had a tough campaign ahead and needed the match practice.

It was agreed that the Irish FA would put out my press statement and that there would be a cover story that I was already on the way back to Glasgow. In reality, there was no way to catch a plane home at that time and I would have to spend a night in Lurgan.

My statement read: ‘After close consultation with the footballing authorities and the Police Service of Northern Ireland I will not be participating in this evening’s international game.

’I am very disappointed that my desire to play for my country, on my first opportunity to captain my team at home, has been taken away from me.’

In the car on the way to Lurgan, my father and I talked things over. He was very angry, of course, as was I, but funnily enough I was a bit more philosophical.

In a sense there was an inevitability about these events. For better or worse, I had become a controversial figure, both in Scotland and in Northern Ireland. I was a symbol for one side, the epitome of what was wanted in a Celtic man dedicated to the club he loved, whereas for the other side I was something to despise. I could see that the two sides would never meet on common ground, and that there would always be extremists who simply could not tolerate my presence in a Northern Ireland jersey.

My main thoughts were for my family. It was hard enough for them when I joined Celtic, and the graffiti before the Norway game had been an awful experience for them. My father told me that ‘a cold chill’ had gripped him when he first saw the pictures. So I just could not in all conscience put them through that strain again.

And I had my daughter to think of. We had managed to shield Alisha—at home in England and just ten years old—from the dreadful facts of her father’s life in a divided city and country. How was I now going to explain to her that her daddy’s life was under threat because he played football for a certain team?

All these things and more raced through my mind as we hurried back to Lurgan. In retrospect it was then that I finally decided I would not play for Northern Ireland again. Frankly, given my thoughts for my family, the decision was pretty easy for me.

The proof of the effects such happenings can have on family members met me at the door of our house in Lurgan. My mother was very upset, and in turn that affected me. After a brief reunion with the other members of my family, who all backed my decision, it was agreed that I should get away from the house. We knew it would only be a short time before the news broke and then a media scrum would descend on us. As long as I wasn’t there, the journalists, photographers and camera crews would go away.

My family were able to say truthfully to callers that I was not at home, for I was in fact at the house of my best friend, Gary McCavigan. We have been mates since schooldays and now, when I needed him most, Gary was there for me, and his presence would lead to the only light-hearted note in this whole symphony of sadness.

As the evening wore on, Gary and I talked and talked but eventually we decided to try to get some sleep. Gary’s wife and daughter took one bedroom and we were in the other bedroom. It may not surprise you to learn that I didn’t get a wink of sleep that night. Every time a car went by the house I was startled, and I kept imagining that people were out there trying to find me.

And maybe one of them had a gun…but it wasn’t that fear which stopped my brain from switching off—no, it was Gary’s snoring that kept me awake!

In the wee small hours, the ludicrous nature of the situation really struck me and I had a laugh to myself—what else could I do?

The next morning my dad called to say that a journalist who was known and respected by the family, Adrian Logan of Ulster Television, had made contact. I spoke to him and he pointed out that I would get no peace until I had given an interview and made some sort of statement. I could see that was true. He offered to make the proceedings available to other television stations and on that basis I agreed to do a short interview.

The gist of it was my feeling that football had been irrelevant the previous night. I said: ‘My parents were pretty distraught really. I’ve got a ten-year-old daughter who knows nothing about this at the minute and we’re going to try to keep her away from it as much as we can. Obviously, I can’t put them through this every time, so I’ve thought long and hard about it and I’ve decided that I probably won’t be going back to play for Northern Ireland.

’It’s a decision that I’ve thought about previously and this time I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s probably for the best for everybody.

’My manager, Sammy McIlroy, was magnificent with me throughout it. He said if it was his son in the same position, he’d do exactly the same thing and he backed me on that and I can’t thank him enough for that, because obviously it was difficult for him, but this can’t go on.’

With that I jumped in the car and headed for Scotland. It was a relief to get back to Glasgow and the catcalls I get there on a daily basis.

That night Celtic’s security team put me up in a hotel as they feared that I would get no peace at home. I sat there alone in that hotel room making calls to my family and friends and watching the television. I was utterly amazed when the news programmes were completely dominated by what had happened to me. When you have reached a certain level in football, having to watch yourself on television is one of the more unnerving experiences that you go through. I had never quite got used to seeing myself play, never mind being interviewed off the pitch, but here I was now featuring in the headlines and in the main bulletins. It was almost as if I was watching a different person—who was this Neil Lennon they kept referring to along with the words ‘death threats’? How could a mere footballer gain such attention? But of course, it wasn’t my footballing prowess that was the issue.

As I lay there contemplating my future I couldn’t help but think of quitting the game altogether. Only my desire to succeed at Celtic kept me from walking away.

Even so, I had lost something very special. No one except another footballer can really know about the long hard hours of work that go into reaching the top level that is international football. All the other sacrifices such as special diets and the rigours of self-discipline through the years all count towards your achievements, and here was I with the pinnacle of my career to date snatched away from me by a man with a telephone. It seemed for a while that all the hard work had not been worth the candle.

The following day the LVF announced they had nothing to do with the call. That actually made me feel a lot better—it now appeared that it really was a hoax, and the caller would also not want to make enemies of those lads.

But I had made up my mind and before Celtic’s weekend match against Partick Thistle I told a press conference of my final and irrevocable decision to quit playing international football.

‘It’s’ not a snap decision,’ I said. ‘I’ve thought long and hard about it. It would have been nice in a way to turn things right round from that experience in the Norway game, but it has reared its ugly head again. I can’t keep putting the people I love most through the wringer yet again. They suffer most.

’Genuine Northern Ireland fans have sent me many letters of support during this whole period. I really feel sorry for everyone associated with the Northern Ireland team but I have to move on from this situation.

’It’s not only my parents and the rest of my family. I have to think about Sammy McIlroy and the team as well. It’s not right that the focus should be taken away from them for all the wrong reasons. It’s also disruptive to what Sammy is trying to do. Just hours before the game he was forced to change his whole plan because of this.

’So I feel it’s best for everybody that I make this decision now. The game will go on, it will continue and I hope the lads go on and do really well. But enough is enough. This can’t go on. The buck stops with me, and I want to nip it in the bud.’

I then played against Partick at Firhill in something of a strange dream. At the start I was applauded by both sets of supporters—I will always be grateful to the Thistle fans for that gesture. But my mind wasn’t really on the game.

I received messages of support from across the world, some of it from most surprising places. There was a letter from leading Unionist politician David Irvine expressing his abhorrence of what had happened and Unionist party leader David Trimble stated his concerns.

Michael Boyd of the Irish FA’s Community Relations Department wrote to say: ‘The IFA’s Community Relations Department is 100 per cent behind you at what must be a very difficult period of your career. In partnership with the supporters we are working hard to eradicate sectarianism from the game in Northern Ireland. Much progress has been made in this area in recent years and that is why it is so disappointing what happened at the Cyprus game. We are all totally gutted and frustrated that the actions of a very small minority have taken away from all the very positive work being carried out by our supporters to make the game more inclusive.’

John McMillan, chairman of the Rangers Supporters Association, told the press that what had happened was ‘absolutely disgusting’. He added: ‘These are not football fans. I don’t care who is involved or which side the threats come from, it is terrible for any person to be treated in that way. It’s hard to imagine what it must be like when you’re not in Neil Lennon’s position, but I would probably feel the same way as he does. I would hope for his own sake that he does continue in international football, but I can understand you have to think about your own safety and that of your family.’ Thanks for that, John—I believe that to be an eloquent expression of the feelings of most ordinary decent fans, whatever their club.

Even the British Government got involved. Northern Ireland Deputy First Minister Mark Durkan said: ‘The sectarian threats against Neil Lennon are deplorable. Sectarianism and paramilitarism should not intrude into the sporting arena.’

Around the world, it seemed that every major newspaper and broadcaster carried the story—it even made headlines in the USA where soccer is rarely regarded as newsworthy. I suppose that for a short period I was one of the most famous players on the planet, though not for a reason I would ever have wanted.

Some pundits would later say that I had been ill-advised to call for the football teams of Northern Ireland and the Republic to be united, but not for the first or last time, they were misquoting or misunderstanding what I had said in an interview some weeks before the match. I had said that a team drawn from all of Ireland’s thirty-two counties would do better than the two separate teams. In saying that I was only recognizing that in rugby union, all Ireland played as one and did so very successfully. But at no point did I say the two countries should unite, in football or politically. In fact, I was only stating the same position as the late George Best, the greatest of all Northern Irish players. But then he didn’t play for Celtic.

In the aftermath, much was made of the fact that the call was apparently a hoax. Two detectives from the PSNI came to Glasgow to interview me and said it was probably a hoax, but they had taken it seriously enough to trace the call and found it came from a phone box in Rathcoole in north Belfast. But how does anyone actually know that it was a hoax? How can anyone prove 100 per cent that the caller was not some deranged lunatic with a gun? In Northern Ireland and elsewhere I had seen players assaulted on the pitch by fans—what if one of them had a gun and wanted to make a name for himself?

One English journalist wrote I was a ‘big girl’s blouse’ for not risking death. Funnily enough, he never had the courage to say that to my face…

Maybe I could have gone out and played but what kind of focus would I have had? How could anyone perform to their best in such a situation? The fact is that I did not play that night and have never played for Northern Ireland since, and therefore the caller did not need to carry out the threat, so we will never know for certain whether or not it was a hoax. That reasoning seems to have been lost on the alleged intellect of people like that English journo.

What might have been the most upsetting speculation was that pulling out of the game served some sort of hidden agenda on my part. But I did not let that nonsense upset me because you cannot reason with idiocy like that. It’s the sort of biased reasoning which has seen me burned in effigy on the tops of bonfires across Northern Ireland on 12 July, the great Unionist and Protestant day of celebration—I must be rivalling Guy Fawkes for being ‘toasted’.

After that weekend, things did die down a little, and I was left to pick up the pieces. I took a long time to recover fully and it did affect my form for Celtic. But in the long run it may have been a blessing as quitting the international game may have prolonged my club career. I long ago concluded that I was correct to make my decision to quit, even though I have had tinges of regret—though I have never missed the exhausting trips to out-of-the-way places like Moldova.

It had been an awful experience, not least because it was my first real contact with the people and issues of ‘the Troubles’. I had never made public my political views or my religious leanings, but here was I, a footballer, being treated as some sort of public hate figure, not because I was making statements but because I was a Catholic who wore the green and white hoops of Celtic.

What message did it send to young Catholics in Northern Ireland that they could be singled out for such treatment if they ever played for Celtic? A lot of Catholics will not attend matches at Windsor Park—after what happened to me, can you blame them?

The plan for a new national stadium, principally for football, to be built elsewhere in Northern Ireland could be a good start in uniting the country behind its sportspeople, as used to happen with our football team and individuals like Olympic champion Mary Peters and world champion boxer Barry McGuigan. I think that a new stadium will be a big step forward for sport in Northern Ireland.

In the meantime there is undoubtedly a cancer in the society of Northern Ireland and it will take a long time to excise. But that cancer should not be allowed to infect sport.

You can argue that the Old Firm have profited from being on the two sides of the sectarian divide, and I would not disagree. But events have often been way beyond their control and what happened to me was a wholly different matter—the incidents took place in the international arena while I was playing for my country; they were seen by the whole world as disgraceful; and they damaged me as a person.

I have to confess I was scarred by those events. I will admit now that I really and truly was in fear for my life at times. No one can undergo such an experience and not be affected. And yes, it made me bitter against the ‘other side’ for a time, something I had never been before. But I have accepted things and in time I have lost that bitterness. I believe it all made me a stronger person in the long run.

I had to be strong, for it was not to be the last time I would be assailed and indeed assaulted because I played for Celtic.

CHAPTER TWO A Lurgan Bhoy

There is a noise that occasionally haunts me. It is the noise of the Troubles in the 1970s and 1980s, the time when I was growing up in a country that was trying to tear itself apart. The particular sounds I recall are those of whistles blowing, women wailing and metal clashing. It was the noise that signified death, and is one of the strongest memories from my childhood.

I was born in Carlton Home, Portadown, Northern Ireland, on 25 June 1971, the second child of Gerry and Ursula Lennon, née Moore, of Lurgan in County Armagh. I was christened Neil, but it might well have been Cornelius as I was called after my grandfather on my mother’s side who owned a grocer’s shop in the town. His ‘Sunday name’ was Cornelius but he was always known as Nealie Moore, so that’s how I got my name. I took after him in other ways as he was a talented footballer of the Gaelic variety. My middle name is Francis, after my paternal grandfather.

My elder sister Orla and I were later joined by my sisters Aileen and Jane to complete what has always been a very close and loving family.

Situated in the Craigavon district, roughly halfway between the town of that name and Lisburn, Lurgan at that time had a population in excess of 22,000. A market town that was once a leading player in the linen industry, in the 1970s Lurgan had mainly light engineering, textile and agricultural industries.

The town was founded by the Brownlow family and properly planned and laid out in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The biggest building in the area is Brownlow House, otherwise known as Lurgan Castle. To the north of Lurgan lies Lough Neagh, by area the largest expanse of fresh water in the British Isles. To the south east can be seen the famed Mountains of Mourne, and everywhere south run the roads to the Republic of Ireland. It is a beautiful part of the world, and I remain a frequent visitor despite having lived on mainland Britain for nearly twenty years.

Like many towns in Northern Ireland, Lurgan’s population consisted of two distinct sectors, defined by religious and political leanings. No individual should be stereotyped, but across Northern Ireland generally at that time it is safe to say that on one side were Protestants who wanted the country to stay part of the United Kingdom, the Unionists or Loyalists, and on the other side were Roman Catholics who wanted Northern Ireland to be part of a united Ireland, the Republicans or Nationalists. The island of Ireland had experienced civil wars before and in the late 1960s, pressure for social change somehow transformed into the violent era called the Troubles which lasted for more than three decades. Yet thanks to my wonderful parents, I was largely insulated from the horrendous consequences of what was almost another civil war.

Both my parents were warm and sociable people with a wide circle of friends and I am sure that it is from them that I get my love of sharing a good time with family and companions. My mother says I was a brilliant baby who slept and ate well, and was no trouble at all—nice to know I haven’t changed…

As any man who has been brought up in a household with three sisters will tell you, they spoil you and drive you daft in equal proportions. For instance, I don’t think I’ve ever won an argument with Orla in my life. But then she is a superb debater and orator, and in 1985 she reached the Northern Ireland final of the All-Ireland Public Speaking Championships. When she was fifteen she went on a trip to Bangladesh for three weeks as a prize for winning a speaking contest at school. Orla’s feats were reported in all the local newspapers and for a time she got bigger headlines than her wee brother. She later became a very fine teacher and is now married with two boys.

Like many people in Ireland, my dad went over to England to find work in the 1960s. He had a job at the Bedford truck factory in Luton but he came back to Lurgan—just as well he did, for that was when he and my mum encountered each other. The story is always told in our family that my mum met my dad at a dance in the town, and on that very first night she went home and told my grandparents that she had met the man she was going to marry. I am not sure whether or not that was my father’s reaction, but knowing my mum’s quiet determination, he was a lost cause to bachelorhood from that night on.

Dad worked as a foreman in an electronics factory but had to take premature retirement because he developed a debilitating illness which often leaves him very tired, but by and large he has not allowed it to affect him too much.

My earliest memories are of our house in Edward Street in the middle of Lurgan where we first lived. There was just Orla and me at the time. Between our house and my grandfather’s shop across the road, there was a long line of concrete barrels all joined together with metal piping. They were there to stop people parking their cars in the centre of town. In the 1970s, car bombs were a regular feature of life in towns across Northern Ireland, and the barriers were then supposed to prevent the bombers from getting access to the main shopping areas in Lurgan.

The security paraphernalia made life difficult at times, but I suppose that was the price we had to pay in order to live some kind of normal life in relative safety. As a child you do not realize the seriousness of events going on around you, and it is only in recent years, after what has happened to me, that I realize what a strain it must have been for my parents to raise children at such a time and in such a place.

We were constantly being evacuated from the house because of bomb scares which were usually, but not always, hoaxes. I remember one Friday afternoon very vividly. That was the day my mother always made her special stew which I loved and which was a real highlight of the week for me. I was starving that day and could barely wait to start. My sister Orla was carrying the pot from the oven to the dinner table when a huge explosion shook the house. A bomb had gone off somewhere in the town and the noise was absolutely deafening. Orla got a terrible fright, dropped the pot and burst out crying. My mother went over to comfort her but I was more upset that she had spilled the stew all over the floor and gave her pelters!

The local council had plans to develop the area around our house—they finally did it twenty-odd years later, as you can tell by the name Millennium Way—and in 1976 we were moved to a new house at Richmount Gardens on Taghnevan estate on the edge of town. Jane had been born the year before and my youngest sister Aileen arrived in 1978. There were now four Lennon children—I don’t know how my mother coped with all of us, but she did so magnificently.

Apart from the occasional inconveniences of life in Ulster at that time in the 1970s, I have to say I had a very happy childhood.

Fortunately for us, no members of my family were killed or injured in the Troubles, but one of my former schoolmates was not so lucky. Dennis Carville was one of the many people who died because they just happened to be of the wrong religion in the wrong place at the wrong time.

It was on 6 October 1990 that he was murdered. By then I was living in Stockport in England. I learned of the tragedy shortly after it happened and immediately recalled from schooldays a decent lad, an ordinary boy who would never have got mixed up in sectarian politics or fighting.

He was in his car with his girlfriend at a nature reserve, Oxford Island, at the south end of Lough Neagh. They had gone for some peace and quiet to a lover’s lane which was well known as such in Lurgan. A fortnight previously, a part-time soldier from the Ulster Defence Regiment, Colin McCullough, had been killed by the IRA as he sat in a car with his girlfriend at the same place.

As Dennis sat there, a paramilitary from one of the Loyalist groups came up and knocked on the window. Dressed as a soldier, he asked to see Dennis’s driving licence and as soon as he had established that Dennis was a Catholic, the gunman shot him dead in cold blood at a range of only inches. A Loyalist extremist group later let it be known that they had killed my Catholic former schoolmate in revenge for the murder of the Protestant UDR man.

It was one of many tit-for-tat killings during the Troubles, and it could have been any one of us Catholic boys from Lurgan who got the bullet that killed Dennis. He was just nineteen when he died, exactly the same age as myself at the time.

It was the banshee howl of the Troubles that I remember most.

Taghnevan was an almost totally Catholic/Republican/ nationalist estate—for the uninitiated, I should explain that many towns in Northern Ireland have their own system of virtual apartheid, with people from the Protestant/Unionist/ Loyalist tradition and the Catholics/Republicans/Nationalists both occupying their own enclaves and largely keeping themselves to themselves. It came as a shock to me when I moved to mainland Britain to discover that people of different faiths and cultures all lived together, cheek by jowl in the same streets and apartment blocks.

The worst period for tension and violence was undoubtedly the time of the hunger strikes in the early 1980s. The country was on the edge of all-out civil war during that long campaign by the Republican prisoners, led by Bobby Sands who, despite being in prison, had been elected an MP shortly before he died from the effects of self-starvation.

You could always tell when a hunger striker had died. As soon as news of the death broke, no matter whether it was in the dead of night or during the day, people would come out of the houses and would start to bang metal bin lids, either thrashing two together or thumping them off the pavement. Whistles would be blown at the highest possible volume, and men and women would shout the news. The noise would spread through the estate and sometimes there would be women wailing and frightened children screaming. I was only nine or ten at the time, but I can remember that cacophony as if it was yesterday. On one occasion a hunger striker died at about 4 a.m. and the noise of the bin lids and the shouts of protest reverberated around the estate in an unearthly manner. It was as if the banshee of ancient Irish folklore had suddenly come to life in Lurgan. I was truly frightened as I lay in my bed wondering how long the noise would go on for and what would happen the next day—in many places across Northern Ireland there would be riots and shootings. I knew why the noisy protest was taking place, of course, but I had no real concept of the underlying problems which had caused the Troubles to start in the first place.

My parents always did their best to shield us from the Troubles but there were occasions when the grim realities of that time just could not be avoided, as when the hunger strikers died. Mostly, however, we just tried to get on with our lives as normally as possible, which I suspect was the attitude of the vast majority of people in Lurgan and elsewhere in Northern Ireland.

The price of safety was constant vigilance. My mother and father would watch out like hawks for any problems in the streets around our house and at the first sign of any trouble we would be hauled indoors. ‘Trouble’ usually consisted of gangs of boys taunting the security services or throwing stones at police vehicles. The girls kept out of the road but it was accepted practice for boys of my age and older teenagers to take part in this frequent ritual. I have to confess I got caught up in a couple of episodes of stone-throwing largely because it was second nature to several friends of mine. Peer pressure can be a terrible thing at that age, and it was only later when I had moved to England that I realized that the police had actually been there to protect us. Of course I would later require their services on a couple of occasions in Belfast, as I have already described.

You could try to avoid the Troubles, as we did as a family, but you could never ignore them. One of my uncles on my father’s side had been born long before the Beatles came on the scene or else my grandparents might have called him something other than John. He was stopped by the police one night and of course they asked him for his name. ‘John Lennon,’ was his truthful reply. ‘Aye,’ said the cop, ‘and I’m John Wayne,’ before throwing him in the back of the police vehicle.

A real character, my uncle John sadly died three years ago. But then all the Lennons were characters. My father’s brother Francie went to a big Gaelic football match at Croke Park in Dublin, and that was the last my grandfather Frank and grandmother Jane saw of him for ten years. He joined the Irish Navy and in 1953, was the wireless operator who intercepted the first distress signal from the Stranraer-Larne ferry Princess Victoria which sank in the Irish Sea during a massive storm, with the loss of more than 130 lives. He later went to England and joined the RAF, ending up in Hull.

I have vivid memories of many of the major events of the Troubles when I was growing up, such as the murder of Airey Neave MP, the bombing which killed Earl Mountbatten, and the explosions which killed eighteen soldiers at Warren-point. That last incident took place on a bank holiday at a place just down the road from Lurgan, so the whole area was very tense for some time afterwards with police and soldiers everywhere.

As I grew older, I became more aware of the history and tragedies which had led to the Troubles, but I did not let things influence me and was never tempted to get involved in politics. To be truthful, I was just too busy playing football and Gaelic football to get sucked into what was going on around me.