JUST WHEN you thought you had seen, heard and read it all and Celtic’s detractors had exhausted their list of imbecilic comments, up pops another with a preposterous suggestion that makes you wonder what colour the sky is on their planet.
Are the men with the self-hugging cardis on red alert 24/7 when this particular “football expert” opens his mouth?
Maybe they’ve moved April Fool’s Day this year?
Amid the veritable Niagara of nonsense to have assailed our lugs over the past few days, another doolally nugget has surfaced.
You really have to wonder if Lord George Foulkes, the former Hearts chairman, has perfected the art of speaking with his foot entrenched in his mouth.
Is he, in fact, the possessor of a kooky sense of humour?
Could he be the life and soul of the Labour party?
JUST CHAMPION…Martin O’Neill holds aloft the glittering prize, the Premiership trophy.
It appears all will be well with the world again, conflicts between warring nations will cease immediately and taxes will be abolished if Celtic do the honourable thing and hand the newly-won Premiership title to his beloved Tynecastle club.
Foulkes posted on X: “It is now open for @CelticFC to take account of recent revelations and concede victory to @JamTarts
“Their stature would rise enormously and it would set the scene for a fair and possibly crisis and trouble free contest next season.”
Hmmmm…
Maybe Celtic should consider handing over the European Cup to Inter Milan for having the audacity to publicly embarrass the Italian superstars by playing them off the pitch in Lisbon fifty-nine years ago today?
I’m sure the San Siro hierarchy would appreciate the gesture.
Was Foulkes preparing for a giggle-fest when he reflected on the champions’ 3-1 victory over Derek McInnes’ side and absurdly claimed the “result appeared predetermined”?
Skulduggery in the corridors of power in Scottish football?
Perhaps this is a form of satire that has flown over my head?
JUST CHAMPION…Callum McGregor and his Celtic team-mates celebrate the team’s fifth successive title and a record 56th crown.
We are still awaiting a scintilla of proof any of the visiting Tynecastle contingent were, in fact, harmed by fans who encroached on the pitch AFTER referee Don Robertson had blown for full-time.
Tony Bloom, with a 29 per cent stake in the Edinburgh club, has already informed us: “The Hearts players were in danger, one or two got assaulted. It’s completely unacceptable behaviour.”
Just to jog your memory, dear reader, that game at Celtic Park was concluded in the late Saturday afternoon of May 16.
Nine days have elapsed in the intervening period.
Still no sign of images of visiting players being assaulted.
Still no sign of a medical certificate to substantiate any allegations of physical abuse.
And there’s some other bloke who insists Celtic should be given a fine and suspended two-point deduction.
When does this madness come to an end?
The SFA have confirmed the game was NOT abandoned and the match official had signalled the end of the match.
Eight minutes were added on and the official game clock showed it had edged beyond the allocated time.
JUST CHAMPION…Celtic’s winning double-act of Martin O’Neill and Callum McGregor.
I said in a previous column that in the outpouring of vitriol and bile we seemed to have lost sight of the fact Celtic had just won their fifth successive title, their fourteenth championship in the past 15 years, twentieth flag this century and a record 56th crown.
Okay, the fans should not have been on the pitch, we all acknowledge that.
What is incomprehensible, though, is the venom and bitterness triggered by the praiseworthy achievement of the Celtic manager, his players and backroom staff.
Forget the thirty-seven games prior to the visit of Hearts.
Ignore the feat of Martin O’Neill and his players had to overcome adversity in the fall-out of the Wilfried Nancy trainwreck.
Overlook a team seemingly out on their feet after a dismal 2-0 loss to Dundee United at Tannadice on March 22, but somehow showed commendable true grit to get off the canvas and emerge triumphant in seven consecutive encounters.
Some folk do not possess the gift of class that comes with being a winner.
Maybe they’ll get over it some day?
Maybe the sun will be blotted out by flying pigs?
Who cares?
ALEX GORDON
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