“He’s always, scoring goals
His name is French Eddy
He’s always, scoring goals
His name is French Eddy
I wanna, I wanna
I wanna be Edouard
I wanna, I wanna
I wanna be Edouard”
Stone Roses, ‘I want To Be Edouard’.
“3-2, Wahoo! Look at you!
3-4? Shut the fecking door…”
Hoopy The Huddle Hound Childrens’ Nursery Rhyme Hour, Celtic TV.
BANE – 3/10
Spooked! Thought he was channeling Van Helsing, turns out it was Shaggy from Scooby Doo. No chance with the first. Second? GRASP the ball, TAKE the boot, GET the free-kick. Instead, he lets it slip, flopped to the deck, rolled the dice. Pussy. Expecting the referee to grant a foul. Nope. Corner, and penalty thanks to Captain Calamity. Their killer third? Shot bounces in front of him, having plenty time to see it coming, dollys it straight to Kanye West who slams it in and kills us. Nope. Disaster. Big Craig the Cat watching on – shakes his head, mutters, ‘Yup.’ Gloves still fit?
AJER – 6/10
Big Ironside. Ragin but unbowed. Applied himself best he could, rattled a few, ultimately caught no-man’s for some of their goals. Unlucky not to score himself. Handled the chaos well, which grants him a pass for keeping it disciplined enough at the back.
JOZO – 5.5/10
Another just-about success who did his job. Given time to recover from injury – which turned out to be a cunning ruse so that he could cultivate a Mikey J tribute bouffant. Some splendid interceptions. But also seemed to get lost in the ridiculous Keystone Cops ending when he should have been cracking heids and dictating the defensive script.
HAT ATTACK – 6/10
Mossad genetic experiment working well at right back, almost eclipsing Swedish legend’s memory. Undeserved booking early on did not quell his enthusiasm or composure. A good prospect, who was gutted as you or I at the final whistle.
BROON – 3/10
Really? From vampire slayer to gormless henchman. Just when the evil dead were on their backs and the hammer poised to plunge the stake into their collective hearts, and condemn them to Hades – or the Europa – our most experienced player, Captain, leader, collossus -who’d battled Celtic back into glory – decides he’s Talita Antunes, Brazilian beach volleyball babe and inexplicably – even beyond Rangers still being in existence – SLAPS at a deep corner. Penalty. But wait, the noose is slackened, the rope snaps as Corpus saves his soul, and he knows it. And he revels in it. For ten minutes, until somebody turns the shotgun back on our clown shoes and Captain Marvel again becomes Captain Muppet. F.e.c.k.i.n.g Crazy. One word, Broony – WHIT?
CALMAC – 5/10
Left back? Eh? Thought the line-up had him in the midfield with time to pick killer passes all game long. But no, suddenly we’re channelling Rodgers at Mordor and he’s excruciatingly ineffective at left-back. And even then, he’s not at it, not sharp, not causing damage. Blunt. Punt? Too late, Brendan.
SAM JACKSON – 7/10
And the path of the righteous M****f***a is besest on all sides by M****f****s
m****f***in’ things up just when the M****f***a with the m****f***in guile is
on his game, spinnin’, swingin’ , dictatin’ the m****f***in game… And, WOW
M****F***AS – the M****f***as all around is blowin’ the gig! This M****f***a ain’t hangin’ around for doomsday no more. THIS M****f***a is GONE, baby – another Euro game m****f***in m****f***ed by m****f***in lunacy is another m****f***in’ game too m****f***in’ many for a cat concerned with high-level m****f***ery. Looked at Broony’s penalty gift like, ‘What the m****f***in’ m****f**k, M****f***a?’ M****f***a lost to us m****f***as now, and all-in you got to assess the M****f***a’s claims of inferior performance levels after that m****f***in shambles as absolute m****f***in AYE, m****f***as.
FORREST – 6.5/10
Flash, ahh-ah! We’ve used that one before, and seen this Jamesy performance before
– terrorising then anonymous; exhilarating then frustrating. Brilliant goal – heart-pumping
dithering before an exquisite finish. Then… Not able to kill them off. Toying with their panic; inviting them to sigh with relief when he should have been throttling them into submission. Ultimately, head-shaking remorse at full-time and zippers up.
CORPUS CHRISTIE – 8/10 MOTM
Forces of evil ready to thwart him, the Son Of Man dazzled vampires all evening. Even when the sunlight had faded he tormented them with his movement and impact, all but condemning them to defeat with our – perceived – killer third. No blame upon this Child Of The Light as team-mates let him down badly in the face of ancient darkness.
MIKEY J – 4/10
He joined the Lost Boys this evening. An 80s retro bouffant is no match for a troop of soulless warriors from a land beyond Godless. He flattered to deceive, raised so many
expectations he began to resemble a viral pic of a candid Kelly Brook shower scene
from Weird Science. Couldn’t find a killer ball never mind a wooden stake. Shooting silver bullets all night.
EDOUARD – 7/10
Everyone wants to be him and he’s adored. And he WAS adored, almost to Charlie Manson
levels until calamity. Swept home the almost-winner ragged and tagged them all game,
took the punishment, exemplified a striker on his game crying out form mor esupport and
better service. Mysteriously subbed when we were chasing GOALS. Eh? EH?
SUBS:
GRIFF – 5/10
ONE sniff, ONE great moment to make him a legend and he fluffed it; unlucky but… Well,
that header was just not glanced enough to finish them. On for that particular second, it
agonisingly slipped away.
MORGAN FREEMAN JR. – 3/10
His Dad can execute a great cameo, the bhoy cannot. Why we saw him instead of Griff first is a question lost in despair. Running out of lines to impress us with.
BAYO – N/A
Thrown on, never serviced, hardly a touch, no impact. still can’t tell whether we got a
Son Of A Gun or Son Of A Bitch.
LENNONY – 4/10
Sucker. Listened to the fans. Played to the moaners. Dropped the men he paid big money for. Now he’ll suffer. The knives will be out and he’s got only himself to blame. WHERE was the LENNONY Euro-tempo that is Celtic’s signature in great Euro victories under his directorship? Instead, he gave a re-shuffled team an entire half to get used to new positioning before we could get our act together. STICK to the winning formula. It was almost beyond us, then we salvaged a glorious victory in true Lennony battling style…
Only to completely feck it up. Big mhen let a big mhan down. He’ll carry the can for the
idiocy of trusted servants. His peculiar Rodgers-esque set-up was all but forgotten until
that late-game insanity. However, the drama queens and the perma-hindsight-supersayers will slaughter him. Ultimately, your tactics let them turn it into a basketball game, Lennony, and Celtic paid the price for it.
OVERALL – 5/10
Bollocks. Brilliant! Bollocks. Brilliant x 2! Bollocks x fecking WHIT?!? Nuts. Fecking NUTS. The NBA came to town and the Glasgow Celtics faced off against the Cludgie F***tards. Aided and abetted by the screwball umpire and his 1970s approach to rules application the Cludgie F***tards sensationalised the Romanian empire by screwing the Celts for 4 to 3 and orgasmatroning Dan the Man Petri-dish into Vampire Valhalla.
Ultimatley the Celts Of old Glesgae Town refused to cold-blooodedly murder the Transylvanian
wildlings even as they lay prone before their scintillating enterprise awaiting euthanization. Instead, the gregarious Bhoys form the auld East End turned their shotgun upon themselves! BAM! BAM-fecking-BAM!
And those most giving of Hooped heroes struck a blow for empathetic souls everywhere by
sacrificing their own glory for the bemused but happy Romanian bloodsuckers to wallow in,
and gleeful Zombies to rejoice.
Tales will be told, memories passed down through generations of inbred Transylvanian families of the night ancient dark arts triumphed in the glory of Paradise. Of how the children of the righteous lay down their weapons of skill and guile TWICE and somehow facilitated the hideous thrashing commitment of a generally inferior side ripe for a PUMPING to somehow WIN against the odds.
Great proclamations of joy will be heralded in the surroundings of Castle Alucard and the
gloom of valleys beyond as villages celebrate temporary reprieve from the sacrifice of virgins. Meanwhile, across the world of mhen, there will be rumination and lamenting as fingers close upon empty palms where visions of glory once materialised yet slipped away under deep frowns of utter bewilderment. And the mhen and ghirls will pose the eternal question of their fallen warriors and masters of the Celt universe while Zadok The Priest heralds glory in places beyond their palace of worship:
What. The. Actual. Feck. Happened?
Sandman
