SANDMAN’S DEFINITIVE RATINGS: CELTIC @ LANDED GENTRY…
“Some people call him the Leith skleper, yeah. Some call him the gangster of love” The Joker, by Steve Miller.
B.A. BARKAS – 7/10
At least somebody was looking sharp. Quick footed and safe-handed, not tested much but generated plenty
confidence with his handling. Keen to launch counter-attacks. Good fists too – just ask Rocky.
HAT ATTACK – 6.5/10
Malaise-ridden as everyone else, stuttering, laden down by his moon-boots. But consistency is a base component required of every Mossad killing machine; so we do expect his instinctive ability to overwhelm temporary form – it took 90 minutes and then he whipped in the finest delivery of the day for Griff to score.
GREGGS THE BAKERS – 5/10
‘Fear is the mind-killer’, Frank Herbert wrote in Dune. ‘Greggs is the momentum-killer,’ I just wrote, right there.
No Greggs in Perth, just a few Pret A Manger; No Greggs on the park much, either. Checkmate is his favourite move – Check and pass it to a mate.
His risk-management is admirable if you’re a book-keeper for the church wimmins’ guild, holding off splashing out on the new line of Wool And The Gang Super Sexy Crazy Chunky Yarn. However, we’re in need of a roving left back who harbours the wild and crazy notion of slinging in an early cross more than once a season.
ALAN LADD – 6.5/10
Closer to expansive ranches than ever, he was tested up against a mobile frontline of local cattle-wranglers. Tested more than he might have anticipated but it did highlight his forte – essential blocks when we looked stretched and in trouble. Could, maybe should have scored given his quality in the air, and looked like he knew it.
AJER – 6.5/10
Feet, big man, FEET! As he staggered around like the rest, failing to be effective with any forward endeavours, scrappy in defence, it all came together in one Zidane-like deft flick of his longboats to syphon the ball out of trouble to Hat Attack wide and the imminent orgasmic finale. Quality.
PINGPONG – 6/10
He surged, he fell, he surged again, he fell, he surged again, he weaved… He won’t stop. So when we’re battering at closed doors, let him wander and wreak havoc. He still needs to find a final ball or three but the more we bring him into things, the more likely that becomes.
CALMAC – 6.5/10
Tock-tick went the Calmac clock, slightly out of kilter but by no means out of synch. He’s still the fulcrum and a frustrated one at that, as the passes weren’t quite splitting, and the runs not quite rewarding. But thank Henrik he was in there maintaining tempo when the final moments were causing others (yes, you…) to lose their
minds in a teeth-grinding flurry of angst and recrimination.
SAM JACKSON – 4/10
Muthutucka ain’t on no righteous path with a muthutuckin’ ambling display that was entirely like some pussy-assed Muthutucka hiding in hope for some royale-munching Muthutucka to save the daym day. If you ask this Muthutucka, it was entirely the muthutuckin’ performance of some wayward Muthutucka savin’ his ass for a last-
day-of-the-muthutuckin’-window flit…
EDDIE TRUNBULL – 4/10
Big chance, but too much for him at such venerable age (deceased). Seventy years ago he might have strolled it but given the main spot today, he recaptured Motherwell form when a Celtic played was required. We didn’t see urgency or belief; or the class that put such a price on his head. Not a lot of help around him, though.
ELSHAGYONLASSIE – 3/10
So the Scooby Doo gang failed to find him in Bosnia and in the upper middle class template for midsummer murders, he again went missing at the crime scene. Class in the boots requires a certain influence brought to bear, especially in these matches where journeymen opponents have their tails up and a rising excitement for filthy Ibrox adulation. Suffice to say his marker got more touches of his arse than he did the ball.
FRENCH EDDY – 3/10
Finally the game to match the demeanour so many of the emotionally-sensitive types have been triggered by. Not sure if there will be any satisfaction gleaned from squawking, ‘Telt ye he disnae care!’ in a Gary Tank Commander fuss, but our talisman again struggled for impact today and maybe reinforced the theory he’s 50% less effective on his own than partnered with another out-and-out striker. Cough, cough, two up front ffs, cough…
SUBS:
CORPUS CHRISTIE – 4.5/10
Sunday worship done at the Perth Cathedrals (no ‘church’ hovels in this town…) he turned up late and failed to be our saviour. Plenty involvement but woeful deliveries and timing as the ennui took hold of him too.
ROGIC – 4/10
Looked a desperate roll of the corks as Lennony threw in big Oz to our malfunctioning midfield and we only got a singular glimpse of his quality as he swivelled beautifully to break out of a press. More to come?
BROON – 6.5/10
LOL, how’s the Anti-Broon Bhoy Soccer Purists clique doing?
‘We’re a better footballing side without him in the team’: Tired cliche #107
‘Statistics prove it’. Tired cliche #108.
Statistics don’t have metrics for balls, drive and id.
We were Craigy Whyte; Broon appears: we win. Captain, leader, legend.
Will to power. Statistic that, stattos.
KLIMALA KLIMAX – 9/10 JOINT MOTM
Well, here’s the Polish 70s porn magnate, given half an hour to be effective where the golden hope has failed to impact. He rustled, burst with pace, found the critical half-yard, almost scored with an early guided touch while exemplifying forward movement in the box.
Then, the moment that gives you great heart and goodwill towards this bhoy’s Celtic future – survived a penalty box evisceration attempt by a slaughterhouse apprentice (hey, no foul from the schoolboy Bear wi’
the whistle!) and elasticated back onto his feet to fire an accomplished finish into the roof of the net. Achievement medal for that elusive metaphysical honour – a sub who changes/wins a game.
Magical moment #2
GRIFF – 9/10 JOINT MOTM
Ah-hahahhahahhahaaaa… “Pert”, Griff was told. “Like a burd’s erse. We’re playin’ in ‘Pert’ – ye comin'”? And like a Forrest with an empty pint glass, he was all-in. Would there be a miracle in munterville (young farmers; thin gentic line between identifying sexes…)? Would we – surely NOT… – see the 69th comeback of the Leith Skelper?
Was it even possible that Roy Of The Rovers could script such a ridiculous plot line – mad shagger wayward goalscoring legend seizes his last last last chance and bags a crucial winner for flagging champions?
Lmao, he did it. After amusing all with a contrived hitch-kick, which was basically Griff in the middle of describing a latest conquest’s favourite position to Paddy, BANG! – pops up on the end of Hat’s cross to whiplash a header into the bottom corner and ignite ecstasy in Celt-land the world over. Magical Moment #1
The mad bam’s back; Sparky with a spark. Who do we play next?
LENNONY – 6/10
Annnnd, it’s Lennony, by the skin of his fore… Major shuffle did nothing to add invigoration and he looked to be despairing with the rest of us as his choices floundered like Perth farmhands trying to find a virgin. Among the livestock. Nothing was working, so he did what was expected of him, and went to his subs. More than usual. In fact, Pistol Pete was sweating it in the director’s box for a while as we dug around for a top in his size…
But in the end – The. Very. Flaming. END… Lennony got it right, and your venom turned to honey in one fell snap of a beloved madman’s tefal heid. Jings. And phew. Two up front, anyone?
OVERALL – 4/10…9/10!
Grimly flaming magnificent. The worst performance of the season throws up the best finish of the season. Obituaries were being written, Slippy G’s face was being photoshopped onto images of attractive naked babes – and animals… – all across the Hinternet, sashes were being turned into makeshift soft-bondage restraints to secure some of the ugliest female humans ever to be categorised under the genus Homo…
Then the unhealthy merriment of les ames de boue was slain through its dark heart by not one, but TWO diamond-in-the-rough bad-boy strikers reborn in the Hoops.
Until that coruscating finale we were dire, pedestrian and criminally disinterested; lacking drive and leadership (Ahem, Broonless afficianados…) and looking hopeful to sneak away with a point after they luckily smacked the post with us at their mercy.
But, as more sage Ones are want to tell their rabid hordes who eat their own heads at Celtic climaxes like today – THAT’S what Champions do!
A win from nothing is a win more spiced than Dune, a world-beating tonic for a tired and rudderless side who looked destined to fulfil the grave warnings accompanying two listless euro efforts.
Forget the bollocks you watched for 90 minutes. Forget the frustrated ire, watching capable professionals clatter around like rudderless, hungover Sunday league savages (hellos lads! Long time…) – THIS was a classic CELTIC hat-pull; glory from grim, a whine turned to a win.
We’ll remember nothing about this 90-minute migraine apart from the blistering clarity of vision from the adrenalin shot of last-second victory. It was a metaphor for the past, and a prophetic call to the future; Even during the horrors of the early nineties, we clung onto the tenets of truth passed down generations – that, like all things beautiful about Glasgow Celtic, glory was just around the corner.
Again.
And it happened again, just like you hoped and dreamed and prayed it might. Savour it.
Go Away Now.
Sandman
