Sandman’s Definitive Ratings – Celtic v Saint Billy’s XI

SANDMAN’S DEFINITIVE RATINGS: CELTIC v SAINT BILLY’S XI…

“Yeah, that’s my real name. Irish on one side, Mexican on the other… and me in the middle.” – O’Reilly, in The Magnificent Seven.

Any you thought he was Danish…

ROXIE – 6.5/10 –  After years in Berlin cabaret bars, she’s living out her Beckenbauer fantasy at the Celtic Park cabaret, dictating play from the back, looming near the centre circle; soon to be making supporting runs alongside Kyogo at Hampden next week. Saves? Eh, naw. LOL.

GREGGS THE BAKER – 7.5/10 – The sheer industry of the country’s finest baker is an example to behold – surging runs from the first whistle, rotating inside, bursting through channels; culminated in setting up the crucial opener with some sharp interplay. A player relishing this style of play that allows him to maximise his capabilities and make a fine contribution.

STAR LORD – 7/10 –  No mad eccentricities until the dying moments, and even then it was odds-on he’d throw it in for lolz. Kept it crisp and simple, shifting the ball quick as he could into the midfield. Tapless racoon sighted in the North Curve giving it laldy on its day off.

GET CARTER – 7/10 – Skelping berserker warmed up for the Easter Sunday comedy repeat by coasting through an afternoon that brought about the least physical threat from St.Johnstone he’ll experience. Mainly due to the tempo and possession we maintained. Barely broke sweat or was required to rickroll a farmer.

JURAN JURAN – 7.5/10 – Second pen against bluenose in nets, second snap into the same corner as earlier in the season. Beautifully dispatched by our live-wire roaming right back. So close to a second with a sweeping free-kick that clipped the post and had me on my knees with an 80/1 wager on him nailing a double. Damn you, universe.

CALMAC – 8/10 – His masked superhero nomenclature is The Metronome. One push from Ange as we head down the tunnel and he’s on it, tick-tocking, tikki-takka-ing, prompting and conducting. And at times, it’s even if he were composing; dramatic, uplifting symphonies of play written by Celtic’s Ludwig Van McGregor.

ROGIC – 7/10 – Jeez, more sickos in Royal Blue to bedazzle, mayte. So we got 45 minutes of diluted- skelping and a few sumptuous moments of Oz at play, surfboards for boots, riding the waves, mesmerising his way around them. Might have scoped a peach with a cheeky poke, might refine it perfectly for next week.

HAKUNA HATATE – 7.5/10 – Combined brilliantly with  Greggs The Baker to notch the opener which led to the floodgates opening after and enjoyed his Saturday afternoon activities before making way for the second wave of the Celtic tsunami which in now heading in the general direction of Mount Florida and should wash away any lingering season salvaging hopes a week today.

Second chance at being a driver after hitching a lift on the Celtic express last week,
and he eclipsed that by putting the goggles on and carrying out Emperor Postecoglu’s mission to the death. Sublime interlinking, inhabiting spaces they didn’t realise existed, sweeping home the early strike with killer precision, and generally looking more like the pure wee footballer of his early Celtic appearances.

NOTEBOOK – 7/10 – Almost quiet by his standards, but still impactful enough to lay on the killer third with a cross exhibiting more whip than Allan McGregor’s favourite dominatrix. You could summarise Notebook’s recent contribution as being ‘useful’ if not as sparkling as the previous months. But I suspect this lull may end in the remaining games with some devastation meeted out by his dancing feet.

SON OF JACKIE – 7/10 – Ach. Threw us back to Henrik in the Hate Pit, 2001, with that acute slider of a finish. His first two-touch goal of the season, but also followed by his second breakdown of the season. We await news on that troublesome hammy with grim optimism.

LORD KATSUMOTO – 8.5/10 MOTM – Petrified posh Perthians gulped down their sparkling mineral water and hoped their hulking farmhands might employ mighty strides to thwart our law-of-conservation-of-energy-defying perpetual motion machine.

Fail.

Can’t stop. Won’t stop. A genetic cross of great white shark and ferreting terrier, there’s more chance of peace between Will Smith and Chris Rock than defences get here. Although, you’d also fancy Daizen to bang his missus too…Throw in a goal from a deftly-glanced header and an assist later on when he’d earned the right to a rest, then we’ve got a complete special-team in the one player. Who’s also just finished the Grand National course as a warm-down.

SUBS:

THE BUILDER – 8/10 – Good God what a cameo. The most entertaining since Keith Richards popped up in Pirates Of The Caribbean. Two cracking goals as he replaced Oz to impersonate…Eh, Oz. This Danish wonderkid signing deserves a statue built in his honour; from Lego.

ABADASS – 7/10 – Bang! goes the gun, and out of the traps comes our whippet. Bang! goes the boot and he notches a fine strike. Then he was on a roll but the finishing was off, yet threw in an assist and generally looked fresh and troublesome.

MR.KOBAYASHI – N/A – “My name is Kobayashi. I work for Keyser Soze. You have stolen from Mr.Soze, Zombies.. All of you. A tainted title, joy, borrowed time, existence itself…That you did not know you stole from him is the only reason you are still alive. He feels you owe him. You will repay your debt.”

No they won’t, they never do. But somebody’s back to punish them…

MCCARTHYISM – N/A – Almost forgot he was still here, hanging about, keeping out of trouble and off the treatment table. So far…

EDDIE TURNBULL – N/A – Unforgiven for his controversial comments onScottish crofting practices in the March 1953 edition of ‘People’s Friend’ these farmers took the opportunity to kick the bejeezus out of him for his short tenure. Thanfully, Dallas the younger was on hand to protect* our gifted ball-player.

*not.

ANITA DOBSON – 8/10 – We go again. And again. And Ange made sure last Sunday’s starting eleven got the chance to redeem themselves for letting such a mincey wee club run us so close, by fielding the same team against last season’s double-cup winners and proper non-Matrix Manager Of The Year. And how they responded to the message; No complacency – at it from the start, as demanded of them. The hard work on the fields of Lennoxtown is evident as he changed half the side during the 90 and the flow remained uninterrupted. And on Monday he’ll demand they reset and go again. Again.

MIBBERY – 2/10 – You know it’s getting desperate in the Cloven Hoof Cabal when they regain consciousness from collapsing to the floor spanking over the Zombie Euro Petrofac Cup exploits and panic enough to throw in the Son Of Satan to ref this one. Personally, I would have played the sounds of shattering glass over the PA system to bring about disturbing flashbacks from his traumatic childhood. However, his influence was restricted to making sure one Bhoy got a hiding late on, and he even awarded a blatant pen. Albeit with tears in his eyes. Do you love me now, Daddy?! Do you?!!

No. No, he doesn’t.

OVERALL – 8.5/10 – How? Just how… Can this routine annihilation elicit such shredded nerves until the 7th minute?

It’s No Sleep Til Brookyn time – FIVE to go. SIX (minimum) clear and a zillion goals to the good. All season we snuck a glance up at Karma after every promising result compounded; as if the existential concept were a fat Hindu trickster or rotund Buddhist prankster dangling a sword of Damocles over us the form of bittersweet delusion…

But no, the circus rolls on, the Horrible Hounds of Hades bark but the Angevan pays no heed. A squad in focussed synchronicity, out to prove a point and smack shut the sneering gubs of a season past.

A coaching team in barely credulous harmony, governed by a Bossman with an easy manner yet steely intent. And us, marvelling at the sheer nerve and courage of this new cohort of players daring to play the Celtic way, the Angeball of SMSM derision, but a force of football irresistible in this dominion of servility and subjugation.

Emancipate yourself from mental slavery, said Marcus Garvey, sang Bob Marley, crooned Joe Strummer; None but ourselves can free our minds. We find that freedom through the poetic expression of tribalism upon the field of Paradise. And how these Bhoys are setting our embattled spirits free in this most unexpected of seasons.

Back from the devastation of a generation’s hopes, and so close to vengeful soaring triumph – like a Phoenix from the ashes of the TEN, ready to burn Phoenix Nights across the city to the ground. Again. We Don’t Stop. We Go Again. COYBIG.

Go Away Now.

Sandman

About Author

The Celtic Star founder and editor, who has edited numerous Celtic books over the past decade or so including several from Lisbon Lions, Willie Wallace, Tommy Gemmell and Jim Craig. Earliest Celtic memories include a win over East Fife at Celtic Park and the 4-1 League Cup loss to Partick Thistle as a 6 year old. Best game? Easy 4-2, 1979 when Ten Men Won the League. Email editor@thecelticstar.co.uk

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