The latest instalments in our series of classic reports are from 1967. On 25 May Celtic became the first British team to win the European Cup, an achievement that saw them immortalised in football history as the Lisbon Lions. The first piece is Albert Barham's stylish match report, which appeared in the Guardian on 26 May .

Barham, known to his colleagues as Bert, was the Guardian's football correspondent in London during the late 1960s and early '70s. He was troubled by heart problems, a legacy of his day serving as a Chindit in Burma under Brigadier Wingate during the second world war. "After you've done that, writing about football is pretty small beer" observed his successor on the paper, David Lacey.

The second piece is a terrific on-the-ground report by Hugh McIlvanney in The Observer. McIlvanney, a Scot himself, revels in the atmosphere in Lisbon. His obvious rapport with the fans and players is in sharp contrast with the way football journalism works today. McIlvanney builds his story on the incidental details and colourful asides he sees and hears. He remains the only British sportswriter to have been voted Journalist of the Year.

RELENTLESS ATTACK WINS EUROPEAN CUP

ALBERT BARHAM, Lisbon, 25 May.

Celtic 2–1 Internazionale Milan

Celtic flags fly triumphantly in the evening shadows here today. At last, like the World Cup, the European Cup comes home to Britain. Celtic are the new champions and worthy ones at that, having beaten Inter Milan 2–1 in the final after a remarkable match; by sheer determination when all seemed stacked against them, when frustration and defeat stared them straight in the eye.

There is no individual hero. Every man gave his all. No other British club has ever reached the final, let alone win Europe's most coveted prize. And as the shadows lengthened just five minutes away from extra time Celtic scored the winning goal. It seemed the final minutes would never pass for their 7,000 supporters, who had travelled so far and so hopefully. It was like Wembley all over again after the Scottish victory against England.

Jubilation was everywhere as the supporters cavorted around their heroes. But hope had been slim for so long. Not for an hour could the despairing Scots break the defensive wall Inter built round their goal. Inter have done it so often, so successfully, it seemed Celtic, for all Johnstone's cunning and Murdoch's support of the forwards, had not the key to prise apart the tall Facchetti from his cohorts, Burgnich, Guarneri, and Bedin. But the assistance from the backs and particularly the shooting of Gemmell from outside the wall, was rewarded in the end.

For all the great expectation of high tension no one could have expected it to erupt so sharply or suddenly. Within the first six minutes Celtic were a goal down to a penalty. It came as Craig fouled Cappellini and was scored by Mazzola for whom this must have been an emotional experience for it was here his father played his last match before he died so tragically in the air crash afterwards. Inter, for all their leisurely approach, snapped into action near goal with surprising skill and speed and only seconds before the goal Cappellini sprinted down the wing and Mazzola's low header glanced off Simpson's knees.

From that disastrous goal, however, Celtic gained in strength. Back came Inter into the old familiar pattern of massed defence behind which stalked Sarti plucking the high shots out of the air. There was no way through for Celtic. There was no way over the wall either. It had to be from outside the wall in the hope of a chink being made that success could come.

Celtic waited so long. Incident piled upon incident, thrill upon thrill. Auld hit the crossbar, a low left foot shot from Johnstone was smothered by Sarti, who in the next minute tipped a header from Johnstone over the crossbar.

Nine men were pulled back to stem Celtic. Inter were well content and determined to hold what they had. It demanded defence of the highest order against an attack as consistent and resolute as Celtic's. Sarti just managed to smother one free-kick which Gemmell deflected off this wall of defence. Later, lobbing rather speculatively, Gemmell's shot hit the bar as the evening sun glinted in Sarti's eyes. And all the while Inter had not threatened again. And when they needed to come from their defensive box they could not.

Gemmell claimed the goal which brought Celtic level after an hour, and what a beautifully taken goal it was, coming from the clever understanding of Murdoch and Craig. This time the groping fingers of Sarti could not touch Gemmell's fierce, first-time shot. With the goal came renewed hope for in spite of Inter's stubborn defence, Celtic were back with a real chance. It did not come until five minutes from time and then Chalmers was promptly submerged by his jubilant colleagues after he had scored the most crucial goal of his career. And so on to the rejoicing.

CELTIC — Simpson: Craig, Gemmell, Murdoch, McNeill, Clark: Johnstone, Wallace, Chalmers, Auld, Lennox.

INTER MILAN — Sarti: Picchi, Burgnich, Guarneri, Fachetti, Bedin: Corso, Bicicli, Mazzola, Cappellini, Domenghini.

IMMORTALITY FOR CELTIC'S BIG MAN

HUGH McILVANNEY reports from Portugal on the implications of Glasgow Celtic's great victory.

Today Lisbon is almost, but not quite, back in Portuguese hands at the end of the most hysterically exuberant occupation any city has ever known. Pockets of Celtic supporters are holding out in unlikely corners, noisily defending their own carnival atmosphere against the returning tide of normality, determined to preserve the moment, to make the party go on and on.

They emerge with a sudden flood of Glasgow accents from taxis or cafes, or let their voices carry with an irresistible aggregate of decibels across hotel lounges. Always, even among the refugees who turn up at the British Embassy bereft of everything but the rumpled clothes they stand in, the talk is of that magical hour-and-a-half under the hot sun on Thursday in the breathtaking, tree-fringed amphitheatre of the national stadium.

Clean sweep

At the airport, the impression is of a Dunkirk with happiness. The discomforts of mass evacuation are tolerable when your team have just won the greatest victory yet achieved by a British football club, and completed a clean sweep of the trophies available to them that has never been equalled anywhere in the world.

They even cheered Helenio Herrera and his shattered Inter when the Italians left for Milan yesterday evening. "Inter, Inter, Inter." The chant resounded convincingly through the departure lounge, but no one was misled. In that mood, overflowing with conquerors' magnanimity they might have given Scot Symon a round of applause.

Typically, within a minute the same happily dishevelled groups were singing: "Ee Aye Addio, Herrera's on the Buroo." The suggestion that the most highly paid manager in Europe is likely to be queueing at the Labour Exchange is rather wild but the comment emphasised that even the least analytical fan had seen through the hectic excitement of a unique performance to the essential meaning of the event.

Mundo Desportivo of Lisbon put it another way: "It was inevitable. Sooner or later the Inter of Herrera, the Inter of catenaccio, of negative football, of marginal victories, had to pay for their refusal to play entertaining football." The Portuguese rejoiced over the magnificent style in which Celtic had taken retribution on behalf of the entire game.

A few of us condemned Herrera unequivocally two years ago after Inter had won the European Cup at their own San Siro Stadium by defending with neurotic caution to protect a luckily gained one-goal lead against a Benfica side with only nine fit men. But he continued to receive around £30,000 a year for stifling the flair, imagination, boldness and spontaneity that make football what it is. And he was still held in awe by people who felt that the statistics of his record justified the sterility of his methods.

Now, however, nearly everyone appreciates the dangers of his influence. The twelfth European Cup final showed how shabbily his philosophy compares with the dynamically positive thinking of Jock Stein. Before the match Stein told me:

"Inter will play it defensively. That's their way and it's their business. But we feel we have a duty to play the game our way, and our way is to attack. Win or lose, we want to make the game worth remembering. Just to be involved in an occasion like this is a tremendous honour and we think it puts an obligation on us. We can be as hard and professional as anybody, but I mean it when I say that we don't just want to win this cup. We want to win it playing good football, to make neutrals glad we've done it, glad to remember how we did it."

Vital positions

The effects of such thinking, and of Stein's genius for giving it practical expression, were there for all the football world to see on Thursday. Of course, he has wonderful players, a team without a serious weakness and with tremendous strengths in vital positions. But when one had eulogised the exhilarating speed and the bewildering variety of skills that destroyed Inter – the unshakable assurance of Clark, the murderously swift overlapping of the full-backs, the creative energy of Auld in midfield, the endlessly astonishing virtuosity of Johnstone, the intelligent and ceaseless running of Chalmers – even with all this, ultimately the element that impressed most profoundly was the massive heart of this Celtic side.

Nothing symbolised it more vividly than the incredible display of Gemmell. He was almost on his knees with fatigue before scoring that minute but somehow his courage forced him to go on dredging up the strength to continue with the exhausting runs along the left wing that did more than any other single factor to demoralise Inter.

Gemmell has the same aggressive pride, the same contempt for any thought of defeat, that emanates from Auld. Before the game Auld cut short a discussion about the possible ill-effects of the heat and the firm ground with a blunt declaration that they would lick the Italians in any conditions.

When he had been rescued from the delirious crowd and was walking back to the dressing rooms after Celtic had overcome all the bad breaks to vindicate his confidence Auld – naked to the waist except for an Inter shirt knotted round his neck like a scarf – suddenly stopped in his tracks and shouted to Ronnie Simpson, who was walking ahead:

"Hey, Ronnie Simpson, what are we? What are we, son?" He stood there sweating, showing his white teeth between parched lips flecked with saliva. Then he answered his own question with a belligerent roar. "We're the greatest. That's what we are. The greatest." Simpson came running back and they embraced for a full minute.

Stein's heart

In the dressing room, as the other players unashamedly sang their supporters' songs in the showers and drank champagne from the huge Cup ("Have you had a bevy out of this?"), Auld leaned forward to Sean Fallon, the trainer, and asked with mock seriousness: "Would you say I was the best? Was I your best man?"

"They've all got Stein's heart," said a Glasgow colleague. "There's a bit of the big man in all of them." Certainly the preparation for this final and the winning of it were impregnated with Stein's personality. Whether warning the players against exposing themselves to the sun ("I don't even want you near the windows in your rooms. If there's as much as a freckle on any man's arm he's for home") or joking with reporters beside the hotel swimming pool in Estoril, his was the all-pervading influence.

Despite the extreme tension he must have felt, he never lost the bantering humour that keeps the morale of his expeditions unfailingly high. The impact of the Celtic invasion on the local Catholic churches was a rewarding theme for him. "They're getting some gates since we came. The nine o'clock and ten o'clock Masses were all-ticket. They've had to get extra plates. How do they divide the takings here? Is it fifty-fifty or in favour of the home club?"

Ecstatic praise

It was hard work appearing so relaxed and the effort eventually took its toll on Stein when he made a dive for the dressing rooms a minute before the end of the game, unable to stand any more. When we reached him there, he kept muttering: "What a performance. What a performance."

It was left to Bill Shankly, the Scottish manager of Liverpool (and the only English club manager present), to supply the summing-up quote. "John," Shankly said with the solemnity of a man to whom football is a religion, "you're immortal."

An elderly Portuguese official cornered Stein and delivered ecstatic praise of Celtic's adventurous approach. "This attacking play, this is the real meaning of football. This is the true game." Stein slapped him on the shoulder. "Go on, I could listen to you all night." Then, turning to the rest of us, "Fancy anybody saying that about a Scottish team."

There is good reason to hope that people will say such things about Scottish and English clubs with increasing frequency in the near future. Now that the Continental monopoly of the European Cup has been broken, British football is poised for a period of domination.

Glasgow Rangers can strike the next blow when they meet Bayern Munich in the final of the European Cup for Cup Winners at Nurnberg next Wednesday. Scot Symon has rebuilt his Rangers team with patient thoroughness this season, and their thrilling draw with Celtic at Ibrox three weeks ago confirmed how far they have come. Spurred by their great rivals' achievement, they will not be easily denied.

Continental clubs can expect no respite next season when the powerful challenge from Scotland will be backed by the presence of Manchester United and Tottenham Hotspur in the two major competitions. It seems unlikely that anything short of the personal intervention of De Gaulle can prevent us from being in among the European prizes again.