THE clock is ticking, tomorrow’s 11pm transfer deadline is looming, much gnashing of teeth is imminent, poison pens are quivering, disparaging and slanderous remarks are being prepped, panic buttons are waiting invitingly and the Grim Reaper is standing by before merrily picking through the carnage.
I may be misreading the signals, but there appears to be a platoon of angst-ridden serial complainers just itching to get at the airwaves to vent their spleen the moment the clock strikes eleven.
The angry brigade are primed and good to go as they prepare to unleash their colourful invective with insults flying hither and yon.
Celtic will NOT get every target that was on the manager’s wish list. Accept that fact. There will be valid reasons for some of the ducks not being aligned.
You can’t always get what you want, warbled Mick Jagger back in the day.
IT TAKES TWO…chairman Peter Lawwell and chief executive Michael Nicholson.
Most of us occupy the real world. We accept, grudgingly at times, the harsh facts that are presented in front of us.
Some of us cope; some of us crumble.
A few of the perma-disgruntled assembly exchanged words with Celtic chairman Peter Lawwell before the champions’ 3-0 triumph over St Mirren in storm-lashed Paisley on Sunday.
One of the more vitriolic members of the gathering advised the club’s supremo to “get the f****n’ money spent”.
As the world is aware, Celtic, of course, are knee-deep in the mighty moolah, filthy lucre, folding stuff, lolly, dosh, spondoolicks. Pick your own term.
Presumably, the less-than-erudite chap was urging the club’s hierarchy to dip willy-nilly into their vast cash reserves to provide Brendan Rodgers with a blank cheque book to fire off gargantuan sums of money to significantly strengthen his squad as Celtic prepare for an onslaught at home and in the Champions League.
If only…
The last time I looked, this was Thursday morning, a gas bill is due and my missus wants me to accompany her on our weekly shopping expedition to the local supermarket where I get to joust with old ladies armed with trolleys. On occasion, I escape unscathed.
This is real life. Celtic may well not be able to “get the f****n’ money spent”.
TAKING NOTES…Brendan Rodgers has a shopping list.
Possibly other clubs will not be persuaded to part with their most valuable assets. So, prepare yourself for some disappointments, but please refrain from taking to the streets and screaming like grief-stricken banshees.
Such actions don’t serve your argument well plus there is always The Noise Abatement Society to consider.
I make no secret of the fact I am an acquaintance of my fellow-Celtic fan Peter Lawwell. And long may that situation continue.
For whatever reason, an individual who has been at Celtic in a variety of guises as they have won THIRTY-SIX of 41 trophies in the 21st Century has been singled out by a sector of the support for the most unreasonable criticism.
Why should this be? An unhealthy obsession? Unjustifiable jealousy? Senseless bandwagon? Lemming-like devotion to self-serving ringleaders?
I am more likely to fathom the complexities of nuclear fission than come up with an answer to that particular conundrum.
Apparently, it was Peter Lawwell’s fault Celtic did not win ten in a row. That will be the same Lawwell who sanctioned a record fee of £4.5million for a goalkeeper, Vasilis Barkas from AEK Athens, before the kick-off to that ill-fated crusade.
The-then chief executive also gave the green light for £5million to be spent on striker Albian Ajeti from West Ham.
I don’t think you can hold Lawwell accountable for the fact that both turned out to be duds.
What about the failure to sign John McGinn from Hibs in August 2018? I’ve noted over the years that the blame apparently lies with the same Peter Lawwell.
He won’t thank me for this, but sources elsewhere have confirmed the amount of mobile phone calls that were made by him to representatives of the player to try to entice McGinn to boyhood favourites Celtic, the club where his grandfather Jack had been a former chairman.
MIDFIELD DYNAMO…John McGinn in action for Scotland in June.
So, why did McGinn sign for Aston Villa? I’ve already answered this question on numerous occasions and another once won’t do any harm.
Steve Bruce, the Midlands club’s manager, met the player and reassured him he was going to build his midfield around the Scotland international.
No such security was offered by Brendan Rodgers. It would have been an extremely foolish commitment if the Irishman had done so.
In any case, McGinn would have been vying with Scott Brown and Callum McGregor for roles in the team’s engine room and it was hardly likely the influential club captain or his equally-inspirational skipper-in-waiting would have been sacrificed.
So, without any rash or foolhardy promises from Rodgers, the combative middle-of-the-park enforcer went to Villa for a fee of £2.75million, a figure Celtic could have at least matched. I am reliably informed the Parkhead club’s contract offer of £25,000-per-week over four years was identical to that of the English club, then in the second tier. Money, therefore, was not an issue.
End of story? Don’t be daft. This erroneous tale will run as long as Agatha Christie’s intriguing whodunnit ‘The Mousetrap‘. And that’s been on the go since I made my debut on this planet. That was a long time ago, folks.
Meanwhile, back to the foul-mouthed gentleman outside St Mirren’s ground on the Sabbath, may I inform him and his cohorts they were a lot more fortunate than any agitated Celtic supporter back in the early sixties when the team and the club were an embarrassment?
One of my earliest memories of matchday at Parkhead came in the aftermath of a 1-0 home loss to our old foes Rangers on New Year’s Day in 1964. I was eleven at the time and was led by my dad John and uncles George and Hughie to the front door of the grey, foreboding building.
FROM DOLDRUMS TO DELIGHT…Celtic chairman Robert Kelly accepts the applause of the Celtic fans in the late sixties, an entirely different scenario from the beginning of the decade.
We had spent a less-then-comfortable 90 minutes watching from The Jungle as Jimmy McGrory’s team were dismantled and any pretence of a challenge for the title vanished amid the puffs of vapour on a bitingly cold winter’s afternoon in the east end of Glasgow.
The inhabitants of the decrepit corrugated iron facade were less than overjoyed at what they had witnessed. A brand new year had been ushered in and expectancy levels of something more worthwhile had already been banished to football’s dustbin of dreams.
A few supporters gathered outside the fortress and, possibly fortified by firewater from the previous evening’s festivities, called for resignations among the board.
Robert Kelly had been chairman of the club since 1947. Celtic hadn’t won the championship since 1938 before claiming it in 1954. It would be another 12 years before they were crowned champions again.
Unlike today, these were tough and barren times to be endured by anyone with an allegiance to Celtic. Throughout this austere period, Kelly appeared as immoveable – and as inaccessible – as Mount Rushmore. And just about as unapproachable.
No-one could remember him ever facing unhappy Celtic fans to possibly offer any explanation as to why the club was stuck in the doldrums.
If my dad and my uncles – and the others who displayed displeasure that afternoon – believed for a moment they were about to be granted an audience with Kelly to get some answers from the remote Celtic chief I can only reflect and admire their optimism; misguided though it may have been.
Peter Lawwell could have ignored those fans at the weekend. He chose to go into their company, albeit briefly.
A fairly astute human being, he could have anticipated the call to “get the f****n’ money spent”.
Celtic will not have the guarantee of Champions League millions this time next year, but I can assure you they are eager to bolster Brendan’s squad in the here and now.
Peter Lawwell and everyone else at the club can live without unnecessary distractions from folk who profess to have the club’s best interests at heart.
Do these fairly uncouth characters not take into account every syllable of their obnoxious barbs present a symphony of delight and joy across Glasgow?
What a wonderful sideshow to deflect from their own landslide of problems. Celtic, a team who have won their first three fixtures in their quest for a fourth successive title, their thirteenth flag in 14 years and their 55th crown in their glorious history, fighting among themselves?
I couldn’t even begin to hazard a guess as to what my old dad John and my uncles George and Hughie would make of this confounding situation.
Even dear old Agatha might struggle for an answer.
ALEX GORDON
