Monday, November 27, 2006
Thursday, July 27, 2006
The future - My last CQN Post
In the far corner the mighty combatant flexed his magnificently toned, honed, and oiled muscles as the oppressive atmosphere of the capacity filled hall raucously anticipated the bell announcing the first round.
He bounced on the balls of his feet sending secondary tremors across the expanse of the ring!
He was the man and everyone who was anyone not only believed it, they knew it!
He shadow jabbed, swung left, swung right, and in perfect harmony planted his right foot forward and swung a left upper-cut. The beads of sweat flew of his huge but taught arms and landed with a sting on anyone standing nearby
He fired that smirk of the confident, shot that grimace of the cruel, and despatched across the ring that scowl of disdainful certainty that he would be walking out the ring and his opponent would be stretchered out!
Beside the arena, stars of stage and screen (and even some real actors) in the front row, hangers on, groupies, and corner men mostly turned to each other knowingly and scribbled their betting slips anticipating the riches to come, the parties to be enjoyed, the photographs to be re-touched and the reflected glory of being able to say
‘I was there, I knew that man, I predicted his win’!
The pack of hyenas who scribbled at their obituaries, epitaphs, and paeans furiously recorded their accounts of the fight, minute by minute, punch by punch, cliché by cliché confident that they would only require a slight reordering and a bit of topping and tailing to get their literary masterpiece ready for despatch and consumption by their family of expectant scavengers.
In the opposite corner to the champ, almost cocooned in a field of mental tranquillity, the once great champion but now apparently resigned underdog sat in studied contemplation as first his hands were tightly bandaged and then each glove was almost reluctantly forced on.
Things hadn’t been going too well for him as the six weeks sparring in unaccustomed humidity and heat had taken its toll, physically draining his energy and mentally draining his will, as partner after partner found each and every limitation, each and every weakness, each and every flaw!
Each morning, each hour, each round had been the same.
A left, a right, a retreat to the rope or the corner. Batter, punch, parry, deflect, jab! Jab! Defend defend defend!
From corner to rope, from rope to corner, covering up when he could and taking punches his nerves screaming for mercy, when he couldn’t!
Every minute of every day, the piranha of the press had torn at his psyche, had undermined his belief, but most of all had disrespectfully laid their bets and their sordid little reputations on their predicted outcome, based not on their judgement, experience or real knowledge, but on their prejudices, their desires, and crucially on their own agendas!
The reports of course had already made their way back to the big favourite’s camp.
“Listen champ, that guy is finished, last legs, gasping for air, will take the money and limp away’!
‘Hey champ, you’re the man, even his corner and his supporters are putting their bangers and mash on you’!
The champ knew different!
And now the sparring, the training, the waiting was over.
A single bell rang for the adversaries to enter the ring and as they eye-balled each other, raising their fists to touch gloves, the discredited challenger looked at the champ and with the clarity of strategy born not in sparring but in studying his opponent, he smiled and winked!
The bell tolled and in a mad rush of adrenalin, the champ rushed towards his opponent and started swinging, swinging, and swinging!
The hooks landed on the challenger’s wrists, gloves, arms and kidneys!
The challenger couldn’t dance for long anymore, but he could still deflect and avoid the testosterone induced machismo that was coursing through the distended veins and arteries of the champ’s muscles.
But the punches weren’t scoring and the challenger’s defences were holding, and while they were holding, he was thinking!
The crowd in their ignorance was on its feet as the champ drove the challenger, his gloves and arms protecting his upper body, into first one corner, and then pushing, punching him along the rope into the other.
The crowd was not only on its feet, it was screaming, the bloodlust destroying all sense of humanity and rational thought as it sensed a kill, a final blow, a beaten and broken body, and another victory for brute force and ignorance.
The challenger rocked and swayed, he peered through a gap in his gloves, he saw the staring eyes, he saw the fear, and he heard the laboured breathing.
Round after round passed. The pattern was the same.
A rushed assault from the champ, a defiant painful defence from the challenger.
But the assaults were getting shorter by the round, the respites longer, and the champ’s laboured breathing ever more pronounced.
The challenger jabbed sometimes, but most of the time he covered up!
He took the best that the champ had to throw. He felt the bruises rise, the blood vessels burst, his brain rattling inside his skull and he felt thankful for the the numbness anesthetising the worst of the pains.
But he also heard the anguish of the press’s cries as their scripts were discarded to the dustbin and they had to think for themselves. He heard the crowd start to turn as the animal screams for carnage turned to honourable cheers for a hero.
He opened his gloves again, he saw the confusion in the champ’s eyes, he heard the despair from the champ’s corner, he saw the champ’s arms drop for a second and his shoulders hunch.
THE CHAMP HAD NO PLAN B!
Like a gazelle the challenger leaped, like a tiger he roared, like a lion he pounced, but like a man he cast of fears and doubt and revelled in his own certainty as one, two, three, four! Jab jab, hook, uppercut! And the champ sank to his knees, rolling over onto his back, staring blindly out into the depths of the night sky, now as the ex-champ!
‘Sparring’ he thought to himself ‘Pah what a load of rubbish. That just kept me fit’
‘Now, thinking, planning, and most of all belief now that’s what heroics, heroes and winners are made of’
Anyway I can’t think of any valuable response to the opinions of those who think we are heading down the road to perdition. That isn’t a surrender by the way,
You see, I reckon that if I’m miserable because we might fail, and then we do! Guess what?
I’ve been miserable all friggin week.
However If I am happy because I am confident that we are going to win and then we lose!
Well I’ve been happy for most of the week, miserable for a few hours and then the happy drug kicks in again about the following week!
But suppose (and this does tend to be borne out by history) if I am happy because I am confident that we are going to win, and we do!
Well, hallelujah! Unsurpassed ecstasy and a life of never ending bliss!
So in the philanthropic interest in world happiness and peace, and in my own sanity I think I’ll just stick with dreaming ofa glorious future for Celtic.
Just as all those years ago everyone had written off Mohammed Ali when he fought George Foreman and it was only Ali who really believed that he would win!
Hail Hail
Estadio
Ps Aiden McGeady will never be this season’s Shaun Maloney!
That is because Aiden is going to be this season’s Aiden McGeady and will be exceptional.
Shaun will be this season’s Shaun and will be exceptional,
Naka will be this season’s Naka and will be exceptional and
Jari will be this seasons’ Jari and will just be very good.
He bounced on the balls of his feet sending secondary tremors across the expanse of the ring!
He was the man and everyone who was anyone not only believed it, they knew it!
He shadow jabbed, swung left, swung right, and in perfect harmony planted his right foot forward and swung a left upper-cut. The beads of sweat flew of his huge but taught arms and landed with a sting on anyone standing nearby
He fired that smirk of the confident, shot that grimace of the cruel, and despatched across the ring that scowl of disdainful certainty that he would be walking out the ring and his opponent would be stretchered out!
Beside the arena, stars of stage and screen (and even some real actors) in the front row, hangers on, groupies, and corner men mostly turned to each other knowingly and scribbled their betting slips anticipating the riches to come, the parties to be enjoyed, the photographs to be re-touched and the reflected glory of being able to say
‘I was there, I knew that man, I predicted his win’!
The pack of hyenas who scribbled at their obituaries, epitaphs, and paeans furiously recorded their accounts of the fight, minute by minute, punch by punch, cliché by cliché confident that they would only require a slight reordering and a bit of topping and tailing to get their literary masterpiece ready for despatch and consumption by their family of expectant scavengers.
In the opposite corner to the champ, almost cocooned in a field of mental tranquillity, the once great champion but now apparently resigned underdog sat in studied contemplation as first his hands were tightly bandaged and then each glove was almost reluctantly forced on.
Things hadn’t been going too well for him as the six weeks sparring in unaccustomed humidity and heat had taken its toll, physically draining his energy and mentally draining his will, as partner after partner found each and every limitation, each and every weakness, each and every flaw!
Each morning, each hour, each round had been the same.
A left, a right, a retreat to the rope or the corner. Batter, punch, parry, deflect, jab! Jab! Defend defend defend!
From corner to rope, from rope to corner, covering up when he could and taking punches his nerves screaming for mercy, when he couldn’t!
Every minute of every day, the piranha of the press had torn at his psyche, had undermined his belief, but most of all had disrespectfully laid their bets and their sordid little reputations on their predicted outcome, based not on their judgement, experience or real knowledge, but on their prejudices, their desires, and crucially on their own agendas!
The reports of course had already made their way back to the big favourite’s camp.
“Listen champ, that guy is finished, last legs, gasping for air, will take the money and limp away’!
‘Hey champ, you’re the man, even his corner and his supporters are putting their bangers and mash on you’!
The champ knew different!
And now the sparring, the training, the waiting was over.
A single bell rang for the adversaries to enter the ring and as they eye-balled each other, raising their fists to touch gloves, the discredited challenger looked at the champ and with the clarity of strategy born not in sparring but in studying his opponent, he smiled and winked!
The bell tolled and in a mad rush of adrenalin, the champ rushed towards his opponent and started swinging, swinging, and swinging!
The hooks landed on the challenger’s wrists, gloves, arms and kidneys!
The challenger couldn’t dance for long anymore, but he could still deflect and avoid the testosterone induced machismo that was coursing through the distended veins and arteries of the champ’s muscles.
But the punches weren’t scoring and the challenger’s defences were holding, and while they were holding, he was thinking!
The crowd in their ignorance was on its feet as the champ drove the challenger, his gloves and arms protecting his upper body, into first one corner, and then pushing, punching him along the rope into the other.
The crowd was not only on its feet, it was screaming, the bloodlust destroying all sense of humanity and rational thought as it sensed a kill, a final blow, a beaten and broken body, and another victory for brute force and ignorance.
The challenger rocked and swayed, he peered through a gap in his gloves, he saw the staring eyes, he saw the fear, and he heard the laboured breathing.
Round after round passed. The pattern was the same.
A rushed assault from the champ, a defiant painful defence from the challenger.
But the assaults were getting shorter by the round, the respites longer, and the champ’s laboured breathing ever more pronounced.
The challenger jabbed sometimes, but most of the time he covered up!
He took the best that the champ had to throw. He felt the bruises rise, the blood vessels burst, his brain rattling inside his skull and he felt thankful for the the numbness anesthetising the worst of the pains.
But he also heard the anguish of the press’s cries as their scripts were discarded to the dustbin and they had to think for themselves. He heard the crowd start to turn as the animal screams for carnage turned to honourable cheers for a hero.
He opened his gloves again, he saw the confusion in the champ’s eyes, he heard the despair from the champ’s corner, he saw the champ’s arms drop for a second and his shoulders hunch.
THE CHAMP HAD NO PLAN B!
Like a gazelle the challenger leaped, like a tiger he roared, like a lion he pounced, but like a man he cast of fears and doubt and revelled in his own certainty as one, two, three, four! Jab jab, hook, uppercut! And the champ sank to his knees, rolling over onto his back, staring blindly out into the depths of the night sky, now as the ex-champ!
‘Sparring’ he thought to himself ‘Pah what a load of rubbish. That just kept me fit’
‘Now, thinking, planning, and most of all belief now that’s what heroics, heroes and winners are made of’
Anyway I can’t think of any valuable response to the opinions of those who think we are heading down the road to perdition. That isn’t a surrender by the way,
You see, I reckon that if I’m miserable because we might fail, and then we do! Guess what?
I’ve been miserable all friggin week.
However If I am happy because I am confident that we are going to win and then we lose!
Well I’ve been happy for most of the week, miserable for a few hours and then the happy drug kicks in again about the following week!
But suppose (and this does tend to be borne out by history) if I am happy because I am confident that we are going to win, and we do!
Well, hallelujah! Unsurpassed ecstasy and a life of never ending bliss!
So in the philanthropic interest in world happiness and peace, and in my own sanity I think I’ll just stick with dreaming ofa glorious future for Celtic.
Just as all those years ago everyone had written off Mohammed Ali when he fought George Foreman and it was only Ali who really believed that he would win!
Hail Hail
Estadio
Ps Aiden McGeady will never be this season’s Shaun Maloney!
That is because Aiden is going to be this season’s Aiden McGeady and will be exceptional.
Shaun will be this season’s Shaun and will be exceptional,
Naka will be this season’s Naka and will be exceptional and
Jari will be this seasons’ Jari and will just be very good.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Jimmy Johnstone - The greatest ever
A long time ago, in a nostalgic look at the entanglement of Celtic with my own life, I noted down my memory of Jimmy Johnstone!
I never posted it on this site as I always hoped that I would be long gone before him and would never need to add his sad loss to my happy and at times hilarious recollections.
Today, however that dreaded news came through and so I went up to Celtic park where at 09.00 hours already tied to the railings outside the main entrance was a Rangers shirt, a Scotland scarf, and the beginnings of a multicoloured monument of epic memories!
The queue for the Cup final tickets stood in almost a reverent silence as they slowly filed forward to collect their briefs for the game and as they did so the name Jimmy, Jinky, JJ, or simply the wee man would drift in the air to be followed by a burst of laughter.
Even today the magician extraordinaire continued to entertain us.
So Jimmy, I know where you are now as you have sent St Peter the wrong way and nipped by him as he has fallen on his backside outside that more ethereal Paradise!
Say hello to Ronnie and Bobby and Big Jock for me!
To everyone else I make no apologies for reposting just what Jimmy meant to me!!
To the man who could thread a needle with his feet
(or how the f*** did he do that)
The nearest I have ever physically come to Jimmy Johnstone was, for every home match, standing in the ‘Jungle’ just to the right of the halfway line, and about twenty terracing steps back from the low grey stone wall which separated us from that fiery headed green and white clad magician.
This was however much closer than the opposition ever got to him.
Everyone knows at least by word of mouth about Jimmy’s slightness of stature but abundance of heart. Everyone knows about his extraordinary skills, artfulness, resourcefulness, and reputation. But what no one has really said is that Jinky would have made a world class fisherman.
Like an expert angler, Jimmy would regularly bait, hook, reel, land, and then throw us back in to be teased again, almost as much as he ever did to the opposition. But we loved it because he was doing it for us, because he was one of us, and he represented us on those hallowed sods of Celtic Park.
“Gie it tae Jimmy” the Jungle would call and with a thousand moves orchestrated as one, the man of a million moments of blinding extravagance and brilliance would instantaneously have the ball under control, spun to face the oppositions goal, and be jinking across the half-way line, going left then right, then back, then forwards, leaving a trail of exhausted opponents, their tongues covered in grass burns as the vainly tried to work out why Newton’s natural laws of motion did not seem to apply to the wee man.
As he instantly hypnotised both the opposing fullback, and us, and transmitted by ESP the message that he was going down the outside, the defenders muscles made that imperceptible, involuntary and sadly (for him) irreversible commitment to covering the route that Jinky had somehow convinced him he was going.
Imperceptible to most of us that is, but like the thrashing of a distressed fish to a shark, the wee man picked up both the heat of fear and the consequential disturbance in the air pattern. In an instant, he had whipped the ball eight inches in the air, pulled it with his right instep inside and over the vain and forlorn swish of the opponent’s right-foot which had continued on its own trajectory. This resulted in three things happening with uncanny regularity.
Firstly Jimmy immediately and seamlessly, transferred the responsibility for the continued advance and control of the ball to his left peg, and defied the laws of body mechanics to go inside and home in on the goal at the Celtic End of Paradise.
Secondly, the defender seemed to be heading off to buy a pint of milk and three pounds of potatoes.
And thirdly, everyone in the ground pished themselves laughing at him!
The centre-half seeing the thrust of the red-haired whiz-bang, made to push forward from the safety of the defensive numbers to cut-off JJ’s path (or more usually to cut off his legs usually somewhere up around Jimmy’s neck). The full back, recovering as quickly as was possible when your legs were as dignified as a couple of twisted pipe-cleaners, but desperate to rid himself of the memory of urine soaked ridicule, rushed to support his advancing comrade in arms by forming that impenetrable pincer of muscle, tackity boots, liniment, brute force and destructive football ignorance!
In they both came; one from forward slightly left, and one from backwards to the right. Nostrils flaring, eyes popping, veins, throbbing, evil was in their mind and harm was their intent.
Shoulders dipping, waist and hips shimmying, eyes on the ball and its two yard circumference, Jimmy took the move to that point where no-one could draw out and everyone could see what was going to happen.
We all had a premonition of the pain that Jinky was going to feel!
In instinctive harmony we closed our eyes and drew a sharp breath as the three torsos, six arms, six legs, and one ball, fuelled by the unsophisticated assault and battery of the not-so-beautiful game’s answer to the nuclear threat – 1960’s Scottish defenders - were subjected to the cataclysmic amalgam of ‘immovable objects’ and ‘unstoppable forces’.
Except, when we opened our eyes, there was Jimmy, still with the ball.
Somehow he had not only whipped it back with the outside of his left foot in the opposite direction - in defiance of his muscles and bone structure and dragged it away from his potential assailants, but he had also managed to manoeuvre himself down the outside right channel where we had all thought he was originally going,….. then decided he wasn’t and ………then finally decided he was after all. (In fact we only really knew where he was going once he got there, although even then I was never completely sure that he was where he appeared to be.)
‘Now’, with absolutely no apologies to Paul Daniels, ‘ that is magic’.
And there he was now on the bye-line, all on his own. He was ready to chip it, drive it, float it, or possibly come up with a new variation of a cross for Stevie Chalmers, or Bertie Auld, or Wullie Wallace or Joe McBride. As the other members of the unstoppable green machine flooded the box to finish the move, Jinky caught them all out too by changing his mind and going back, finding another couple of overconfident gullible victims and take them through another of the infinite variations on the ‘you’ll-end-up-sitting-on-your-arse’ routines..
I can still see the cast of famous but failed assailants pushing and shoving each other, trying to get to their feet, almost arguing over whose leg was whose as they unravelled the spaghetti of the aftermath of their unsuccessful mugging.
But funniest of all was there embarrassed search around the grass for the dignity that they seemed to lose so suddenly, predictably, and justifiably.
Jinky was if nothing else, scrupulously fair in his treatment of defenders. They all copped it in equally contemptuous measures!!
In an ever resounding echo of the Celtic Song (They come from Bonnie Scotland, they come from County Cork ….) they came from Madrid, from Prague, from St Etienne, from Nantes, from Buenos Aires, from England, and on a humiliatingly regular basis, from the Govan area of this dear green place. And the great thing is that while most left eventually with a smile on their faces, most certainly ALL left with a memory of a footballer extraordinaire!
And as for that ‘lost dignity’, well feeling magnanimous as he usually did after games Jimmy would probably return it to them in the dressing room, or more likely in whatever bar they ended up in that night.
For one other thing about Jimmy was that he lived his life the way he played his football, and let’s be honest, would we have wanted it any other way.
James Johnstone……….Thank you
Requiescant in pace Jinky, for one day we will meet again!
I never posted it on this site as I always hoped that I would be long gone before him and would never need to add his sad loss to my happy and at times hilarious recollections.
Today, however that dreaded news came through and so I went up to Celtic park where at 09.00 hours already tied to the railings outside the main entrance was a Rangers shirt, a Scotland scarf, and the beginnings of a multicoloured monument of epic memories!
The queue for the Cup final tickets stood in almost a reverent silence as they slowly filed forward to collect their briefs for the game and as they did so the name Jimmy, Jinky, JJ, or simply the wee man would drift in the air to be followed by a burst of laughter.
Even today the magician extraordinaire continued to entertain us.
So Jimmy, I know where you are now as you have sent St Peter the wrong way and nipped by him as he has fallen on his backside outside that more ethereal Paradise!
Say hello to Ronnie and Bobby and Big Jock for me!
To everyone else I make no apologies for reposting just what Jimmy meant to me!!
To the man who could thread a needle with his feet
(or how the f*** did he do that)
The nearest I have ever physically come to Jimmy Johnstone was, for every home match, standing in the ‘Jungle’ just to the right of the halfway line, and about twenty terracing steps back from the low grey stone wall which separated us from that fiery headed green and white clad magician.
This was however much closer than the opposition ever got to him.
Everyone knows at least by word of mouth about Jimmy’s slightness of stature but abundance of heart. Everyone knows about his extraordinary skills, artfulness, resourcefulness, and reputation. But what no one has really said is that Jinky would have made a world class fisherman.
Like an expert angler, Jimmy would regularly bait, hook, reel, land, and then throw us back in to be teased again, almost as much as he ever did to the opposition. But we loved it because he was doing it for us, because he was one of us, and he represented us on those hallowed sods of Celtic Park.
“Gie it tae Jimmy” the Jungle would call and with a thousand moves orchestrated as one, the man of a million moments of blinding extravagance and brilliance would instantaneously have the ball under control, spun to face the oppositions goal, and be jinking across the half-way line, going left then right, then back, then forwards, leaving a trail of exhausted opponents, their tongues covered in grass burns as the vainly tried to work out why Newton’s natural laws of motion did not seem to apply to the wee man.
As he instantly hypnotised both the opposing fullback, and us, and transmitted by ESP the message that he was going down the outside, the defenders muscles made that imperceptible, involuntary and sadly (for him) irreversible commitment to covering the route that Jinky had somehow convinced him he was going.
Imperceptible to most of us that is, but like the thrashing of a distressed fish to a shark, the wee man picked up both the heat of fear and the consequential disturbance in the air pattern. In an instant, he had whipped the ball eight inches in the air, pulled it with his right instep inside and over the vain and forlorn swish of the opponent’s right-foot which had continued on its own trajectory. This resulted in three things happening with uncanny regularity.
Firstly Jimmy immediately and seamlessly, transferred the responsibility for the continued advance and control of the ball to his left peg, and defied the laws of body mechanics to go inside and home in on the goal at the Celtic End of Paradise.
Secondly, the defender seemed to be heading off to buy a pint of milk and three pounds of potatoes.
And thirdly, everyone in the ground pished themselves laughing at him!
The centre-half seeing the thrust of the red-haired whiz-bang, made to push forward from the safety of the defensive numbers to cut-off JJ’s path (or more usually to cut off his legs usually somewhere up around Jimmy’s neck). The full back, recovering as quickly as was possible when your legs were as dignified as a couple of twisted pipe-cleaners, but desperate to rid himself of the memory of urine soaked ridicule, rushed to support his advancing comrade in arms by forming that impenetrable pincer of muscle, tackity boots, liniment, brute force and destructive football ignorance!
In they both came; one from forward slightly left, and one from backwards to the right. Nostrils flaring, eyes popping, veins, throbbing, evil was in their mind and harm was their intent.
Shoulders dipping, waist and hips shimmying, eyes on the ball and its two yard circumference, Jimmy took the move to that point where no-one could draw out and everyone could see what was going to happen.
We all had a premonition of the pain that Jinky was going to feel!
In instinctive harmony we closed our eyes and drew a sharp breath as the three torsos, six arms, six legs, and one ball, fuelled by the unsophisticated assault and battery of the not-so-beautiful game’s answer to the nuclear threat – 1960’s Scottish defenders - were subjected to the cataclysmic amalgam of ‘immovable objects’ and ‘unstoppable forces’.
Except, when we opened our eyes, there was Jimmy, still with the ball.
Somehow he had not only whipped it back with the outside of his left foot in the opposite direction - in defiance of his muscles and bone structure and dragged it away from his potential assailants, but he had also managed to manoeuvre himself down the outside right channel where we had all thought he was originally going,….. then decided he wasn’t and ………then finally decided he was after all. (In fact we only really knew where he was going once he got there, although even then I was never completely sure that he was where he appeared to be.)
‘Now’, with absolutely no apologies to Paul Daniels, ‘ that is magic’.
And there he was now on the bye-line, all on his own. He was ready to chip it, drive it, float it, or possibly come up with a new variation of a cross for Stevie Chalmers, or Bertie Auld, or Wullie Wallace or Joe McBride. As the other members of the unstoppable green machine flooded the box to finish the move, Jinky caught them all out too by changing his mind and going back, finding another couple of overconfident gullible victims and take them through another of the infinite variations on the ‘you’ll-end-up-sitting-on-your-arse’ routines..
I can still see the cast of famous but failed assailants pushing and shoving each other, trying to get to their feet, almost arguing over whose leg was whose as they unravelled the spaghetti of the aftermath of their unsuccessful mugging.
But funniest of all was there embarrassed search around the grass for the dignity that they seemed to lose so suddenly, predictably, and justifiably.
Jinky was if nothing else, scrupulously fair in his treatment of defenders. They all copped it in equally contemptuous measures!!
In an ever resounding echo of the Celtic Song (They come from Bonnie Scotland, they come from County Cork ….) they came from Madrid, from Prague, from St Etienne, from Nantes, from Buenos Aires, from England, and on a humiliatingly regular basis, from the Govan area of this dear green place. And the great thing is that while most left eventually with a smile on their faces, most certainly ALL left with a memory of a footballer extraordinaire!
And as for that ‘lost dignity’, well feeling magnanimous as he usually did after games Jimmy would probably return it to them in the dressing room, or more likely in whatever bar they ended up in that night.
For one other thing about Jimmy was that he lived his life the way he played his football, and let’s be honest, would we have wanted it any other way.
James Johnstone……….Thank you
Requiescant in pace Jinky, for one day we will meet again!
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Setting the scene
An unconventional convention (holding title)
A story of mystery, intrigue, drugs (taken by the author), famous CQN posters, Paul Le Guen, a washing basket, a two metre long bath, and some mystery guests, and most importantly of all CELTIC!
The story to date.
Angelina (that’s Angelina as in Jolie by the way), due a to life-changing, heart enhancing oestrogen/testosterone pumping conjunction (as her eyes met mine in the Celtic Store in the High street opposite McHuills), has left Brad (as in Pitt) for Estadio (as in me)!
Sadly, but deservingly, the now newly-crowned laughing-stock of Hollywood (hope he isn’t a Tim or reads this by the way) can only mournfully while away his remaining years in whisky soaked despair, as he drags his emotionally scarred wreck of a body, shoulders heaving, greetin’ his wee beady multi-million pound baby blue eyes, tears running in furrows down his perfectly tanned but now sagging’ jowled shrunken megastar-haloed face and heid, around the now deathly silent 74 roomed, gold tapped, Olympic-pooled mansion in Beverly hills.
Hopelessly, even in the little piles of wafting dust or the pendant cobwebs he sees her eyes and her face, her smile and her lips; even as the occasional ocean breeze gently flutters the light blue curtains with the ‘areffcee-ic’ sign of the devil, he can hear her gentle angelic strains as she used to softly sing in the privacy of her own chambre, the romantic words and plaintive lilting chords of “Hail Hail” and “We’re top o’ the league an’ they’re no-o-o-o”!
In his final desolation, Brad raises his now decomposing limbs and psyche to the evil one with whom he had made the Faustian pact all those years ago, and screams
‘Beelzebub, give me soul back, I don’t want to be one of the undead, I don’t want to be one of the PEEPUL…….. I WANT TO BE A TIM!’.
And then with his final expiring breath echoing and calling to the vision of all that is lovely, a Beatles song of all those years ago, Angelina’s favourite he recalled, comes speeding back with the force of a Lisbon Lion in full flight, and the last thing he hears is her musical and prophetic magic as she sings just for him one final time:
‘You say hello, hello!
‘And I say goodbye, goodbye’……………..
Angelina has of course realised that life with the man she truly loves is the only path to follow and in her grasping of the nettle, she vanquishes like a dismissive slap across the erse, the false and fruitless inadequacies of wealth, power, stardom, and celebrity!
She has now moved to Estadio’s studio apartment (with 2 metre swimming pool - or outdoor bath as it is more usually called) situated in the magnificently rolling traditional Spanish panorama that is Tenerife’s Playa De Las Americas.
But alas, all is not necessarily sweetness and light in the recently established seclusion of passion and love!
A dark cloud harbouring the sudden, drenching, emotion-destroying iciness of a battering hailstorm, has appeared on the far inland horizon, hovering like a pregnant colostomy, over the peak that is Mount Tiede!
As it moves remorselessly closer, it threatens to unload its postulant disgusting cargo onto Estadio’s knotted-handkerchief covered head!
Yes indeed, the spectre of infidelity has been heard laughing its ‘Dick Dastardly’ inspired, deep throated, Mutley cackle.
And as Estadio goes out for that thought-concentrating drink in his favourite traditional Spanish taverna, The Irish Fiddler home to Tenerife CSC No1, he struggles with the potential enormity of just who his rival for the sweet Angelina’s Venus like charms and ministrations, might be!
Incredible as it may seem to the righteous and upstanding members of the internet community (which to be fair is exactly what Estadio wanted to be with Angelina) it seemed that this gigolo was likely to be a blogging acquaintance, a stalwart of this very forum, a man until now, of impeccable credentials, wit and erudition, now following the perfidious path to betrayal of Estadio and his dreams.
Furtively and almost guiltily Estadio had performed a quick but forensic review of posts since the collision of these two very special souls!!
The revelation was stark and final!
Condemned by his very own words – Step forward JOHNBHOY!
Anyway that’s the scene set!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The evening was approaching quickly, but the light of the day had not quite succumbed to the inevitable darkness as the sun in all its orbic magnificence began its descent behind the snow capped dormant volcano that stood in Karajan-majesty over the ashen landscape of the holiday paradise!
Angelina, half, curled up on the settee in her figure hugging off-the shoulder crimplene green and white hooped top displaying the ample charms of her bared shoulders, which Estadio had found in his mother’s wardrobe (the top not the shoulders), casually switched between Celtic TV and the already set up, but extremely rare and valuable, betamax video of ‘Tony Cascarino’s 100 greatest moments for the hoops’ (plays for 7 and ½ minutes – similar to Tony as it happens), which he had bought in Paddy’s market as they had rushed across to the Central Station to get the half-price train to Prestwick for the £9.99 flight to Tenerife, the previous week!
The Patio door (there wasn’t room for two) was open and the multicoloured beads guarding the front entrance rattled every so slightly as the a gentle breeze drifted through the room and kept Angelina cool enough to trigger an involuntary but gently meaningful sigh as she longed for the virile touch of Estadio, who she suddenly realised seemed to have been away for days!
She heard his approach before she saw him, as she recognised snatches of a wide variety of Celtic songs that Estadio had told her he had kindly translated into Spanish so that the locals could also enjoy their fine lyrics and revolutionary passion.
It was a strange dialect of Spanish!
She had only heard it on two previous occasions; once at around 11.30 pm in Sharkey’s and the other for just about all day every day in the Brazen Head where the masterful command of this language should really have been touted as a tourist attraction.
It was rumoured that pockets of the tongue could be found by the more adventurous in explorations of deepest Gallowgate, where Estadio had informed her that Glasgow’s fore-runner of Barcelona’s Las Ramblas – ‘the Barras’ – stood in commemoration of ‘La Quince Brigada’, which conveniently had also been translated into Gaelic/Gallic and was now known locally as ‘Bairds bar’!
Anyway the Catalan strains came to a sudden halt as the irregular but rapid steps rang out closely followed by the aggressive barking and dash of the inevitable dog down the path.
Estadio had told her was a 'weeshitebaw'.
Angelina had remarked that the physical description of the dog suggested that it may be some sort of shitzu.
Estadio had said that that was close enough!
As he came through the door, the plaintive cry of the lovesick Romeo heralded his arrival
'Hawanjelinaamhame'
This was immediately followed by
‘yabass’,
as he pushed against the door, forgetting it was just strings of beads, and skited across the floor like Robin Cousins on speed followed by a passable interpretation of Jane Torville being flung bolero-like across the ice, finally coming to a strategic halt at the fragrant manicured feet of his newly beloved.
Removing her left big toe from his ear and wiping away the wee dod of hairy wax, he decided that the best form of defence for disappearing for 5 days was to go on the attack!
'Jist when wus the last time you washed your feet'?
Ignoring her quizzical look, he continued,
'Listen my wee angeoplasty'; this was his affectionate term as he knew that it had something to do with the heart and after all she had gladdened his!
'there are a couple of things that we need to talk about and get out of the way.'
He could see that Angelina was looking at him with that misty-eyed broody look that he had witnessed in a warren of over-heated bunnies! But he wasn’t going to be easily diverted. There were important questions to be answered and the thoughts of tender caresses and hour upon hour of glowing rhapsodic rapture in the urgent but welcoming embrace of this lady that loved him and only him…… well it would just have to wait!
'Firstly' blurted Estadio
'I’ve had it up to the ships gunnels with the sly looks, the whispered asides, and the mocking innuendo'.
'Just what is going on between you and that JohnBhoy? He wasn’t round here was he during my wee drinks break?'
Angelina looked down at her hero lying there on the tiles after having been out on the tiles for at least 4 days! Her questioning mystification of someone who obviously didn’t understand this strange Iberian dialect, and her smiling and most reassuring come-to-bed eyes seemed to immediately calm him down.
Estadio took this guilt free response as a positive sign that she in fact had not even heard of the scurrilous JohnBhoy, but that she would have much rather spent the evening watching a repeat of Deal-No Deal?
This gave him enough stability to both rise from the floor and even more importantly start using at least an approximation to understandable conversation.
Removing her clawing hands from his rippling torso, he continued
'Now this one is even more important; so put on some shorts to match that top and come out onto the patio by the pool. I really need to explain why I believe that Paul Le Guen and even a massive investment at that place that we try not to talk about would be a great thing for Celtic.'
Angelina slipped into her cut down hoopy jeans, pulling them up tightly with a bodily three point turn and a quick pull on the handbrake…I mean zip! and glided effortlessly behind ‘her man’ out onto their own little verandah!
As they sat opposite each other, Estadio looked at her with that earnest seriousness of the impending announcement of a fundamental alteration in the laws of the universe, and stated simply but clearly.
'It all came to me so suddenly and so clearly, a few mornings ago as I stood at the bottom of the bed about to go for my shower.'
'Look! Think washing basket and the way that I drop my boxers to my ankles, and depending on how the mood takes me, being two footed, I can flick the garments into the dead centre of the receptacle, all ready for whatever happens to them between entering that basket and reappearing a day or so later in the appropriate drawer.'
'But my handsome, handsome darling!' said Angelina, leaning forward in the gloaming, and placing her trembling hands on each of Estadio’s manly sculptured thighs.
‘I have only seen you missing the basket, and the boxers landing on the bed, on top of the wardrobe, or even on my face!’
‘Exactly’ retorted Estadio, realising that unless he took a quick dip now his racing mind would not be able to get to the dénouement of his theory.
He carefully lifted Angelina’s exploring fingers from his frayed edges and with a sharp removal of his Celtic Cross emblazoned athlete’s vest he dived into the cool refreshing waters.
With a single mighty but almost casual stroke, he touched the far end of the pool and with one mighty bound of his honed calves he seated himself back beside Angelina.
‘That’s the whole point, you see! You moved the basket slightly further away and I wasn’t used to the fresh challenge with which I was faced.'
'I am however more than confident that with a little bit more training, an understanding of the problem being faced and most importantly by moving the washing basket to any where in the room unexpectedly, I can reach a degree of proficiency that will not only mean that I can take on any washing basket, home or away, but also unexpected and strangely shaped washing baskets anywhere in the civilised world.'
'I tell you Angelina, washing baskets everywhere will need to worry about me, and not vice versa.’
Angelina looked on with a heady concotion of stunning admiration and adoring wonderment which to be honest must have verged on true idolisation.
‘And that is the whole point.’ Estadio resumed
‘You see, there is at the moment only one credible SPL winner and that is Celtic.
There are a couple of distant challengers in the form of Hearts and Hibs, and while I think that Hibs can and will improve further under Tony Mowbray, I can see nothing but a vanishing point of destruction if Vlad the impaler doesn’t get his head round the fact that power and authority must be wielded responsibly if real foundations for the future are to be laid down.
That responsible application of power is not evident in the turnover of 3 managers/coaches, one imaginary and one ostensible director of football, a complete team acquired during the transfer window, the loss of two significant directors and one crony all within the umbrella of an SFA investigation. I could go further but the situation at Hearts is laughable and far exceeds the mess that exists across this dear City.
And I haven’t even scratched the surface of the fact that irrespective of feelgood factor, their financial exposure is as bad as it has ever been!
The most worrying thing is that Hearts fans, the press, and the games administrators should be very disturbed about where this is all going; and guess what they are not!
Anyway, they are about to implode and that leaves a distant Hibs, an even more distant Rangers closely followed by admirable improvements at Killie, Motherwell, Inverness, and potentially Dundee United!
Competition for second place may therefore be interesting, but the championship will be over every March for the foreseeable future unless a credible challenge is created.
We need not only what is happening at Celtic but we need a consistent challenge coming from a number of areas, dealing with the unexpected, but having the foresight and talent to anticipate, improve, and overcome.
Just like me and my Laundry basket outlook, I have complete confidence in what is happening at Celtic, and the introduction wherever possible, even at them, of new ideas, new money, new confidence is exactly what we need to keep our culture of continuous improvement on the boil.
We have nothing to fear from anyone!
Weaknesses exposed will be resolved, strengths discovered will be built upon, barriers placed in our way will be overcome, and their attempts to surface from a sea of mediocre despond will be met only by the mighty foot of Celtic Warriors pushing down on their head and forcing them to look for calmer waters to once again work out a strategy of recovery!
Just as the expert (me) who can flick, toss, throw, chip, or head any sort of underpants into any sort of laundry basket in any hotel room in the world, so will Celtic face with confidence any team, with any money, any formation, and any set of individuals any where in that same world’
Estadio’s voice boomed across the now silent stony deserted hinterland, driving mangy dogs, darting lizards, and assorted lucky-lucky men for cover as he reached a crescendo with
‘So bring on Le Guen, bring on the money men, we want you here, we want you NOW!’
He stopped for breath and then gently enquired,
‘Anyway my fine boned temptress and passion, are you still keen on having children? Or would you rather go and watch Tony Cascarino’s video?'
Angelina, drew in a deep breath and in that husky whisper of someone who knows exactly what side her bread is buttered upon she mouthed,
‘Oh yes. yes my incomparable hunk ! let’s try for the patter of tiny feet and let’s hope that it takes many many attempts until that day when we have to stop trying.’
‘Well let’s at least hope I score a bit more than Tony!’ mumbled Estadio.
He bent down and with his powerful arms around his Sweet Angelina, he tipped her onto the ground and carried the sun-bed and the Henrik Larsson lilo indoors.
Angelina admiring the tight little view as she limped behind her wee pot of gold, dutifully followed and as the blinds were shut, two giggles could be heard!
The first one was Angelina’s giggle of surprise, delight and anticipation
The other was more sinister, as once again the night was broken by that Dick Dastardly’ inspired, deep throated, Mutley cackle.
A shadowy figure moved out of the bushes, silently removing the top from a weirdly shaped bottle he held gingerly in his left hand.
He emptied the contents into the bath, I mean swimming pool, looked around one last time, and then made off stealthily into the dark security of the Tenerifian night!
Perhaps JohnBhoy wasn’t finished yet!
A story of mystery, intrigue, drugs (taken by the author), famous CQN posters, Paul Le Guen, a washing basket, a two metre long bath, and some mystery guests, and most importantly of all CELTIC!
The story to date.
Angelina (that’s Angelina as in Jolie by the way), due a to life-changing, heart enhancing oestrogen/testosterone pumping conjunction (as her eyes met mine in the Celtic Store in the High street opposite McHuills), has left Brad (as in Pitt) for Estadio (as in me)!
Sadly, but deservingly, the now newly-crowned laughing-stock of Hollywood (hope he isn’t a Tim or reads this by the way) can only mournfully while away his remaining years in whisky soaked despair, as he drags his emotionally scarred wreck of a body, shoulders heaving, greetin’ his wee beady multi-million pound baby blue eyes, tears running in furrows down his perfectly tanned but now sagging’ jowled shrunken megastar-haloed face and heid, around the now deathly silent 74 roomed, gold tapped, Olympic-pooled mansion in Beverly hills.
Hopelessly, even in the little piles of wafting dust or the pendant cobwebs he sees her eyes and her face, her smile and her lips; even as the occasional ocean breeze gently flutters the light blue curtains with the ‘areffcee-ic’ sign of the devil, he can hear her gentle angelic strains as she used to softly sing in the privacy of her own chambre, the romantic words and plaintive lilting chords of “Hail Hail” and “We’re top o’ the league an’ they’re no-o-o-o”!
In his final desolation, Brad raises his now decomposing limbs and psyche to the evil one with whom he had made the Faustian pact all those years ago, and screams
‘Beelzebub, give me soul back, I don’t want to be one of the undead, I don’t want to be one of the PEEPUL…….. I WANT TO BE A TIM!’.
And then with his final expiring breath echoing and calling to the vision of all that is lovely, a Beatles song of all those years ago, Angelina’s favourite he recalled, comes speeding back with the force of a Lisbon Lion in full flight, and the last thing he hears is her musical and prophetic magic as she sings just for him one final time:
‘You say hello, hello!
‘And I say goodbye, goodbye’……………..
Angelina has of course realised that life with the man she truly loves is the only path to follow and in her grasping of the nettle, she vanquishes like a dismissive slap across the erse, the false and fruitless inadequacies of wealth, power, stardom, and celebrity!
She has now moved to Estadio’s studio apartment (with 2 metre swimming pool - or outdoor bath as it is more usually called) situated in the magnificently rolling traditional Spanish panorama that is Tenerife’s Playa De Las Americas.
But alas, all is not necessarily sweetness and light in the recently established seclusion of passion and love!
A dark cloud harbouring the sudden, drenching, emotion-destroying iciness of a battering hailstorm, has appeared on the far inland horizon, hovering like a pregnant colostomy, over the peak that is Mount Tiede!
As it moves remorselessly closer, it threatens to unload its postulant disgusting cargo onto Estadio’s knotted-handkerchief covered head!
Yes indeed, the spectre of infidelity has been heard laughing its ‘Dick Dastardly’ inspired, deep throated, Mutley cackle.
And as Estadio goes out for that thought-concentrating drink in his favourite traditional Spanish taverna, The Irish Fiddler home to Tenerife CSC No1, he struggles with the potential enormity of just who his rival for the sweet Angelina’s Venus like charms and ministrations, might be!
Incredible as it may seem to the righteous and upstanding members of the internet community (which to be fair is exactly what Estadio wanted to be with Angelina) it seemed that this gigolo was likely to be a blogging acquaintance, a stalwart of this very forum, a man until now, of impeccable credentials, wit and erudition, now following the perfidious path to betrayal of Estadio and his dreams.
Furtively and almost guiltily Estadio had performed a quick but forensic review of posts since the collision of these two very special souls!!
The revelation was stark and final!
Condemned by his very own words – Step forward JOHNBHOY!
Anyway that’s the scene set!
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
The evening was approaching quickly, but the light of the day had not quite succumbed to the inevitable darkness as the sun in all its orbic magnificence began its descent behind the snow capped dormant volcano that stood in Karajan-majesty over the ashen landscape of the holiday paradise!
Angelina, half, curled up on the settee in her figure hugging off-the shoulder crimplene green and white hooped top displaying the ample charms of her bared shoulders, which Estadio had found in his mother’s wardrobe (the top not the shoulders), casually switched between Celtic TV and the already set up, but extremely rare and valuable, betamax video of ‘Tony Cascarino’s 100 greatest moments for the hoops’ (plays for 7 and ½ minutes – similar to Tony as it happens), which he had bought in Paddy’s market as they had rushed across to the Central Station to get the half-price train to Prestwick for the £9.99 flight to Tenerife, the previous week!
The Patio door (there wasn’t room for two) was open and the multicoloured beads guarding the front entrance rattled every so slightly as the a gentle breeze drifted through the room and kept Angelina cool enough to trigger an involuntary but gently meaningful sigh as she longed for the virile touch of Estadio, who she suddenly realised seemed to have been away for days!
She heard his approach before she saw him, as she recognised snatches of a wide variety of Celtic songs that Estadio had told her he had kindly translated into Spanish so that the locals could also enjoy their fine lyrics and revolutionary passion.
It was a strange dialect of Spanish!
She had only heard it on two previous occasions; once at around 11.30 pm in Sharkey’s and the other for just about all day every day in the Brazen Head where the masterful command of this language should really have been touted as a tourist attraction.
It was rumoured that pockets of the tongue could be found by the more adventurous in explorations of deepest Gallowgate, where Estadio had informed her that Glasgow’s fore-runner of Barcelona’s Las Ramblas – ‘the Barras’ – stood in commemoration of ‘La Quince Brigada’, which conveniently had also been translated into Gaelic/Gallic and was now known locally as ‘Bairds bar’!
Anyway the Catalan strains came to a sudden halt as the irregular but rapid steps rang out closely followed by the aggressive barking and dash of the inevitable dog down the path.
Estadio had told her was a 'weeshitebaw'.
Angelina had remarked that the physical description of the dog suggested that it may be some sort of shitzu.
Estadio had said that that was close enough!
As he came through the door, the plaintive cry of the lovesick Romeo heralded his arrival
'Hawanjelinaamhame'
This was immediately followed by
‘yabass’,
as he pushed against the door, forgetting it was just strings of beads, and skited across the floor like Robin Cousins on speed followed by a passable interpretation of Jane Torville being flung bolero-like across the ice, finally coming to a strategic halt at the fragrant manicured feet of his newly beloved.
Removing her left big toe from his ear and wiping away the wee dod of hairy wax, he decided that the best form of defence for disappearing for 5 days was to go on the attack!
'Jist when wus the last time you washed your feet'?
Ignoring her quizzical look, he continued,
'Listen my wee angeoplasty'; this was his affectionate term as he knew that it had something to do with the heart and after all she had gladdened his!
'there are a couple of things that we need to talk about and get out of the way.'
He could see that Angelina was looking at him with that misty-eyed broody look that he had witnessed in a warren of over-heated bunnies! But he wasn’t going to be easily diverted. There were important questions to be answered and the thoughts of tender caresses and hour upon hour of glowing rhapsodic rapture in the urgent but welcoming embrace of this lady that loved him and only him…… well it would just have to wait!
'Firstly' blurted Estadio
'I’ve had it up to the ships gunnels with the sly looks, the whispered asides, and the mocking innuendo'.
'Just what is going on between you and that JohnBhoy? He wasn’t round here was he during my wee drinks break?'
Angelina looked down at her hero lying there on the tiles after having been out on the tiles for at least 4 days! Her questioning mystification of someone who obviously didn’t understand this strange Iberian dialect, and her smiling and most reassuring come-to-bed eyes seemed to immediately calm him down.
Estadio took this guilt free response as a positive sign that she in fact had not even heard of the scurrilous JohnBhoy, but that she would have much rather spent the evening watching a repeat of Deal-No Deal?
This gave him enough stability to both rise from the floor and even more importantly start using at least an approximation to understandable conversation.
Removing her clawing hands from his rippling torso, he continued
'Now this one is even more important; so put on some shorts to match that top and come out onto the patio by the pool. I really need to explain why I believe that Paul Le Guen and even a massive investment at that place that we try not to talk about would be a great thing for Celtic.'
Angelina slipped into her cut down hoopy jeans, pulling them up tightly with a bodily three point turn and a quick pull on the handbrake…I mean zip! and glided effortlessly behind ‘her man’ out onto their own little verandah!
As they sat opposite each other, Estadio looked at her with that earnest seriousness of the impending announcement of a fundamental alteration in the laws of the universe, and stated simply but clearly.
'It all came to me so suddenly and so clearly, a few mornings ago as I stood at the bottom of the bed about to go for my shower.'
'Look! Think washing basket and the way that I drop my boxers to my ankles, and depending on how the mood takes me, being two footed, I can flick the garments into the dead centre of the receptacle, all ready for whatever happens to them between entering that basket and reappearing a day or so later in the appropriate drawer.'
'But my handsome, handsome darling!' said Angelina, leaning forward in the gloaming, and placing her trembling hands on each of Estadio’s manly sculptured thighs.
‘I have only seen you missing the basket, and the boxers landing on the bed, on top of the wardrobe, or even on my face!’
‘Exactly’ retorted Estadio, realising that unless he took a quick dip now his racing mind would not be able to get to the dénouement of his theory.
He carefully lifted Angelina’s exploring fingers from his frayed edges and with a sharp removal of his Celtic Cross emblazoned athlete’s vest he dived into the cool refreshing waters.
With a single mighty but almost casual stroke, he touched the far end of the pool and with one mighty bound of his honed calves he seated himself back beside Angelina.
‘That’s the whole point, you see! You moved the basket slightly further away and I wasn’t used to the fresh challenge with which I was faced.'
'I am however more than confident that with a little bit more training, an understanding of the problem being faced and most importantly by moving the washing basket to any where in the room unexpectedly, I can reach a degree of proficiency that will not only mean that I can take on any washing basket, home or away, but also unexpected and strangely shaped washing baskets anywhere in the civilised world.'
'I tell you Angelina, washing baskets everywhere will need to worry about me, and not vice versa.’
Angelina looked on with a heady concotion of stunning admiration and adoring wonderment which to be honest must have verged on true idolisation.
‘And that is the whole point.’ Estadio resumed
‘You see, there is at the moment only one credible SPL winner and that is Celtic.
There are a couple of distant challengers in the form of Hearts and Hibs, and while I think that Hibs can and will improve further under Tony Mowbray, I can see nothing but a vanishing point of destruction if Vlad the impaler doesn’t get his head round the fact that power and authority must be wielded responsibly if real foundations for the future are to be laid down.
That responsible application of power is not evident in the turnover of 3 managers/coaches, one imaginary and one ostensible director of football, a complete team acquired during the transfer window, the loss of two significant directors and one crony all within the umbrella of an SFA investigation. I could go further but the situation at Hearts is laughable and far exceeds the mess that exists across this dear City.
And I haven’t even scratched the surface of the fact that irrespective of feelgood factor, their financial exposure is as bad as it has ever been!
The most worrying thing is that Hearts fans, the press, and the games administrators should be very disturbed about where this is all going; and guess what they are not!
Anyway, they are about to implode and that leaves a distant Hibs, an even more distant Rangers closely followed by admirable improvements at Killie, Motherwell, Inverness, and potentially Dundee United!
Competition for second place may therefore be interesting, but the championship will be over every March for the foreseeable future unless a credible challenge is created.
We need not only what is happening at Celtic but we need a consistent challenge coming from a number of areas, dealing with the unexpected, but having the foresight and talent to anticipate, improve, and overcome.
Just like me and my Laundry basket outlook, I have complete confidence in what is happening at Celtic, and the introduction wherever possible, even at them, of new ideas, new money, new confidence is exactly what we need to keep our culture of continuous improvement on the boil.
We have nothing to fear from anyone!
Weaknesses exposed will be resolved, strengths discovered will be built upon, barriers placed in our way will be overcome, and their attempts to surface from a sea of mediocre despond will be met only by the mighty foot of Celtic Warriors pushing down on their head and forcing them to look for calmer waters to once again work out a strategy of recovery!
Just as the expert (me) who can flick, toss, throw, chip, or head any sort of underpants into any sort of laundry basket in any hotel room in the world, so will Celtic face with confidence any team, with any money, any formation, and any set of individuals any where in that same world’
Estadio’s voice boomed across the now silent stony deserted hinterland, driving mangy dogs, darting lizards, and assorted lucky-lucky men for cover as he reached a crescendo with
‘So bring on Le Guen, bring on the money men, we want you here, we want you NOW!’
He stopped for breath and then gently enquired,
‘Anyway my fine boned temptress and passion, are you still keen on having children? Or would you rather go and watch Tony Cascarino’s video?'
Angelina, drew in a deep breath and in that husky whisper of someone who knows exactly what side her bread is buttered upon she mouthed,
‘Oh yes. yes my incomparable hunk ! let’s try for the patter of tiny feet and let’s hope that it takes many many attempts until that day when we have to stop trying.’
‘Well let’s at least hope I score a bit more than Tony!’ mumbled Estadio.
He bent down and with his powerful arms around his Sweet Angelina, he tipped her onto the ground and carried the sun-bed and the Henrik Larsson lilo indoors.
Angelina admiring the tight little view as she limped behind her wee pot of gold, dutifully followed and as the blinds were shut, two giggles could be heard!
The first one was Angelina’s giggle of surprise, delight and anticipation
The other was more sinister, as once again the night was broken by that Dick Dastardly’ inspired, deep throated, Mutley cackle.
A shadowy figure moved out of the bushes, silently removing the top from a weirdly shaped bottle he held gingerly in his left hand.
He emptied the contents into the bath, I mean swimming pool, looked around one last time, and then made off stealthily into the dark security of the Tenerifian night!
Perhaps JohnBhoy wasn’t finished yet!
Tuesday, November 22, 2005
Saturday 19th November versus Rangers
A Blast from the past with an eye on the future!
Estadio is here and still spending far too much time reading this mysterious concoction of personalities, wits, intellectuals, comedians, poets, and even the odd Rangers man (you are a good man Edward) on this ‘forum of forii’ that is ‘Celticquicknews’.
Apart from a couple of minor little contributions of lightweight interludes I have merely watched in utter amazement as Paul67’s already incomparable blog has been subjected to the mystically cosmic influence of Wallace and Darwin! (As opposed to other blogs which tend to be influenced more by Wallace and Grommit!)
From a wide ranging accidental mixture of opinionated nutrients, real-time natural selection has driven the evolution of those who have entered this cyberspace into a true primordial essence of a crying, talking, sleeping, walking, living (sorry Cliff) thriving community.
The enigma that is Celticquicknews is the epitome of intelligent adaptation. It has outlived and outgrown all weaker mutations and has gradually metamorphosed into a collection not just of words and variegated notes, but into an orchestrated performance of rhyme and rhythm culminating in the soaring crescendo of a Celtic Symphony.
There is still the occasional contribution which, like the appendix, doesn’t actually serve any purpose in a healthy body, but unless it gets really troublesome we might as well ignore it.
As the saying goes … Carlsberg don’t do blogs, but if they did Celticquicknews would surely be….
And so to Celtic and the sad labyrinth of an apology for my cerebellum!
Since my last insubstantial musings in early October and my at times totally ridiculed vision of the potential magnificence of the Gordon Strachan vista, I have observed at close quarters the emergence of a seamless pattern of styles, skills, coaching, and abilities from 1st all the way through the feeder teams of the Bhoys of the future.
At last we have a progression of sides that not only play in the same fashion, enjoy themselves in doing so, know how they fit into the grand scheme of thinking, and because of this they also know what they have to strive for and achieve if they are to hit the bulls-eye of their own ambition.
Crucially not only can the legends of the future see that skill and effort will be rewarded, but the heroes of today can correspondingly see that their name no longer guarantees the honour of being chosen to wear the hoops.
There is now in place a Jacob’s ladder of progression leading to the realisation of a generation of dreams; and all without the tabloid acclaimed 10 years of competitive edge that has failed to materialise from the playing fields of Milngavie.
As an aside, while I would not dream of interfering in the confusion and pain that must surely be troubling our blue blooded adversaries in the rat runs of Edmiston drive, I would suggest that they ask themselves one simple question.
Would they prefer a great set of tools wielded by a bunch of journeymen jack’s of all trade, or a lesser set of tools brandished by master craftsmen?
I know my answer, and I think I know what theirs would be now.
I really believe that this culture of succession is one that no other team in the UK can claim parity with!
But, there is one unique component that gives such monumental strength to the foundation of this new dynasty, and that is us; we the Celtic Supporters!
We are now seeing what we have waited for many years to see again. Another delivery through the doors of Quality Street.
We should be standing, swaying, and singing to the rafters, arias in praise of the fruits of the labour of Tommy Burns, Willie McStay, and Kenny McDowell.
Emerging into the spotlight we now have Steven McManus, Shaun Maloney, Aiden McGeady, Ross Wallace, Craig Beattie, David Marshall, Paul Lawson, and Gary Irvine – not as stop gap alternatives, but as genuine competitors and claimants to first picks.
Soon there will be more! (and God willing John Kennedy!)
Half a squad has been replaced and not one of the new Bhoys was a last minute panic buy.
Maciej, Artur, Paul, Mo, Adam, and Shunsuke have all been blended into a versatile squad of players.
When everyone is fit, 5 of those players are first picks, along with Neil, Chris, Bobo, and Stan, Shaun and Stephen – a true mix of youth and experience and old and new.
But look at the bench! Craig, John, Adam, Stephen P, Didier, Adam, David, Alan, Paul, Ross – every single one not only capable of starting but every single one who would (Adam possibly excepted) be welcomed into their respective position!
BTW I suggest for those who still think that Adam is carrying a lot of weight, that they should have a good look. They will see an imposing man built on muscle desperate for his chance. He is one for the future!
With one ‘first pick’ exception I think we have chanted everyones name.
The exception is Mr Consistency – Paul Telfer.
Let’s put that right on Saturday!
If 6 months ago I had been promised that no more than the above would have been achieved then I would have said that the phoenix would be flapping its wings in readiness of its escape from the ashes of last season, and that the efforts of Gordon Strachan could be regarded as highly successful.
But that isn’t all.
Not only do we have complimentary cogs and wheels throughout the club, but the well oiled machine they make up is playing once more as in MON’s first 3 seasons, the sweetest of ‘Celtic Way’ football.
But there is more!
We’re top of the league!
We’re 12 points clear of the Smurfs.
From the desponds of nightmarish Bratislava, through the dungeons of Fir park, we have gradually passed and moved, chipped and headed, spun and weaved our way to a present of short term hope but certainly a future of long-term breathtakingly brilliant choreographed fitba’ reveries.
For God’s sake, let’s get behind the wee man, let’s get behind every single green and white gladiator, let’s cast off the shackles of doubt and let’s announce to the world that ‘work in progress’ we may be, but the work is great and the progress is even greater.
The fans of the future are there as well!
A few weeks back I got myself along to the Pearly Gates and stood in line with 5,000 real kids and perhaps 200 slightly older weans for what was publicised as the ‘Open day’.
The training moves and routines would have looked absolutely stunning if they could have been viewed from above as 4 or 5 groups of four or five players each moved in synchronicity as the ball flitted between head and knee and foot and was then flicked on to the next link in the chain.
The skills displayed were magnificent and would have graced any circus.
Magnetically it held our attention because we knew that this was no staged mirage! For Gordon Strachan was there as both ringmaster and lion tamer, directing the show and cracking the whip.
This was a demonstration of the skills which would breed the touch, sharpen the vision, speed the thought, and drive the culture of harmony within the dressing room and the essential identification between ‘those who pay and those who play’ (copyright MON) in a future that I hope I live to see.
I really am jealous but already proud of the great Celtic teams and great Celtic supporters of the future!
There will be stumbles along the way certainly; there will be moments of doubt in our minds because that is our nature; there may even be dissatisfaction about the speed with which we progress for therein lies the fire of our ambition.
But that fire burns nowhere more brightly than in the eyes and heart of Gordon Strachan, in the dreams and souls of players who came not as heroes but as questions writ large and who had to provide answers and provide them quickly.
I think that they have justified there own belief through their own unfailing efforts and the master coaching of GS, and not always with our support!
Just think what this team could achieve with 53,000 Celtic Supporters, faithful through and through, walking beside them on Saturday, kicking every ball, making every pass, applauding every move, and like a real family willing them on through the bad times. And then as we harness the echoes of James McGrory, Paul McStay, Johnstone, Murdoch, Chalmers, Auld and Hay, we will not be the twelfth man; we will be the twelfth, the thirteenth, the fourteenth, all the way up to the twenty second man on that park.
This is our chance to contribute not just in the pounds and pence of mammon to our club, our Celtic, but to pump blood through the sinews and muscles, to fill the lungs with air and the legs with a bottomless pit of energy and power, to electrify the heart and hone each mind, and in a unstoppable tsunami of will, belief and unparalleled support, to blow the nasty trolls back over the Clyde’s rickety rackety bridge to lick each other’s festering sores and wounds.
Hail Hail
See you on Saturday
Estadio
Estadio is here and still spending far too much time reading this mysterious concoction of personalities, wits, intellectuals, comedians, poets, and even the odd Rangers man (you are a good man Edward) on this ‘forum of forii’ that is ‘Celticquicknews’.
Apart from a couple of minor little contributions of lightweight interludes I have merely watched in utter amazement as Paul67’s already incomparable blog has been subjected to the mystically cosmic influence of Wallace and Darwin! (As opposed to other blogs which tend to be influenced more by Wallace and Grommit!)
From a wide ranging accidental mixture of opinionated nutrients, real-time natural selection has driven the evolution of those who have entered this cyberspace into a true primordial essence of a crying, talking, sleeping, walking, living (sorry Cliff) thriving community.
The enigma that is Celticquicknews is the epitome of intelligent adaptation. It has outlived and outgrown all weaker mutations and has gradually metamorphosed into a collection not just of words and variegated notes, but into an orchestrated performance of rhyme and rhythm culminating in the soaring crescendo of a Celtic Symphony.
There is still the occasional contribution which, like the appendix, doesn’t actually serve any purpose in a healthy body, but unless it gets really troublesome we might as well ignore it.
As the saying goes … Carlsberg don’t do blogs, but if they did Celticquicknews would surely be….
And so to Celtic and the sad labyrinth of an apology for my cerebellum!
Since my last insubstantial musings in early October and my at times totally ridiculed vision of the potential magnificence of the Gordon Strachan vista, I have observed at close quarters the emergence of a seamless pattern of styles, skills, coaching, and abilities from 1st all the way through the feeder teams of the Bhoys of the future.
At last we have a progression of sides that not only play in the same fashion, enjoy themselves in doing so, know how they fit into the grand scheme of thinking, and because of this they also know what they have to strive for and achieve if they are to hit the bulls-eye of their own ambition.
Crucially not only can the legends of the future see that skill and effort will be rewarded, but the heroes of today can correspondingly see that their name no longer guarantees the honour of being chosen to wear the hoops.
There is now in place a Jacob’s ladder of progression leading to the realisation of a generation of dreams; and all without the tabloid acclaimed 10 years of competitive edge that has failed to materialise from the playing fields of Milngavie.
As an aside, while I would not dream of interfering in the confusion and pain that must surely be troubling our blue blooded adversaries in the rat runs of Edmiston drive, I would suggest that they ask themselves one simple question.
Would they prefer a great set of tools wielded by a bunch of journeymen jack’s of all trade, or a lesser set of tools brandished by master craftsmen?
I know my answer, and I think I know what theirs would be now.
I really believe that this culture of succession is one that no other team in the UK can claim parity with!
But, there is one unique component that gives such monumental strength to the foundation of this new dynasty, and that is us; we the Celtic Supporters!
We are now seeing what we have waited for many years to see again. Another delivery through the doors of Quality Street.
We should be standing, swaying, and singing to the rafters, arias in praise of the fruits of the labour of Tommy Burns, Willie McStay, and Kenny McDowell.
Emerging into the spotlight we now have Steven McManus, Shaun Maloney, Aiden McGeady, Ross Wallace, Craig Beattie, David Marshall, Paul Lawson, and Gary Irvine – not as stop gap alternatives, but as genuine competitors and claimants to first picks.
Soon there will be more! (and God willing John Kennedy!)
Half a squad has been replaced and not one of the new Bhoys was a last minute panic buy.
Maciej, Artur, Paul, Mo, Adam, and Shunsuke have all been blended into a versatile squad of players.
When everyone is fit, 5 of those players are first picks, along with Neil, Chris, Bobo, and Stan, Shaun and Stephen – a true mix of youth and experience and old and new.
But look at the bench! Craig, John, Adam, Stephen P, Didier, Adam, David, Alan, Paul, Ross – every single one not only capable of starting but every single one who would (Adam possibly excepted) be welcomed into their respective position!
BTW I suggest for those who still think that Adam is carrying a lot of weight, that they should have a good look. They will see an imposing man built on muscle desperate for his chance. He is one for the future!
With one ‘first pick’ exception I think we have chanted everyones name.
The exception is Mr Consistency – Paul Telfer.
Let’s put that right on Saturday!
If 6 months ago I had been promised that no more than the above would have been achieved then I would have said that the phoenix would be flapping its wings in readiness of its escape from the ashes of last season, and that the efforts of Gordon Strachan could be regarded as highly successful.
But that isn’t all.
Not only do we have complimentary cogs and wheels throughout the club, but the well oiled machine they make up is playing once more as in MON’s first 3 seasons, the sweetest of ‘Celtic Way’ football.
But there is more!
We’re top of the league!
We’re 12 points clear of the Smurfs.
From the desponds of nightmarish Bratislava, through the dungeons of Fir park, we have gradually passed and moved, chipped and headed, spun and weaved our way to a present of short term hope but certainly a future of long-term breathtakingly brilliant choreographed fitba’ reveries.
For God’s sake, let’s get behind the wee man, let’s get behind every single green and white gladiator, let’s cast off the shackles of doubt and let’s announce to the world that ‘work in progress’ we may be, but the work is great and the progress is even greater.
The fans of the future are there as well!
A few weeks back I got myself along to the Pearly Gates and stood in line with 5,000 real kids and perhaps 200 slightly older weans for what was publicised as the ‘Open day’.
The training moves and routines would have looked absolutely stunning if they could have been viewed from above as 4 or 5 groups of four or five players each moved in synchronicity as the ball flitted between head and knee and foot and was then flicked on to the next link in the chain.
The skills displayed were magnificent and would have graced any circus.
Magnetically it held our attention because we knew that this was no staged mirage! For Gordon Strachan was there as both ringmaster and lion tamer, directing the show and cracking the whip.
This was a demonstration of the skills which would breed the touch, sharpen the vision, speed the thought, and drive the culture of harmony within the dressing room and the essential identification between ‘those who pay and those who play’ (copyright MON) in a future that I hope I live to see.
I really am jealous but already proud of the great Celtic teams and great Celtic supporters of the future!
There will be stumbles along the way certainly; there will be moments of doubt in our minds because that is our nature; there may even be dissatisfaction about the speed with which we progress for therein lies the fire of our ambition.
But that fire burns nowhere more brightly than in the eyes and heart of Gordon Strachan, in the dreams and souls of players who came not as heroes but as questions writ large and who had to provide answers and provide them quickly.
I think that they have justified there own belief through their own unfailing efforts and the master coaching of GS, and not always with our support!
Just think what this team could achieve with 53,000 Celtic Supporters, faithful through and through, walking beside them on Saturday, kicking every ball, making every pass, applauding every move, and like a real family willing them on through the bad times. And then as we harness the echoes of James McGrory, Paul McStay, Johnstone, Murdoch, Chalmers, Auld and Hay, we will not be the twelfth man; we will be the twelfth, the thirteenth, the fourteenth, all the way up to the twenty second man on that park.
This is our chance to contribute not just in the pounds and pence of mammon to our club, our Celtic, but to pump blood through the sinews and muscles, to fill the lungs with air and the legs with a bottomless pit of energy and power, to electrify the heart and hone each mind, and in a unstoppable tsunami of will, belief and unparalleled support, to blow the nasty trolls back over the Clyde’s rickety rackety bridge to lick each other’s festering sores and wounds.
Hail Hail
See you on Saturday
Estadio
Thursday, October 06, 2005
We can't all have Magic Swede's
As we wait for Gordon to work his spell at Celtic Park, my thoughts turned to the topsy turvy world of English International football and its Swedish manager. Now it is quite apparent that our own experience with a certain Magnificent 7 Swede is not quite being mirrored down in the affluent South.
So to all those confused and disappointed anglophiles the world over, in a spirit of goodwill and constructive observation, and if you will pardon for the moment a contribution by a Scotsman, I offer the following critique:
Till the Millennium year, a large proportion of my working life was spent in Southgate, Cockfosters, and Barnet where to my eternal gratitude, I was befriended by some of the finest men and women who were also the most ardent Arsenal, Tottenham, and England fans it has ever been my pleasure to meet.
Not everything was sweetness and light however as I sat there in the erstwhile Trent Tavern in 1996 as my soul shed an invisible tear when, on that ‘potato patch’ known as the home of English Football, the ball was nudged by a stray mole in an England shirt, just as Gary McCallister was about to send David Seaman the wrong way.
We all remember how immediately afterwards Bamber’s boy Paul Gascoigne totally mis-controlled the ball and inadvertently left Colin ‘Braveheart’ Hendry in no man’s land.
The ball looped fortuitously over Colin’s head but as it was heading deservedly for row Z, a Machiavellian gust of the devil’s breath caught hold and whisked it back into Mr G’s path from where even my dear departed Granny could have scored.
Similarly the qualifying play-off for the 2000 European championship holds only that frozen moment in time as Christian Dailly was obviously violently pushed by a giant invisible white rabbit whom wee Kevin Keegan had brought on knowing that no-one could see the animal anyway, causing him to head directly at a static David Seaman.
Yes I have little cause, in footballing terms anyway, to have anything positive to say about Wembley. And while we may have been the last team to win there in a competitive match, I was first in the queue with my personal sledgehammer when the contract for its demolition came up for grabs.
However at heart, as you can probably tell, just like Murphy’s I’m not bitter.
As I said my farewells to my friends in October 2000 to return to the frozen North, I made the following prediction.
England would win the 2002 world cup ………………..
and the 2004 European championship……………….
and would subsequently, dominate world football for some years to come.
The ingredients were all there.
The investment in infrastructure; the emergence of a cohort of young talent unrivalled anywhere else in the major footballing nations; a conveyor belt of similar talent stretching over time’s horizon; the stability of experience from 1996 and 1998 tournaments; one of the top competitive leagues in the world which would ensure that the talents were being tested and honed every single week against the other nations’ top players; every position covered by both experience and new blood;
All that was required was someone with the same passion as the fans, the same hopes and dreams as the players, the ability to watch them playing for their clubs, pick the best of them in their best positions, and with the chosen squad to play and practice, play and practice, play and practice.
In other words to passionately mould a side around some of the best talent in the world who knew what they were doing, who wanted to play for themselves, for their manager, for their fans and for their country.
Instead, what happened?
Well continually playing different groups of 30 (I exaggerate slightly) out of position players in friendlies, when by his own admission many of the players would either not play there again or even would not be in an England Squad again, with little obvious sense of purpose is like a chef never actually practising the recipe which he will lay before his wedding guests and foolishly expecting it to all come together and taste perfectly on the day!
Appointing a manager with not a bad record (but not a great one either) to a position whose very heart beats with the identification with a cause, the demonstration of passion, the expression of pain and pleasure, and the need to bleed rhesus ‘England’ positive, was always a lax first move.
Talent such as it was, would never be enough for someone who apparently had his emotions extracted at birth, and who has ended up constantly a nearly man when he should have been lording over all he surveyed.
How could the players feel confident or committed in their roles and responsibilities?
Here was a man that ‘allegedly’ had agreed to take over Man U; had ‘allegedly’ agreed to take over at Chelsea, had ‘allegedly’ agreed to take over at Real Madrid etc etc.
How could anyone have trust in him? Where was the essence of honesty and commitment?
The totally undignified farrago that was both the reality and the innuendo of the sexual intrigues of Mark Palos and Fariah Alam.
How could the players or any backroom staff have any respect for him? It must have been like being motivated by Brian Rix and his ‘Whitehall Farces’ brigade!
But then the real farce…………….. the obscenity of £4m year…………..that’s £25,000 every 2.2 days or so.
How much does the average football fan earn? How does he/she scrimp and scrape from £25,000 PER ANNUM to travel, exist, buy the tickets, buy the kit, and live in between games?
So at the helm England had placed a man with questionable morals and standards, a vacuum of decorum, a culpable absence of ability to bond a team, and void of identification with the life blood of the game – the ordinary fan.
But that’s ok cos’ money solves everything and £4m a year can solve a lot.
In the words of a well known TV personality and fictional England Manager – MY ARSE!
Here was a manager who has played the contract game superbly, who has seen the opportunity and taken the English FA, the players, the fans, AND the media for a ride of meaningless Pleasure Beach proportions. And like that pleasure beach you’ve ended up a bit queasy, skint, no prizes, and back where you started from!
Sven knew from the start that his pay-check depended on three things:
1. Support of Adam Crozier
2. Creating a dependency culture whereby the administrators didn’t want to appear foolish
by giving him his marching orders.
3. Ensuring that if it went wrong he had fall-back options to continue his mega-extravagant
lifestyle
Well blow me down, just as he is being found out by the public and the media, his route to freedom and the Chelsea Job and more importantly England’s path to re-birth is blocked by those same administrators.
They double his bloody wages!
I have tried to imagine here what Sven thought of these turn of events, but ‘dicks, two, and dog with’ is the only allusion that springs immediately to mind. But I’ve talked enough of the shenanigans of the manager, Chief Executive, and Secretary so let’s move on!
You may remain unconvinced and may also have a go at me by regurgitating qualification records, unlucky quarter final defeats, and refereeing incompetence/malevolence.
Forget it! I would be more convinced if the blame lay at the door of the astrological conjunction of Mars with Venus.
Simply put, Sven Goran Eriksson should be hanging his head in black-burning shame for not taking England on a regular basis to major finals and semis.
He should be pelted in the stocks for failing to grasp and maintain a top four in the world rating; he should be shunned for demeaning the name of the English FA and treating its employees like his own personal fiefdom; but most of all he should be run out of town for squandering the best array of prodigious talent that has been available to any European nation for as long as I can remember.
He has before your very eyes conjured up the ultimate disappearing trick.
Where once there was a cornucopia of bright-eyed, ball-juggling maestros who were just waiting for a morsel of opportunity, enlightenment, encouragement, organisation and most of all of imagination, there is now a collection of adversarial cliques with little sense of direction and no sense of cohesion.
I’ve seen it before!
Scotland’s choice of Bertie Vogts boy was a disaster for us. In fact we would have been better off with Bertie Wooster. But we only failed to get to the final stages of a number of tournaments and dramatically sunk to a level in world ratings where we were compared unfavourably with such luminaries as Burkino Faso. We’ll get over it!
England’s choice of Sven was a greater disaster for yourselves because you have missed out on winning a World Cup and a European Championship.
Someone needs to explain to me just why that is even remotely acceptable or forgivable!
I know from first hand experience that England fans, contrary to the public perception created by that minority whom the tabloid hacks continue to subversively give the ‘oxygen of publicity’, are tremendously knowledgeable, loyal, ardent, and committed.
You are definitely not stupid, but I am not sure that the same can be said for the administrators of the international team.
But if a ‘mere Jock’ can see Sven laughing up his sleeve all the way to his next secretary’s boudoir, then so surely can all of you who have sacrificed and continue to sweat blood tears and soul so much to fly the St George flag in so many far flung corners of the earth.
Adam Crozier didn’t get too much wrong in his time at the FA, but with this decision and his admirable but foolhardy devotion to Mr Duck-on-crutches, he didn’t half spawn a culture which has undermined the evolution of the England football team.
Take it from me. Having gone through the farce that was Herr Vogts, get yourself a manager in there who understands the country, the football, the media, the players, and most of all the fans.
A manager who wants the job, the challenge, the opportunity, and only then the rewards.
Among many other errors, Scotland foolishly followed that illogical modern day mantra that foreign = better = successful, but in hindsight perhaps we got one thing right? Adam Crozier IS Scottish after all!
Could it be that we’ve had our revenge at last!
C’mon the Hoops!
Regards
Estadio
So to all those confused and disappointed anglophiles the world over, in a spirit of goodwill and constructive observation, and if you will pardon for the moment a contribution by a Scotsman, I offer the following critique:
Till the Millennium year, a large proportion of my working life was spent in Southgate, Cockfosters, and Barnet where to my eternal gratitude, I was befriended by some of the finest men and women who were also the most ardent Arsenal, Tottenham, and England fans it has ever been my pleasure to meet.
Not everything was sweetness and light however as I sat there in the erstwhile Trent Tavern in 1996 as my soul shed an invisible tear when, on that ‘potato patch’ known as the home of English Football, the ball was nudged by a stray mole in an England shirt, just as Gary McCallister was about to send David Seaman the wrong way.
We all remember how immediately afterwards Bamber’s boy Paul Gascoigne totally mis-controlled the ball and inadvertently left Colin ‘Braveheart’ Hendry in no man’s land.
The ball looped fortuitously over Colin’s head but as it was heading deservedly for row Z, a Machiavellian gust of the devil’s breath caught hold and whisked it back into Mr G’s path from where even my dear departed Granny could have scored.
Similarly the qualifying play-off for the 2000 European championship holds only that frozen moment in time as Christian Dailly was obviously violently pushed by a giant invisible white rabbit whom wee Kevin Keegan had brought on knowing that no-one could see the animal anyway, causing him to head directly at a static David Seaman.
Yes I have little cause, in footballing terms anyway, to have anything positive to say about Wembley. And while we may have been the last team to win there in a competitive match, I was first in the queue with my personal sledgehammer when the contract for its demolition came up for grabs.
However at heart, as you can probably tell, just like Murphy’s I’m not bitter.
As I said my farewells to my friends in October 2000 to return to the frozen North, I made the following prediction.
England would win the 2002 world cup ………………..
and the 2004 European championship……………….
and would subsequently, dominate world football for some years to come.
The ingredients were all there.
The investment in infrastructure; the emergence of a cohort of young talent unrivalled anywhere else in the major footballing nations; a conveyor belt of similar talent stretching over time’s horizon; the stability of experience from 1996 and 1998 tournaments; one of the top competitive leagues in the world which would ensure that the talents were being tested and honed every single week against the other nations’ top players; every position covered by both experience and new blood;
All that was required was someone with the same passion as the fans, the same hopes and dreams as the players, the ability to watch them playing for their clubs, pick the best of them in their best positions, and with the chosen squad to play and practice, play and practice, play and practice.
In other words to passionately mould a side around some of the best talent in the world who knew what they were doing, who wanted to play for themselves, for their manager, for their fans and for their country.
Instead, what happened?
Well continually playing different groups of 30 (I exaggerate slightly) out of position players in friendlies, when by his own admission many of the players would either not play there again or even would not be in an England Squad again, with little obvious sense of purpose is like a chef never actually practising the recipe which he will lay before his wedding guests and foolishly expecting it to all come together and taste perfectly on the day!
Appointing a manager with not a bad record (but not a great one either) to a position whose very heart beats with the identification with a cause, the demonstration of passion, the expression of pain and pleasure, and the need to bleed rhesus ‘England’ positive, was always a lax first move.
Talent such as it was, would never be enough for someone who apparently had his emotions extracted at birth, and who has ended up constantly a nearly man when he should have been lording over all he surveyed.
How could the players feel confident or committed in their roles and responsibilities?
Here was a man that ‘allegedly’ had agreed to take over Man U; had ‘allegedly’ agreed to take over at Chelsea, had ‘allegedly’ agreed to take over at Real Madrid etc etc.
How could anyone have trust in him? Where was the essence of honesty and commitment?
The totally undignified farrago that was both the reality and the innuendo of the sexual intrigues of Mark Palos and Fariah Alam.
How could the players or any backroom staff have any respect for him? It must have been like being motivated by Brian Rix and his ‘Whitehall Farces’ brigade!
But then the real farce…………….. the obscenity of £4m year…………..that’s £25,000 every 2.2 days or so.
How much does the average football fan earn? How does he/she scrimp and scrape from £25,000 PER ANNUM to travel, exist, buy the tickets, buy the kit, and live in between games?
So at the helm England had placed a man with questionable morals and standards, a vacuum of decorum, a culpable absence of ability to bond a team, and void of identification with the life blood of the game – the ordinary fan.
But that’s ok cos’ money solves everything and £4m a year can solve a lot.
In the words of a well known TV personality and fictional England Manager – MY ARSE!
Here was a manager who has played the contract game superbly, who has seen the opportunity and taken the English FA, the players, the fans, AND the media for a ride of meaningless Pleasure Beach proportions. And like that pleasure beach you’ve ended up a bit queasy, skint, no prizes, and back where you started from!
Sven knew from the start that his pay-check depended on three things:
1. Support of Adam Crozier
2. Creating a dependency culture whereby the administrators didn’t want to appear foolish
by giving him his marching orders.
3. Ensuring that if it went wrong he had fall-back options to continue his mega-extravagant
lifestyle
Well blow me down, just as he is being found out by the public and the media, his route to freedom and the Chelsea Job and more importantly England’s path to re-birth is blocked by those same administrators.
They double his bloody wages!
I have tried to imagine here what Sven thought of these turn of events, but ‘dicks, two, and dog with’ is the only allusion that springs immediately to mind. But I’ve talked enough of the shenanigans of the manager, Chief Executive, and Secretary so let’s move on!
You may remain unconvinced and may also have a go at me by regurgitating qualification records, unlucky quarter final defeats, and refereeing incompetence/malevolence.
Forget it! I would be more convinced if the blame lay at the door of the astrological conjunction of Mars with Venus.
Simply put, Sven Goran Eriksson should be hanging his head in black-burning shame for not taking England on a regular basis to major finals and semis.
He should be pelted in the stocks for failing to grasp and maintain a top four in the world rating; he should be shunned for demeaning the name of the English FA and treating its employees like his own personal fiefdom; but most of all he should be run out of town for squandering the best array of prodigious talent that has been available to any European nation for as long as I can remember.
He has before your very eyes conjured up the ultimate disappearing trick.
Where once there was a cornucopia of bright-eyed, ball-juggling maestros who were just waiting for a morsel of opportunity, enlightenment, encouragement, organisation and most of all of imagination, there is now a collection of adversarial cliques with little sense of direction and no sense of cohesion.
I’ve seen it before!
Scotland’s choice of Bertie Vogts boy was a disaster for us. In fact we would have been better off with Bertie Wooster. But we only failed to get to the final stages of a number of tournaments and dramatically sunk to a level in world ratings where we were compared unfavourably with such luminaries as Burkino Faso. We’ll get over it!
England’s choice of Sven was a greater disaster for yourselves because you have missed out on winning a World Cup and a European Championship.
Someone needs to explain to me just why that is even remotely acceptable or forgivable!
I know from first hand experience that England fans, contrary to the public perception created by that minority whom the tabloid hacks continue to subversively give the ‘oxygen of publicity’, are tremendously knowledgeable, loyal, ardent, and committed.
You are definitely not stupid, but I am not sure that the same can be said for the administrators of the international team.
But if a ‘mere Jock’ can see Sven laughing up his sleeve all the way to his next secretary’s boudoir, then so surely can all of you who have sacrificed and continue to sweat blood tears and soul so much to fly the St George flag in so many far flung corners of the earth.
Adam Crozier didn’t get too much wrong in his time at the FA, but with this decision and his admirable but foolhardy devotion to Mr Duck-on-crutches, he didn’t half spawn a culture which has undermined the evolution of the England football team.
Take it from me. Having gone through the farce that was Herr Vogts, get yourself a manager in there who understands the country, the football, the media, the players, and most of all the fans.
A manager who wants the job, the challenge, the opportunity, and only then the rewards.
Among many other errors, Scotland foolishly followed that illogical modern day mantra that foreign = better = successful, but in hindsight perhaps we got one thing right? Adam Crozier IS Scottish after all!
Could it be that we’ve had our revenge at last!
C’mon the Hoops!
Regards
Estadio
Tuesday, August 23, 2005
Great Heroes are needed
I hereby promise, (after this paragraph), on pain of drinking alcohol-free lager, to refrain for evermore in addressing the events, endured along with everyone else here, of the balls-up in Bratislava, the misery that was Motherwell, and without wanting to go overboard about the horror that we found ourselves embroiled in on Saturday in hell’s kitchen, I think that we can fairly say that it has stoked the fires of those who would wish us ill!
It’s the coming weeks, months and years that matter, and there are only two things which will have an influence on the fruits which we will harvest.
Firstly knowing what the vision is for the team, the style, the supporters and every variegated piece of jigsaw that forms and drives our club.
Secondly we must pick the ingredients and the recipe which will cook and blend with a little bit more paprika there, or turmeric here, a touch of salt and a sprinkling of magic dust formed from that marvellous diaspora of historic necessity, willpower, stubbornness and romantic imagination.
It is in this way that we will create a team not only fit to wear but deliberately fashioned to wear with pride ‘the shirt that does not shrink……’!, simmering and boiling with an intensity and quality which realises that vision in dramatic and multi-cultural flavours of outrageous imagination and skill.
And the main ingredients of that recipe are simply an unrelenting ambition, a hunger to succeed, and a total refusal to accept defeat.
We need once more the essence of the heroes of the past to whom we may very well have been a football club, but a football club with a greater calling and a responsibility which was not a burden but a motivation in bad times and a justification in good days!
It is in the exact circumstances facing us now that the giants of the past strode the sands of time and left their indelible footprints for us not only to marvel but to dare to follow ‘on the one road, sharing the one load, we're on the road to God knows where, we're on the one road, maybe the wrong road, but we're together now who cares………..’.
Willie Maley, Jimmy Quinn, Jimmy McGrory, Robert Kelly, Jock Stein, Billy McNeil!
It doesn’t matter if you agreed with them or not, these were characters many of whom were hewn from the rocks of abject poverty. When it came to being in the vanguard of a fight for what they believed in and what they felt was of value, these men would lead those who at times didn’t even recognise the need, towards a future of hope.
Nothing could knock them off their chosen path and in times of adversity, the hope they instilled, realised or not, was in itself spiritually inspirational in its simplicity and honesty.
Read about them, but don’t weep that we have no-one of their calibre around now, for I believe that we just might have!
Men such as these are master craftsmen and while it is only when the work of art is finished that we can fully enjoy its being, we can also revel in the delights of watching him at work as he sets out his tools, selects his ingredients, and the way he moulds, and chips, and sculpts to create a reflection of his dream.
Through the mists of disappointment I see a shape manifesting itself in the early stages of fast accurate passing from back to front, supported by midfield thrusts of the unexpected, attacking left, attacking right, attacking through the middle, all built on a foundation of versatility, determination and the will to win!
Are we stuttering? Darn tootin’ we are!
Does that make the vision wrong? No way.
Do we need to allow the ingredients to blend? Of course we do!
Do we need to replace some ingredients? Probably!
Do we change the recipe? NO!
We are not going to be served with the score-line centric overpriced, fat-filled burger with a fast hit of artificially satisfying stimulants and e-numbers.
Our fare is that of not necessarily the finest ingredients, but definitely of those which have been selected and prepared individually, and then added to the mix at the right time in the right place.
This will be a feast not of the production line, but of the master chef in the finest of kitchens with a twinkle in his eye and the essence of magic dust at his finger tips which Midas like will once more return the gold standard of association football to its rightful home and its rightful owners!
I believe that Gordon Strachan is that master chef.
We all need to support him in his vision.
Even more we all need him to be our hero!
We’re all getting hungry Gordon so…..
Ready! Steady! Cook!
It’s the coming weeks, months and years that matter, and there are only two things which will have an influence on the fruits which we will harvest.
Firstly knowing what the vision is for the team, the style, the supporters and every variegated piece of jigsaw that forms and drives our club.
Secondly we must pick the ingredients and the recipe which will cook and blend with a little bit more paprika there, or turmeric here, a touch of salt and a sprinkling of magic dust formed from that marvellous diaspora of historic necessity, willpower, stubbornness and romantic imagination.
It is in this way that we will create a team not only fit to wear but deliberately fashioned to wear with pride ‘the shirt that does not shrink……’!, simmering and boiling with an intensity and quality which realises that vision in dramatic and multi-cultural flavours of outrageous imagination and skill.
And the main ingredients of that recipe are simply an unrelenting ambition, a hunger to succeed, and a total refusal to accept defeat.
We need once more the essence of the heroes of the past to whom we may very well have been a football club, but a football club with a greater calling and a responsibility which was not a burden but a motivation in bad times and a justification in good days!
It is in the exact circumstances facing us now that the giants of the past strode the sands of time and left their indelible footprints for us not only to marvel but to dare to follow ‘on the one road, sharing the one load, we're on the road to God knows where, we're on the one road, maybe the wrong road, but we're together now who cares………..’.
Willie Maley, Jimmy Quinn, Jimmy McGrory, Robert Kelly, Jock Stein, Billy McNeil!
It doesn’t matter if you agreed with them or not, these were characters many of whom were hewn from the rocks of abject poverty. When it came to being in the vanguard of a fight for what they believed in and what they felt was of value, these men would lead those who at times didn’t even recognise the need, towards a future of hope.
Nothing could knock them off their chosen path and in times of adversity, the hope they instilled, realised or not, was in itself spiritually inspirational in its simplicity and honesty.
Read about them, but don’t weep that we have no-one of their calibre around now, for I believe that we just might have!
Men such as these are master craftsmen and while it is only when the work of art is finished that we can fully enjoy its being, we can also revel in the delights of watching him at work as he sets out his tools, selects his ingredients, and the way he moulds, and chips, and sculpts to create a reflection of his dream.
Through the mists of disappointment I see a shape manifesting itself in the early stages of fast accurate passing from back to front, supported by midfield thrusts of the unexpected, attacking left, attacking right, attacking through the middle, all built on a foundation of versatility, determination and the will to win!
Are we stuttering? Darn tootin’ we are!
Does that make the vision wrong? No way.
Do we need to allow the ingredients to blend? Of course we do!
Do we need to replace some ingredients? Probably!
Do we change the recipe? NO!
We are not going to be served with the score-line centric overpriced, fat-filled burger with a fast hit of artificially satisfying stimulants and e-numbers.
Our fare is that of not necessarily the finest ingredients, but definitely of those which have been selected and prepared individually, and then added to the mix at the right time in the right place.
This will be a feast not of the production line, but of the master chef in the finest of kitchens with a twinkle in his eye and the essence of magic dust at his finger tips which Midas like will once more return the gold standard of association football to its rightful home and its rightful owners!
I believe that Gordon Strachan is that master chef.
We all need to support him in his vision.
Even more we all need him to be our hero!
We’re all getting hungry Gordon so…..
Ready! Steady! Cook!
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