LENNONY – 7.5/10
Well, what a set-up. Basically surrendering any notion of midfield dominance and challenging them to go toe-to-toe with us. Not my idea of a party in Govania. But… Well, he triumphed. The Bhoys ultimately showed their class and probably their belief in the manager, which is a Very. Good. Thing.
He rolled the dice (again) and won.
We existed on a knife-edge for the vast percentage of the game, but you have to give credit to the faith in the system and abilities on the park. I’m delighted he got the performance and result after May’s debacle, but after seeing them up close and their limited offensive (yes, I know they are) options, might Lennony feel he gave them TOO much respect? With a stronger midfield – Sam J on from the start – we might have snuffed them out early and had a right party.
However, the Ginger General’s taken enough flak already this season from the non-believers, so let’s laud the conquering Caesar deservedly for his rout of the unholy sons of Satan’s whores.
OVERALL – 8/10
And so with his heid shaved like Ripley in Alien 3, Captain Broon led his merry band of spaced-out marines into the decrepit colonial outpost to face the seething frenzy of mesomorphic, zenophobic, xenomorphic nightmares loyal to their reptilian Queen.
We wondered if the script would change in this 3rd installment of the horror series, a third visit within a year to LV-16-90, if this time we really would take off and nuke th insipid joint from orbit.
And so, with tickets only available to those of Cuckoo’s Nest optimism, our fearless Bhoys were enclosed by four facades of fury – swathes of gruesome genetic aberrations, a spangle-brained gimpfest from Jim Henson’s worst acid-induced nightmares….
A feckwit funfair. A bigot boogie bash… You get the awful picture…
So we were posed with questions: – exactly where do the punters go when the Star Wars Bar empties? Easily answered, and others – would our team fold under the raucous promptings of the Onion Bawbag Ultra-Benders who’d taken over the Holy Broomloan end and were still awaiting exorcism?
Well, despite the enchanting folk ballads and lullabies from an age of enlightemnent our players were not beguiled by the ugliest scenes in world football and produced a challenging counter-performance to the two abysmal efforts of recent times.
In fact, you could argue this was a perfect foil to the expected assault, choosing not to impose ourselves too much upon a game played at frenetic pace, but to stand off and when required trade punches with a drunken foe, buoyed beyond his capabilities by too much of the electric soup.
I prefer to take the ball off them and have them chase it like tweakers after a smack hit, but… Horses for courses, and our scant midfield were always going to be looking to steal and counter their weighty five. We did it really well, we took their breath and hopes away sweetly and drained their self-confidence.
It was, and is, a beautiful thing of special moments – Like Broony in a blonde wig, channelling Uma Thurman in Kill Bill, Maradonna-ing his way through the slavering just as she, surrounded, took on a dozen assassins with her samurai blade; like Sam J and Eddy combining outside their box, footwork baffling the shared scouser brain-cell, almost scoring a peach; like big forgotten Nir stepping-in to absolutely snatch the breath from them at the point of Defud scoring and casually block it out for a corner.
All those moments WON’T be lost in time, because we will remember them and praise our Bhoys for them – for the day we rattled the monkeys’ cage in their own human zoo and took a massive step towards the NINE.
Sandman Out. To Sober Up.
(CLICK BUTTON TOP RIGHT TO CONTINUE…)
