Sandman’s Definitive Ratings – Celtic v The King Herod Select

OVERALL – 3.5/10 – Happy New Year. Who’d have though that at this point in the far future the Celtic script would have already been written all those years ago by Monty Python –

A board who are so incompetent they can’t even can’t sack themselves; punters who want them to, support split into warring factions unsure of what happens after that; a French manager who spouts incomprehensible whimsy like Jim Morrison off his tits on acid but without the poetic licence; and a new loan signing who hasn’t played for four months to replace the fullback who can’t play for another three…

Welcome to 2026.

A game of one half. Our recent habit, jokingly referenced in the stands with gallows humour at the break. Surely we’d get it right today, after pummelling them all opening 45 like Joshua on Jake Paul? Well, second-half in a gleaming Paradise in the bitter chill of a January sun turned out much like following a red balloon into a sewer on a miserable rainy day in February; the evil entities were lurking, waiting to really introduce the killer-clown show soon as the whistle went for the restart.

Which is when this Celtic side hits some sort of fugue, wandering around trance-like unable to recall the dynamic, destructive force they had been all first-half. Does Bill flaming Cosby provide the half-time refreshments? This should have been the comprehensive destruction derby, a slaughter of the not-so-innocents to flip the tables on King Herod’s favourite new pretendyklub.

Instead, somehow, one alteration by their latest uber-fuhrer had us bewildered, brow-beaten and well-beaten; soon as that second freebie goal went in you knew this Celtic collective didn’t have the character or verve to come back. The third was almost inevitable, and our Bhoys finished looking incompetent and mildly pathetic, far too easily cowed despite the manager’s shortcomings.

If they want to wear the jersey, then try and fill it. That means competing regardless of backstage disputes or disenchantment. That means 90 minutes of energised belief in who you are and who you represent. I get the methods aren’t working, and not to the liking of most, I suspect. But you don’t lie down to the Zombies after 45 minutes of near papping them out of existence and get a pass for your lazy partial-efforts. No, screw that.

As for the grandly titled ‘BOARD’S OPERATIONAL REVIEW’, let me flaming fill this one in for you, Michael and Brian, because I know you’re overworked, what with sitting for hours in front of mirrors practicing your thousand-yard stares for matchdays:

The coaching team YOU employed are out of their depth. I’d provide the statistical data on coloured graphs with spreadsheet details to give you a semi but the basic numbers – six defeats out of eight, with no Real Madrid, Barca or Bayern among those opponents, are clarity enough. The match-tactics deployed are one-dimensional; conceptually-engaging, yes, but anyone can talk a good game and seemingly, if you adopt an esoteric foreign accent, beguile your ‘Football Doctor Sleep’, Tisdale.

The footballing approach is inflexible and possessing of an Achilles’ Heel – innate defensive fragility that can be, has been, and will continue to be, exploited by opponents great and small. And Zombie-ish. Giving this incumbent tens of millions of your hard-scammed filthy lucre to spend on projects he hopes will fit a vulnerable playing system is a formula designed to set the club, and company balance sheet, back several years. Get alarmed. Now.

I’d petition you to practice some harsh and timely risk-management and cut your losses before your margin-call comes in and you’re liquidated. You’ve got a few weeks to grow a backbone, bite the bullet, fire it in the direction of that hollow, repetitive Gallic echo and then pick up the phone to a hard-bitten player-wrangler who can quickly get the listless, restless playing squad into disciplined focus once more.

Before it’s too late.

Do your jobs. Properly.

Roll on 2027…

Go Away Now

Sandman

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