Remember night-time’s shadows fleeing from the light,
Remember worn and hooded eyes given back their sight,
Remember hearts that craved a time of dreams that might come true
Remember when our MON arrived and said to me and you.
I will do what’s in my gift
I’ll do what’s in my power
To bring some glory to our club
Cometh the man so cometh the hour.
Remember Petta seeing off Fernando’s flailing kicks
Remember Sutton’s piercing strikes and Petrov’s box of tricks
Remember Henrik’s goals of gold and vanquished foreign foes
Remember Thommo, Hartson too as they dealt their stinging blows.
I will do what’s in my gift
I’ll do what’s in my power
To bring some glory to our club
Cometh the man so cometh the hour.
Remember Basle’s ashes from which our Phoenix flew
Remember Blackburn, Vigo, and Stuttgart holding true
Remember down in Scouseland when glory fed our soul
Remember Boavista and that startling winning goal!
I will do what’s in my gift
I’ll do what’s in my power
To bring some glory to our club
Cometh the man so cometh the hour.
But most of all remember, a man of iron will
A man who gave us with our team that vision called Seville,
A man who bent for no-one, who raised our name in lights
Our man, our Mon, our manager, with you we scaled the heights!
I will do what’s in my gift
I’ll do what’s in my power
To bring some glory to club
Cometh the man so cometh the hour.
Thankyou Martin!
Wednesday, May 25, 2005
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Walking back to happiness
Tuesday at last and here in the Gorbals, if not exactly sunny, at least it is starting to look fairly bright and dry.
I’m not sure exactly what I will do today, but I definitely need to stay away from any more Guinness as the horrors of Sunday’s events were magnified a thousand times by the panic stricken paranoia and neurosis of alcoholic cold turkey.
Big T and James have just passed by my front window, probably heading up the shops for a paper. I bought myself a paper this morning, although I did take the coward’s way out since it was the Scottish sport avoiding Guardian. Still as someone somewhere once said, ‘even the longest journey starts with the first step.’
And that is exactly what I am going to do, take that first step.
My favourite walk along Ballater Street, down along the Clyde at Glasgow Green football club, back up onto the Dunn Street and cut across onto Nuneaton Street.
Just around the street’s elbow, there it is!
Paradise! Celtic Park!
This holy ground of ours is a bit special you know. It has a personality of its own. It beckons and welcomes you almost waving to you to come in and feel good. It smiles at me as each step takes me closer and it reminds me of through it’s own memories of the many great and wondrous games and players who have adorned that glorious rectangle of God’s sod.
My hearty will beat slightly faster as I near that monument to football history, and I will again hear in my mind’s ear the call of the crowds, the songs of the faithful, the roar of anticipation, and the crescendo of triumph that have been such a great companion and comfort through more years than I care to remember.
I will think of Willie Maley, Jimmy Quinn, Johnny Thompson, Jimmy McGrory, Charlie Tully, Jock Stein, Billy McNeil, Jimmy Johnstone, Paul McStay, Henrik Larsson, and oh so many other legendary players of the past. But more than that I will think of those to come, perhaps the Aiden McGeadys, Ross Wallaces, Scott Cuthberts, or Rocco Quinns.
I can see them next season or the season after that turning, twisting, passing and playing in that archetypal Celtic Way. I can see them playing for the children of today, tomorrow, and for generations still to come, when I will be sitting (hopefully) on a cloud above playing my harp and drinking a heavenly Guinness.
‘Silly old git’ I hear you say!
For writing it down? Aye your probably right, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.
So I’m off now and guess what, the sun has come out!
It’s great to be a Tim
I’m not sure exactly what I will do today, but I definitely need to stay away from any more Guinness as the horrors of Sunday’s events were magnified a thousand times by the panic stricken paranoia and neurosis of alcoholic cold turkey.
Big T and James have just passed by my front window, probably heading up the shops for a paper. I bought myself a paper this morning, although I did take the coward’s way out since it was the Scottish sport avoiding Guardian. Still as someone somewhere once said, ‘even the longest journey starts with the first step.’
And that is exactly what I am going to do, take that first step.
My favourite walk along Ballater Street, down along the Clyde at Glasgow Green football club, back up onto the Dunn Street and cut across onto Nuneaton Street.
Just around the street’s elbow, there it is!
Paradise! Celtic Park!
This holy ground of ours is a bit special you know. It has a personality of its own. It beckons and welcomes you almost waving to you to come in and feel good. It smiles at me as each step takes me closer and it reminds me of through it’s own memories of the many great and wondrous games and players who have adorned that glorious rectangle of God’s sod.
My hearty will beat slightly faster as I near that monument to football history, and I will again hear in my mind’s ear the call of the crowds, the songs of the faithful, the roar of anticipation, and the crescendo of triumph that have been such a great companion and comfort through more years than I care to remember.
I will think of Willie Maley, Jimmy Quinn, Johnny Thompson, Jimmy McGrory, Charlie Tully, Jock Stein, Billy McNeil, Jimmy Johnstone, Paul McStay, Henrik Larsson, and oh so many other legendary players of the past. But more than that I will think of those to come, perhaps the Aiden McGeadys, Ross Wallaces, Scott Cuthberts, or Rocco Quinns.
I can see them next season or the season after that turning, twisting, passing and playing in that archetypal Celtic Way. I can see them playing for the children of today, tomorrow, and for generations still to come, when I will be sitting (hopefully) on a cloud above playing my harp and drinking a heavenly Guinness.
‘Silly old git’ I hear you say!
For writing it down? Aye your probably right, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.
So I’m off now and guess what, the sun has come out!
It’s great to be a Tim
Monday, May 23, 2005
Forward with hope
A sense of detachment is the dominant feeling this morning. I’m really only going through the motions of the very basics that keep body and soul together and doing the absolutely mandatory work related activities which will ensure that if nothing else I will still be able to afford my season book for the coming year.
‘We are Celtic supporters faithful through and through……………’
I left the Gorbals yesterday at just gone 12.00, the sky was a light azure and the sun was beaming down.
As I turned onto the M74 the atmosphere became dark, dank, doomladen, and a feeling of foreboding crept upon me as I switched on the windscreen wipers and switched off the beechgrove potting shed.
Having parked up at about 12.30, just a short walk from the ground the weather relented and cleared and once again the green and white favours of the Celtic diaspora regained there freshness as they glistened and sparkled ,and the songs of hope and glory resounded and echoed through the courts and alleys of the oddly beige coloured multi-story flats.
‘We don’t care if we win lose or draw……….’
And then the skies opened again and the rain came down not so much in stair-rods, but more in a primordial flood reminiscent of Noah and his ark. Cats and dogs, rats and mice, sparrows and pigeons all flew around in pairs looking for sanctuary from the deluge while that more resilient species the greater green white and gold Celticus Timus draped in declarative banners literally walked on water and defiantly continued on our expectant odyssey.
‘This land is your land, this land is my land……….’
The south stand at Fir Park was a throwback to those terraces of yore as we stood, swayed, sang, and huddled throughout the game. Just on the half hour we scored through our best player on the day and took what any observer would admit was a well deserved lead. Worryingly however as the game proceeded we missed chance after chance. As each one was spurned and the news of the score-line filtered through from Easter road, two things started to happen. Firstly that paranoia that always accompanies a game refereed by Hugh Dallas started to encroach on my thoughts, and secondly an edginess bordering on panic began to infect the vast majority of the team.
Chris dropped back from patrolling the hole to almost a libero role and we allowed Motherwell to rain in crosses and shots. There was always a chance that one break would come their way and the race was on to beat the clock.
‘For ever and ever we’ll follow the bhoys…………………’
I won’t dwell on the events of the last few minutes other than to say how unsurprised I was at the outcome. We’ve played like this for the majority of the season and the hearts and lungs of a group of Celtic heroes who will forever have a special place in my heart, finally succumbed.
Martin came down and waved to us. Robbo cried. And I stood and applauded, a lump as large as Stan Petrov’s heart welling up in my throat and my eyes brimming with a moist and stinging sadness.
‘By a lonely harbour wall she watched the last star falling…………………..’
It was now that our own mettle and true measure of being Celtic supporters was tested and with only a few exceptions we came up to the mark.
Those who left in disgust at something or other, well good riddance to you.
Those few who kicked and broke the seats, shame on you and don’t come back.
But to those who stayed and clapped and cried with our team, who felt part of our team, who were as one with our team, those who will be there next week at Hampden, those who sang with me in Sharkey’s last night, those who continue to hope and laugh and sing dream, as I promised I raised a drink to all you last night and without doubt you are not only the best fans in the world but undoubtedly
‘You’ll never walk alone…………..’
C’mon the hoops
‘We are Celtic supporters faithful through and through……………’
I left the Gorbals yesterday at just gone 12.00, the sky was a light azure and the sun was beaming down.
As I turned onto the M74 the atmosphere became dark, dank, doomladen, and a feeling of foreboding crept upon me as I switched on the windscreen wipers and switched off the beechgrove potting shed.
Having parked up at about 12.30, just a short walk from the ground the weather relented and cleared and once again the green and white favours of the Celtic diaspora regained there freshness as they glistened and sparkled ,and the songs of hope and glory resounded and echoed through the courts and alleys of the oddly beige coloured multi-story flats.
‘We don’t care if we win lose or draw……….’
And then the skies opened again and the rain came down not so much in stair-rods, but more in a primordial flood reminiscent of Noah and his ark. Cats and dogs, rats and mice, sparrows and pigeons all flew around in pairs looking for sanctuary from the deluge while that more resilient species the greater green white and gold Celticus Timus draped in declarative banners literally walked on water and defiantly continued on our expectant odyssey.
‘This land is your land, this land is my land……….’
The south stand at Fir Park was a throwback to those terraces of yore as we stood, swayed, sang, and huddled throughout the game. Just on the half hour we scored through our best player on the day and took what any observer would admit was a well deserved lead. Worryingly however as the game proceeded we missed chance after chance. As each one was spurned and the news of the score-line filtered through from Easter road, two things started to happen. Firstly that paranoia that always accompanies a game refereed by Hugh Dallas started to encroach on my thoughts, and secondly an edginess bordering on panic began to infect the vast majority of the team.
Chris dropped back from patrolling the hole to almost a libero role and we allowed Motherwell to rain in crosses and shots. There was always a chance that one break would come their way and the race was on to beat the clock.
‘For ever and ever we’ll follow the bhoys…………………’
I won’t dwell on the events of the last few minutes other than to say how unsurprised I was at the outcome. We’ve played like this for the majority of the season and the hearts and lungs of a group of Celtic heroes who will forever have a special place in my heart, finally succumbed.
Martin came down and waved to us. Robbo cried. And I stood and applauded, a lump as large as Stan Petrov’s heart welling up in my throat and my eyes brimming with a moist and stinging sadness.
‘By a lonely harbour wall she watched the last star falling…………………..’
It was now that our own mettle and true measure of being Celtic supporters was tested and with only a few exceptions we came up to the mark.
Those who left in disgust at something or other, well good riddance to you.
Those few who kicked and broke the seats, shame on you and don’t come back.
But to those who stayed and clapped and cried with our team, who felt part of our team, who were as one with our team, those who will be there next week at Hampden, those who sang with me in Sharkey’s last night, those who continue to hope and laugh and sing dream, as I promised I raised a drink to all you last night and without doubt you are not only the best fans in the world but undoubtedly
‘You’ll never walk alone…………..’
C’mon the hoops
Monday, May 02, 2005
Another turning point?
I originally submitted this to the Celticquicknews blog run by Paul67 just after we had beaten Hibs at Easter road in one of our best performances of the season to date.
Following Saturday's debacle I suppose that we can either view what happened at Easter road as a false dawn or as a harbinger of what our team, our manager, supported by all of us are still capable of.
I'll take the positive view because to wring our collective hands in anticipation of failure is simply not acceptable nor is it the Celtic way!
Anyway to the post!
"It is hard to pinpoint the exact moment that both my real enjoyment of football returned and our team’s attitude and approach to the game conjured up flickering reflections in my mind’s eye of hooped clad heroes of years now gone.
I suppose it goes back to the depressive aftermath of the poverty stricken, ambitionless, desert of desire that was the 20th February 2005.
Like the surviving pilot emerging from the crashed and burned out mangled wreckage of a once graceful, sleek, supersonic machine of beauty we simply had one objective and that was to get back into the air again in an attempt to recapture however forlornly the exhilaration of soaring amongst the eagles rather than grubbing around in the inelegant company of flightless blue and white clad dodos.
And so it was that Paul, Tony, and I approached the Excelsior stadium in Airdrie on the evening of the 22nd February with the aim to reclaim ‘something or anything’ back into our hearts which would kick-start the purgative process of erasing the painfully recent memories; namely that the ‘Boys from Barrowfield’ would see off the ‘Murray Park Minions’.
That evening, apart from actually enjoying the childish but enduring experience again of witnessing our targeted insults being heard (and hilariously at times being reacted to) by each adversary in blue, we witnessed a long cherished phenomenon of a Celtic team not so much just playing slick one-two type football that I recalled from my own youth in the sixties and seventies, but playing it in a way that capitalised upon rather than constrained their own strengths, with the welcome by-product that for most of the game we forgot about the freezing breath, and numb bums on the hard and icy plastic seats.
And more than that, I watched as they played with a smile on their faces, each and every one. Marshall, O’Dea, Juninho, Sylla, Wallace, Maloney, and the two outstanding players of that night, Fernandez and McManus, supported, cajoled, encouraged and led by the timeless Paul Lambert.
(By the way, what a great name is Rocco Quinn. To me it is the sort of name that beats a full-back all on its very own. I hope he makes it because it is also surely a name that requires a special and personal tribute song!)
Anyway, that night the likes of Rae, Namouchi and Malcolm could do little else than chase their own shadows , and reserve game though it may have been, it warmed a little the cockles of my heart and fuelled a few embers of hope for the future.
The feelings of emptiness returned a few days later in the soulless first half against Clyde at Broadwood. The Wee Brazilian was playing, but disappointingly for me (a lone voice among the Celtic Diaspora I admit) neither Fernandez nor Maloney had been given a chance, albeit that Shaun was on the bench. Once again I could have sworn that the ball and the ground must have gone through some form of metaphysical divorce such was the absence of any relationship.
Up the ball would go, and back it would come, up it would go and back it would come. Clyde scored, and by some streak of good fortune the referee (who was abysmal to both sides on the day) had decided to blow far too early and we were reprieved. Oh we scored in the later stages of that first half where Big Stan nodded one in, but to be honest my eyes kept wandering to Shaun on the bench, David Fernandez standing watching at the corner flag, and most disturbingly to the postcard green and white capped Campsie hills.
And then something happened. Big Chris took a knock and went over on his ankle, and at half time on came Wee Shaun, and as if by magic I became involved again in that involuntary habit of every real football fan, of not only watching but taking muscle-twitchingly part in every movement, pass, turn, trap, chase, tackle, shot and goal. Once again I witnessed what I had always been brought up to expect was my rightful inheritance – A Celtic football team playing football the ‘Celtic Way’.
First division opposition! It doesn’t matter. The difference between the first and second halves was as wide as the gap at the one end of the neat but incomplete stadium.
And so to the next game, Dundee the visitors; and a sudden return to the huffing and puffing unproductive efforts that have frustrated us over the recent months!
Or was it?
Having removed the negative motes from my eyes before the game, what I actually witnessed was indeed a return to the favoured individuals, but I also experienced the seeds of a complete change in style just starting to germinate. I observed players deliberately foreswearing the potential and (say it quietly) potentially productive long-ball in favour of the shorter ground-hugging forward pass to feet, the ball being held up back to goal while awaiting the supporting diagonal thrust from mid-field in anticipation of a return pass, the wide-swept change of direction behind the back line to meet the incessantly creative runs of players desperate for the ball, the desperate lunging defensive blanket of a tremulously stubborn Dundee defence and mostly I believe that I saw a team following deliberately and perseveringly, the strategy and tactics of a manager questioned and hurt not only by results but also by some of the untrusting barbed arrows fired by many of us who have memories shorter than that of a particularly dense goldfish.
Many and most times that evening the moves and ambitions, the thought and strategies just didn’t work and at half-time the potential for a disastrously unfruitful stalemate probably blinded most of the onlookers to what was going on.
We got through that night thanks to Stan P and Big Bobo, but I believed that what we had witnessed had been a sea-change in approach which was and is to set us up for the games to come, the most pressing of which was Hibs. Just remember how they had outplayed us at Celtic Park in December.
But let’s be honest, most punters didn’t. Why that was the case is a subject for another time, but that evening while having a drink back in Sharkey’s I was more upbeat than most.
And so to Hibs and the real difference between that game and the Dundee game?
The passes started to come off, the runs through a little more familiarity were anticipated, the passes were sharper, the confidence was higher, the bandwagon began to roll, and although Chris got injured again, this time it was as a cog in a well oiled fighter-plane which had us frustrated top-guns back in the air again. On came Aiden and if anything it got better. (selfishly I was delighted to see David F coming on. Whether he does make it or not I don’t know, but believe me this boy can play a bit).
Three going-on six– one.
And then Dunfermline at Celtic Park. Our game plan remained the same and to all those who have criticised the first half performance please remember a few things.
Firstly the Pars game plan also remained the same – the same as Dundee’s that is, even then against a back six verging on nine at times we should have scored more, so the approach was still making chances!
Secondly, we believed in ourselves and those of us stuck in the crowd but actually still even in the autumn of our years, wanting to be on the park seemed to sense that!
Thirdly Aiden McGeady was breathtaking throughout, Craig Bellamy and Stan Petrov were merely brilliant!
And finally we used Aiden McGeady, Ross Wallace, Craig Beattie, and David F was on the bench.
Let’s get behind our team, our manager, but most of all our club. Let’s rekindle the fires of hope for the future from the flashing sparks of the past few weeks, and come what may let’s see if we can persuade through our own actions and support the likes of Craig Bellamy to realise that any where else would simply be a step down. That’s WE as in US. The Celtic supporters, The TGFITW! We as a support CAN do this and notwithstanding all the money that flows from our own seemingly bottomless pockets to the corporate coffers, this would be quite simply the biggest contribution we could make to Celtic’s future.
Let’s make Craig Bellamy and every other player feel part of this club, part of it’s future, part of it’s success, and that we are there with them ‘win lose or draw’.
I think we’ve got a lot to look forward to. I know that whatever happens, starting in Inverness on Wednesday, I’ll be there if at all possible.
The future’s bright, it’s Green and White!
(And if you are listening God to the these ravings of a senile madman, please can you show Thommo where he mislaid his form! Amen)"
Following Saturday's debacle I suppose that we can either view what happened at Easter road as a false dawn or as a harbinger of what our team, our manager, supported by all of us are still capable of.
I'll take the positive view because to wring our collective hands in anticipation of failure is simply not acceptable nor is it the Celtic way!
Anyway to the post!
"It is hard to pinpoint the exact moment that both my real enjoyment of football returned and our team’s attitude and approach to the game conjured up flickering reflections in my mind’s eye of hooped clad heroes of years now gone.
I suppose it goes back to the depressive aftermath of the poverty stricken, ambitionless, desert of desire that was the 20th February 2005.
Like the surviving pilot emerging from the crashed and burned out mangled wreckage of a once graceful, sleek, supersonic machine of beauty we simply had one objective and that was to get back into the air again in an attempt to recapture however forlornly the exhilaration of soaring amongst the eagles rather than grubbing around in the inelegant company of flightless blue and white clad dodos.
And so it was that Paul, Tony, and I approached the Excelsior stadium in Airdrie on the evening of the 22nd February with the aim to reclaim ‘something or anything’ back into our hearts which would kick-start the purgative process of erasing the painfully recent memories; namely that the ‘Boys from Barrowfield’ would see off the ‘Murray Park Minions’.
That evening, apart from actually enjoying the childish but enduring experience again of witnessing our targeted insults being heard (and hilariously at times being reacted to) by each adversary in blue, we witnessed a long cherished phenomenon of a Celtic team not so much just playing slick one-two type football that I recalled from my own youth in the sixties and seventies, but playing it in a way that capitalised upon rather than constrained their own strengths, with the welcome by-product that for most of the game we forgot about the freezing breath, and numb bums on the hard and icy plastic seats.
And more than that, I watched as they played with a smile on their faces, each and every one. Marshall, O’Dea, Juninho, Sylla, Wallace, Maloney, and the two outstanding players of that night, Fernandez and McManus, supported, cajoled, encouraged and led by the timeless Paul Lambert.
(By the way, what a great name is Rocco Quinn. To me it is the sort of name that beats a full-back all on its very own. I hope he makes it because it is also surely a name that requires a special and personal tribute song!)
Anyway, that night the likes of Rae, Namouchi and Malcolm could do little else than chase their own shadows , and reserve game though it may have been, it warmed a little the cockles of my heart and fuelled a few embers of hope for the future.
The feelings of emptiness returned a few days later in the soulless first half against Clyde at Broadwood. The Wee Brazilian was playing, but disappointingly for me (a lone voice among the Celtic Diaspora I admit) neither Fernandez nor Maloney had been given a chance, albeit that Shaun was on the bench. Once again I could have sworn that the ball and the ground must have gone through some form of metaphysical divorce such was the absence of any relationship.
Up the ball would go, and back it would come, up it would go and back it would come. Clyde scored, and by some streak of good fortune the referee (who was abysmal to both sides on the day) had decided to blow far too early and we were reprieved. Oh we scored in the later stages of that first half where Big Stan nodded one in, but to be honest my eyes kept wandering to Shaun on the bench, David Fernandez standing watching at the corner flag, and most disturbingly to the postcard green and white capped Campsie hills.
And then something happened. Big Chris took a knock and went over on his ankle, and at half time on came Wee Shaun, and as if by magic I became involved again in that involuntary habit of every real football fan, of not only watching but taking muscle-twitchingly part in every movement, pass, turn, trap, chase, tackle, shot and goal. Once again I witnessed what I had always been brought up to expect was my rightful inheritance – A Celtic football team playing football the ‘Celtic Way’.
First division opposition! It doesn’t matter. The difference between the first and second halves was as wide as the gap at the one end of the neat but incomplete stadium.
And so to the next game, Dundee the visitors; and a sudden return to the huffing and puffing unproductive efforts that have frustrated us over the recent months!
Or was it?
Having removed the negative motes from my eyes before the game, what I actually witnessed was indeed a return to the favoured individuals, but I also experienced the seeds of a complete change in style just starting to germinate. I observed players deliberately foreswearing the potential and (say it quietly) potentially productive long-ball in favour of the shorter ground-hugging forward pass to feet, the ball being held up back to goal while awaiting the supporting diagonal thrust from mid-field in anticipation of a return pass, the wide-swept change of direction behind the back line to meet the incessantly creative runs of players desperate for the ball, the desperate lunging defensive blanket of a tremulously stubborn Dundee defence and mostly I believe that I saw a team following deliberately and perseveringly, the strategy and tactics of a manager questioned and hurt not only by results but also by some of the untrusting barbed arrows fired by many of us who have memories shorter than that of a particularly dense goldfish.
Many and most times that evening the moves and ambitions, the thought and strategies just didn’t work and at half-time the potential for a disastrously unfruitful stalemate probably blinded most of the onlookers to what was going on.
We got through that night thanks to Stan P and Big Bobo, but I believed that what we had witnessed had been a sea-change in approach which was and is to set us up for the games to come, the most pressing of which was Hibs. Just remember how they had outplayed us at Celtic Park in December.
But let’s be honest, most punters didn’t. Why that was the case is a subject for another time, but that evening while having a drink back in Sharkey’s I was more upbeat than most.
And so to Hibs and the real difference between that game and the Dundee game?
The passes started to come off, the runs through a little more familiarity were anticipated, the passes were sharper, the confidence was higher, the bandwagon began to roll, and although Chris got injured again, this time it was as a cog in a well oiled fighter-plane which had us frustrated top-guns back in the air again. On came Aiden and if anything it got better. (selfishly I was delighted to see David F coming on. Whether he does make it or not I don’t know, but believe me this boy can play a bit).
Three going-on six– one.
And then Dunfermline at Celtic Park. Our game plan remained the same and to all those who have criticised the first half performance please remember a few things.
Firstly the Pars game plan also remained the same – the same as Dundee’s that is, even then against a back six verging on nine at times we should have scored more, so the approach was still making chances!
Secondly, we believed in ourselves and those of us stuck in the crowd but actually still even in the autumn of our years, wanting to be on the park seemed to sense that!
Thirdly Aiden McGeady was breathtaking throughout, Craig Bellamy and Stan Petrov were merely brilliant!
And finally we used Aiden McGeady, Ross Wallace, Craig Beattie, and David F was on the bench.
Let’s get behind our team, our manager, but most of all our club. Let’s rekindle the fires of hope for the future from the flashing sparks of the past few weeks, and come what may let’s see if we can persuade through our own actions and support the likes of Craig Bellamy to realise that any where else would simply be a step down. That’s WE as in US. The Celtic supporters, The TGFITW! We as a support CAN do this and notwithstanding all the money that flows from our own seemingly bottomless pockets to the corporate coffers, this would be quite simply the biggest contribution we could make to Celtic’s future.
Let’s make Craig Bellamy and every other player feel part of this club, part of it’s future, part of it’s success, and that we are there with them ‘win lose or draw’.
I think we’ve got a lot to look forward to. I know that whatever happens, starting in Inverness on Wednesday, I’ll be there if at all possible.
The future’s bright, it’s Green and White!
(And if you are listening God to the these ravings of a senile madman, please can you show Thommo where he mislaid his form! Amen)"
Sunday, May 01, 2005
Shambollocks and my part in our downfall
Breakfast this morning consisted of two reheated Gregg’s pies which were left in the microwave last night, and a newly heated sausage roll! I really couldn’t be arsed with all the eggs and bacon nonsense. The coffee sits near my PC as I try to fathom out the perfidious path that led to the utter mince that was laid out on the green and frankly not so pleasant east end of Glasgow yesterday.
I will drink some of that coffee only once I have had my say.
Firstly I am not one of the sad ‘Boo Bhoy’ clones who with each passing (even if the passes sometimes go astray) game seem to be procreating on a dangerously scary scale.
I have never booed a player in the hoops, an official of the club, not even Barnes and Dalglish, and have never contemplated going to the Forge to meander aimlessly around Big W or B&Q rather than experience the adrenalin rush of pleasure and pain, hopes and fears, victory and defeat that lies in wait home or away, on the haemorrhoid inducing cold plastic seats of whatever ground we happen to playing.
This Celtic is not simply a ‘Club’. The players and the officials are not ‘them’ and the fans are not ‘us’. This ‘Celtic’ is not an institution, or a limited company, or a financial commodity, or an investment in bricks and mortar, flesh and blood that one day will yield a percentage return on a material investment.
This ‘Celtic’ is all of us! It is our heart and soul, our dreams and ambitions, our laughter and tears. Without us there is no Celtic and without Celtic there is no ‘us’.
Oh there are many, no doubt some reading this, who will think this is nothing more than the emotional claptrap of a rapid descent into the early onset of nostalgic senility!
Well let me just give you a small exemplar of my rationale.
Yesterday evening I and approximately 10 other people in my direct company spent nigh on 90% of our time talking, analysing, debating and even singing about that afternoons events at Celtic Park. As the Guinness flowed and the points were made and positions taken, agreements reached or arguments solidified, no quarter was easily given. And all because the lady loved Milk Tray! Sorry I meant and all because we all loved Celtic and not just wanted the best but because we all ‘wanted’ to want the best. That is where love begins.
Extrapolate that amount of time into a lifetimes scale and then tell me that that we do not share an invisible, mysterious and life enhancing aura that is ‘Celtic’.
The other great thing about being a Celtic supporter is the ‘Special Fish Supper’.
Estadios’ household on the day of the game is probably no different to that of any other daft Celtic worshipping fanatic.
The tried and trusted routine must be followed.
The sequence of shite, shower and shave,; the donning of white socks, clean freshly pressed Celtic Huddle Boxer shorts, faded denims, leather laced deck shoes, home or away top, and for home games a couple of pints in Sharkey’s and a 37and a half minute walk to the ground along Ballater street through Glasgow Green Football centre and up Nuneaton street, has to be adhered to.
Post match the routine is less important but usually consists of getting back to Sharkey’s, discussing the highs and lows of the game, drinking more Guinness than is good for 10 men, being threatened with an anti social behaviour order by Isa for singing too loud and too often, and all topped of by my ‘Victory Celebrating Special Fish Supper’ from Anne’s Fry in Crown street in the Gorbals.
Yesterday I didn’t have my ‘Victory Celebrating Special Fish supper’!
And why did that happen, why did we not win. Let me enlighten you.
I suppose I could put it down to the fact that we threw Aiden, Ross, Craig, and Shaun into the team and expected it to gel immediately.
Perhaps it was a contributed to by persevering with Thommo when he has had one of his own self confessed poorest seasons.
Perhaps it was down to a defence that can’t consistently defend because big Stan has to repeatedly cover for for an increasingly fragile Bobo.
Perhaps even it was down to Joos who looks more comfortable breaking forward from midfield in randomly glorious but vain attempts to atone for his failure to display the basics of fullback play.
Could it even be down to moving Stan P from his central driving role into a second tier defensive support player?
Could it be that the number of formation and tactical adjustments yesterday simply left all the players confused?
Or heaven forbid could it be that all these things occurred on the same day and that our Manager (for whom I have the greatest admiration for his dragging of us out of the gutter of 1990s despondency, and will yield to no-one in that) has in fact NOT taken us as far as he can, but that WE have taken HIM as far as we can.
Most of this season we have sat, stood, shouted, swore and chanted as with one or two notable exceptions a fairly unpalatable fare was laid before us. With little or no professional knowledge we have quietly sighed when the opportunity to transfuse the side with new blood was not taken, when the chance to rest Thommo was missed, when we failed to play to our footballing strengths, and when safety first became a stifling and corrosive fearful tactic.
If so many of us witness this and agree, then we are all either complete fools and need to be put right, or perhaps we have a point and someone needs to talk to our coaching and managerial staff.
Or perhaps it is because I got a lift to the ground yesterday rather than walking. That’s it! Of course.
Sorry Martin, Sorry Bhoys and Ghirls, Sorry world it is all down to me. I broke my routine and we got gubbed by the Hibees.
Anyway, I’ll be there next Saturday and at Motherwell. I won’t be at Tynecastle because I didn’t get a ticket. I’ll also be there next season and everyone after it that the Lord and my life-limiting- diet allows me to .
I still won’t boo, I’ll be there for the full ninety minutes and injury time, and I will still go through my match day routine.
Here’s to the oldest white sock wearing Celtic supporting fanatic in the Universe and even more
…………….Here’s to a lot more Special fish suppers
I will drink some of that coffee only once I have had my say.
Firstly I am not one of the sad ‘Boo Bhoy’ clones who with each passing (even if the passes sometimes go astray) game seem to be procreating on a dangerously scary scale.
I have never booed a player in the hoops, an official of the club, not even Barnes and Dalglish, and have never contemplated going to the Forge to meander aimlessly around Big W or B&Q rather than experience the adrenalin rush of pleasure and pain, hopes and fears, victory and defeat that lies in wait home or away, on the haemorrhoid inducing cold plastic seats of whatever ground we happen to playing.
This Celtic is not simply a ‘Club’. The players and the officials are not ‘them’ and the fans are not ‘us’. This ‘Celtic’ is not an institution, or a limited company, or a financial commodity, or an investment in bricks and mortar, flesh and blood that one day will yield a percentage return on a material investment.
This ‘Celtic’ is all of us! It is our heart and soul, our dreams and ambitions, our laughter and tears. Without us there is no Celtic and without Celtic there is no ‘us’.
Oh there are many, no doubt some reading this, who will think this is nothing more than the emotional claptrap of a rapid descent into the early onset of nostalgic senility!
Well let me just give you a small exemplar of my rationale.
Yesterday evening I and approximately 10 other people in my direct company spent nigh on 90% of our time talking, analysing, debating and even singing about that afternoons events at Celtic Park. As the Guinness flowed and the points were made and positions taken, agreements reached or arguments solidified, no quarter was easily given. And all because the lady loved Milk Tray! Sorry I meant and all because we all loved Celtic and not just wanted the best but because we all ‘wanted’ to want the best. That is where love begins.
Extrapolate that amount of time into a lifetimes scale and then tell me that that we do not share an invisible, mysterious and life enhancing aura that is ‘Celtic’.
The other great thing about being a Celtic supporter is the ‘Special Fish Supper’.
Estadios’ household on the day of the game is probably no different to that of any other daft Celtic worshipping fanatic.
The tried and trusted routine must be followed.
The sequence of shite, shower and shave,; the donning of white socks, clean freshly pressed Celtic Huddle Boxer shorts, faded denims, leather laced deck shoes, home or away top, and for home games a couple of pints in Sharkey’s and a 37and a half minute walk to the ground along Ballater street through Glasgow Green Football centre and up Nuneaton street, has to be adhered to.
Post match the routine is less important but usually consists of getting back to Sharkey’s, discussing the highs and lows of the game, drinking more Guinness than is good for 10 men, being threatened with an anti social behaviour order by Isa for singing too loud and too often, and all topped of by my ‘Victory Celebrating Special Fish Supper’ from Anne’s Fry in Crown street in the Gorbals.
Yesterday I didn’t have my ‘Victory Celebrating Special Fish supper’!
And why did that happen, why did we not win. Let me enlighten you.
I suppose I could put it down to the fact that we threw Aiden, Ross, Craig, and Shaun into the team and expected it to gel immediately.
Perhaps it was a contributed to by persevering with Thommo when he has had one of his own self confessed poorest seasons.
Perhaps it was down to a defence that can’t consistently defend because big Stan has to repeatedly cover for for an increasingly fragile Bobo.
Perhaps even it was down to Joos who looks more comfortable breaking forward from midfield in randomly glorious but vain attempts to atone for his failure to display the basics of fullback play.
Could it even be down to moving Stan P from his central driving role into a second tier defensive support player?
Could it be that the number of formation and tactical adjustments yesterday simply left all the players confused?
Or heaven forbid could it be that all these things occurred on the same day and that our Manager (for whom I have the greatest admiration for his dragging of us out of the gutter of 1990s despondency, and will yield to no-one in that) has in fact NOT taken us as far as he can, but that WE have taken HIM as far as we can.
Most of this season we have sat, stood, shouted, swore and chanted as with one or two notable exceptions a fairly unpalatable fare was laid before us. With little or no professional knowledge we have quietly sighed when the opportunity to transfuse the side with new blood was not taken, when the chance to rest Thommo was missed, when we failed to play to our footballing strengths, and when safety first became a stifling and corrosive fearful tactic.
If so many of us witness this and agree, then we are all either complete fools and need to be put right, or perhaps we have a point and someone needs to talk to our coaching and managerial staff.
Or perhaps it is because I got a lift to the ground yesterday rather than walking. That’s it! Of course.
Sorry Martin, Sorry Bhoys and Ghirls, Sorry world it is all down to me. I broke my routine and we got gubbed by the Hibees.
Anyway, I’ll be there next Saturday and at Motherwell. I won’t be at Tynecastle because I didn’t get a ticket. I’ll also be there next season and everyone after it that the Lord and my life-limiting- diet allows me to .
I still won’t boo, I’ll be there for the full ninety minutes and injury time, and I will still go through my match day routine.
Here’s to the oldest white sock wearing Celtic supporting fanatic in the Universe and even more
…………….Here’s to a lot more Special fish suppers
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