Quantcast

Celtic hit £101m turnover

543

Celtic reported turnover of £101.6m for the year to 30 June 2018, the first time the club broke through the £100m barrier.  Just as income rose from £90.6m the previous year, costs rose to £87.1m (2017; £76.3m).

The club was profitable to the tune of £17.3m, buoyed by gain on the sale of player registrations of £16.5m.  Without Champions League football, this season’s results will be significantly different, but net cash (after debt and similar were deducted) was £27.0m, so we can continue to operate without the need to cut costs.

The most striking aspect of these figures is that, with the current wage structure, we are roughly breakeven with Champions League income (before player trading).

We are in the middle of first team contract renewals, which will push wages higher still.  We are increasing our cost structure despite the lack of Champions League football, but this is necessary.  There are risks (transfer market crash), but these are no more relevant to Celtic than anyone else.

We are never going to guarantee Champions League money every season (no matter how easy your pal tells you it is), so buying wisely and selling before players exhaust their contracts or lose form is critical to the operation.  Therein lies the challenge – which is also easy, just ask the same pal.

Click Here for Comments >
Share.

About Author

543 Comments

  1. A homily to the things we have to take as we face up to the side-effects of getting older…..

     

     

    ———————-The Ageing Scottish Celtic supporter

     

     

    Anti-toxins in the morning, and potions late at night

     

    And in between a wholesome diet, of pills to make me sh*te

     

    Or pee and sweat and lose fat, then sleep or stay awake

     

    And pump my blood wae steroids, that make my toe-nails shake!

     

     

    There’s pink, blue, black and white ones, round, square, short and long

     

    There’s lozenge, capsule, pellet, ‘don’t get that sequence wrong’,

     

    So got my smart phone programmed, my timer set to play

     

    My ailment curing music from, “The Fields” to “Scots Wha Hae”

     

     

    “Hail Hail” stops diahorrea, “For it’s” soothes breaking hearts

     

    “Walk on” clears constipation, and perfumes sulph’rous farts,

     

    Angina yields to ‘Maley’, ‘Big Jock’ calms Asthma’s wheeze

     

    “They come from Bonnie Scotland…”, for ringworm, nits and fleas.

     

     

    Arthritis, rheumatism, distemper, dandruff, gout

     

    Baldness, toothache, haemorrhoids, a song will sort them out.

     

    B.O.? conjunctivitis? ‘sea creatures’ itch down there?

     

    A hymn or two will cleanse your pores with Antiseptic air!

     

     

    Hail Hail

     

     

    Matt

  2. Weebobbycollins on 19th September 2018 10:07 pm

     

     

    After 6 Guinness of a Sunday lunchtime livener , she dis that eye fluttering in Sharkeys as well!??

     

     

    Hail Hail

     

     

    Matt

  3. Disappointed that Lyon forward Memphis was given the No 11 shirt.

     

     

    If he had worn the 10, I could (and would) have said….”Memphis, Ten Ah See!”

     

     

    Anyway he wisnae so Ah cannae….Wine’s good anyway.

     

     

    Hail Hail

     

     

    Matt

  4. Youse are all probably far too young to remember the days when the groundsman used to leave the big corner gates on Janefield street open?

     

     

    But I can.

     

     

    A few of us used to sneak onto the train at Blairhill, jump off one door and back on another avoiding the ticket man until we got to Carntyne or Belgrove.

     

     

    We were maybe 6 years old at the time.

     

     

    And then we’d make our way in to the empty stadium and……just sit there.

     

     

    Not one of us had been to a game at this time; but our uncles and aunts, mums and dads and a whole variety of important people like jannies, priests, teachers, polis, undertakers, meter-men, Provi man, ice cream men and rent-men talked incessantly about this magic called Celtic.

     

     

    There was Tully, Fernie, Fallon, McStay, Evans, Peacock, Thompson, McGrory, Delaney, and myriad other giants clad in green and white hooped armour!

     

     

    We just listened, learned, and stored it away for rainy housebound days when we relived the legendary exploits with an imaginary ball, on an imaginary pitch, in a real and all too inadequate bedroom. We would shoot into an imaginary goal, dive on the bed in a vain attempt to make a last ditch save, and then belt round all 6 ft of the shared bedroom silently screaming at the top of our open mouth, until we had to stop for breath and to prevent a burst blood vessel.

     

     

    Get-togethers and parties were not complete without a rendition of the Coronation cup song, or my Uncle Peter’s favourite – Land Of The Pope and McGrory.

     

     

    Day in, day out we had our own pre-internet blog where the conversations were posts, the descriptions were video links, the sun always shone when we won, the talk was short if we lost, but the crowds were huge, noisy and dedicated to the cause.

     

     

    True or not? It didn’t really matter!

     

     

    We had no telly, little radio, and no streaming. Only the waiting for the buses and trains to come back, the triumphant stride of singing witnesses to the latest heroic deeds, or the silent trudge of hunched pallbearers returning from the recent bereavement and interment of our hopes – for another week.

     

     

    And so with the magic of our minds’ eyes when we stole into the ground, we just sat there, looked around this citadel, and closed our minds to the grim reality of a grey world. Suddenly the sights, smells, sounds, cheers, groans, passes, shots, saves and goals were as real as the day they had happened and for me and James, and Joseph, and Tommy it was as magical as we had imagined it would be.

     

     

    Boy was that great!

     

     

    Anyway I’m now in the winter of my years and such romantic nonsense can be cast to the four merciless winds.

     

     

    We all know better now!

     

     

    Don’t we?

     

     

    A Whisper in Paradise

     

     

     

    Your whisper enticing, as clouds leave the skies

     

    Your warmth so inviting, is calling me home

     

    I turn to avoid you, but you won’t let me roam,

     

    Your heart pulls me closer to my Paradise

     

     

    El Paradiso, yes our Holy Ground,

     

    When life has deserted it’s there will be found

     

    My ashes upon the green grass in bliss

     

    A breeze soft caressing a heavenly kiss.

     

     

    The days when you held me in your welcome arms

     

    Those nights of great drama when we dared to dream

     

    Of hopes and of pride in Celtic our team

     

    No one can replace your spirit or charms!

     

     

    El Paradiso, yes our Holy Ground,

     

    When life has deserted it’s there will be found

     

    My ashes upon the green grass in bliss

     

    A breeze soft caressing a heavenly kiss.

     

     

    A choir starts softly and starts to resound

     

    Of Walfrid’s great passion to feed starving souls

     

    Those seeds he sowed then have flourished in shoals

     

    O’er St Patrick’s waters and St Andrews’s ground.

     

     

    El Paradiso, yes our Holy Ground,

     

    When life has deserted it’s there will be found

     

    My ashes upon the green grass in bliss

     

    A breeze soft caressing a heavenly kiss.

     

     

    Big Jock is awaiting with Jinky to greet

     

    With Bobby and Ronnie a welcoming smile

     

    Till then I’ll just wait at this stage for a while

     

    Where magic was conjured from conjuring feet!

     

     

    El Paradiso, yes our Holy Ground,

     

    When life has deserted it’s there will be found

     

    My ashes upon the green grass in bliss

     

    A breeze soft caressing a heavenly kiss.

     

     

     

    Hail Hail

     

     

    Matt (I’m getting a bit pished now….so …I suppose I better….. just open another bottle??)

  5. Dae youse remember a bloke wae dreadlocks who used to ply his trade wae us ?

     

     

    THE SANDMAN

     

     

     

    It was a typical Glaswegian spring evening as the bitter north wind carrying with it the last of the winter’s chill piercing rain, swept down streets, round corners, up closes and battered and rattled windows and doors like desperate men searching for sanctuary from the banshees of the night! The old man sat in not only his favourite chair, but also his ONLY chair in the spartan living room with only a few strategically placed sepia toned and now fading pictures to remind him of the vibrancy of his youth and family and friends now gone.

     

     

    The glass fronted coal fire under the mantle was lit, but the heat it generated no longer powered the moribund central heating, so he kept its glass door open to allow the little heat it radiated to at least prevent his breath freezing in front of his eyes. A television, his one luxury sat in the corner giving light and a flickering meaning to a sad substitute for a valued or valuable life. He watched without seeing and heard without listening as wars raged, disasters befell, politicians screamed, and people lived, laughed, died and were forgotten.

     

     

    It was that time of night again when he would pull himself up from his chair, struggle slowly step by interminable step up the thirteen stairs to his bed, cover himself up for the night, save coal, and fitfully and sleeplessly await daybreak, most of the time not really caring whether he was still there or not when the sun rose.

     

     

    Half-way to his feet, the news-reader announced

     

     

    “Tonight in the Stade de France, Barcelona won Europe’s and arguably the world’s major club prize for the second time in their history.”

     

     

    The old man stopped in mid-creak and sat back down again. Over the years although Celtic were his one true love, he had also held Barca in some affection not just because of its history, its fans -‘Les Cules’, but because of one man, one player, a unique man, a unique player…..Henrik Larsson.

     

     

    The newsreader continued,

     

     

    “Barcelona struggled for much of the game, with their much lauded stars either playing ineffectively in unfamiliar roles or territory, or failing perhaps through the burden of expectation to perform to their much vaunted capabilities. That is until, in a moment of inspiration they introduced to the fray, on his last ever appearance a certain Henrik Larsson……”

     

     

    In almost perfect synchronisation the old man’s body seemed to become alive and alert, his mouth smiled, his eyes widened, and like a shot of adrenalin to the tired athlete his mind became alive in a way that he hadn’t experienced in years.

     

     

    “Henrik Larsson is the King of Kings………Give me joy in my heart Henrik Larsson…….There’s only one Henrik Larsson….” he sang, his head and shoulders bobbing in time!

     

     

    As the words and melodies came back he sang louder and louder, his two arms raised to shoulder level now, swinging and half swivelling at the waist. And then with the gusto and energy of a teenager he sprung from his old sagging chair and did a little jig and lap of honour around the living room floor.

     

     

    “Please don’t take my Larsson away……”

     

     

    And as he jigged, the wind calmed, the rain ceased, and the dreich evening clouds dissolved into a delighted shepherd night as the revealed sun spread its fire across the horizon.

     

     

    “Right pub I think” said the old man to one of his family frames “they should all be there tonight!”

     

     

    He fairly belted down the road that night, causing wires to be red-hot as the curtain twitchers in the street phoned each other with the news that

     

     

    “Glory be to God, it’s a miracle, the old git across the road must have been to Lourdes and it has worked!”

     

     

    Doors opened as women in their hundreds dragged reluctant spouses and offspring to the novenas and devotions in praise of the Gorbals’ miracle, and the lads in the Barras started selling genuine blessed pure alabaster mementos from Nineveh at fiver each and two for a tenner! The old man was right, when he got to the pub, they were all there! Even his long gone family and friends were there.

     

     

    ”So this is where you went to. You’ve been gone for ages he said!

     

     

    Most of them as usual were crushed in their customary pose at the bar vying for who could shout the loudest to get the landlady’s attention.

     

     

    There was Harry ‘what a waste of money that Larsson is’ after his debut against Hibs.

     

     

    Tony ‘I think Harold will prove better in the long run’ after ten-in a row went down the pan;

     

     

    Jimmy ‘I cried in Lyon’ when his leg crumbled;

     

     

    Pat ‘Liverpool never knew what had hit them’;

     

     

    Matt ‘The night in Boavista will live forever’;

     

     

    Paul ‘He deserved a winners’ medal in Seville’;

     

     

    All of us, ‘what an arse he made of the Amoruso, Konterman, and Klos with the ‘goal of goals from the King of Kings’’.

     

     

    There was of course also baldy James ‘What do you reckon he done wae his dreadlocks?’

     

     

    The memories and flashbacks of Cup finals, hat-tricks, broken jaws, last minute winners, were all there. They flowed faster and were more intoxicating than the Guinness! Youthful days recalled became youthful days regained and as the evening came to a close, the much younger old man with family arms linked, made their way back home and two steps at a time they bounded up the stairs to their rooms.

     

     

    As his eyes closed and the land of imagination beckoned, he thought to himself.

     

     

    “Was Henrik better for us than us for him? Stupid question really! All I know is that I’m quite looking forward to tomorrow!”

     

     

    And there they all were again on the London road; there they all were again on the V for Victory road, there they all were again on the one road, but most of all there they all were again on the road to rediscovering forgotten dreams, discarded hopes and neglected ambition. Or perhaps the one road IS the road of dreams, hopes, and ambition!

     

     

    And to get us back on that one road perhaps it takes not just a goal-scorer extraordinaire; not just a player who knows that without the team and the fans there is nothing and plays without quarter that way. Perhaps it takes a man who is not only capable of uniting a support that can be the most fervent, the most vocal, and the most devoted but can also be the most fickle, critical and dismissive. Perhaps it also takes a man who is capable of raising the sick from their beds, the jakeys from the gutters and the sinful from their vices.

     

     

    Perhaps it is a dream-maker, a Celtic sandman, and perhaps we all know who he is!

     

     

    I know because it happened that night in the Gorbals.

     

     

    I know also because I not only witnessed it…. I was that old man!

     

     

    Thankyou Ghod!

     

     

    Hail Hail

     

     

     

    Matt

  6. DD & MIT

     

     

    Just lurkin and saw your post re The The and bassists. One of the most under-rated, tho not by bass players, was James Jamerson of the Motown ‘house’ band, the Funk Brothers. He liked the ould drink did James and, famously, had to play bass on one of the Motown hits, lying on his back, as he was too pissed to stand.

     

     

    Statistically, the Funk Brothers were the most successful group of musicians of all time, based upon the number of hit records they played on

  7. James

     

    Magical. Tinseltown in the Rain reminds me of Henri Afrikas and my many dates with gorgeous East End girls. They liked West End Bhoys. ?

  8. Are we really ‘what we eat”?

     

     

    I alternatively worry/ revel in the concept of being “What we breathe”.

     

     

    After all if the studied calculations are correct and given ten years or so molecules and atoms from any single exhalation diffuse equally around the atmosphere. That means that given the number of molecules in a final gasp…..5.174 * 10^23 then not only do we breathe circa 8 molecules from Hitlers dying breath, but also from everyone elses.

     

     

    This means that every time you inhale you get a wee burst from King Billy, Jack the Ripper and Marilyn Monroe.

     

     

    Similarly, over the road in Kinning Park they are surviving on Michael Collins, Bobby Sands, Jimmy Johnstone and Mother Teresa.

     

     

    There must be a business opportunity somewhere to come up with a mask/filter that guarantees the exclusion of Masonic Molecules or Papist Particles.

     

     

    And why stop there, ….the market would be world-wide…. Avoid…Sunni Substances…. ISIS Isotopes….Capitalist Chemicals.

     

     

    This time next year I’ll be a billionaire. I’ll set up an fund me page later and for a small investment you too can be a billionaire. (In the long term we could ensure that no Porcine is breathed by Jewish folk, or Bovine by Hindus….Veggies could avoid sharing air with omnivores and …..ach the possibilities are astronomical…….”Sliced Bread” eat yer heart out)

     

     

    This wine’s good.

     

     

    Hail Hail

     

     

    Matt

  9. Hello again all you young rebels

     

     

    MATT STEWART

     

    Ha..ha Matt remember all that and more, getting a hudgie on the back of a tram

     

    to the gemme, climbing over middens and running through the back close

     

    puddles to avoid ragin huns in the Kinning Park hell hole.

     

    Enjoy your next bottle you deserve it.

     

    H.H Mick

  10. A homily to the things we have to take as we face up to the side-effects of getting older…..

     

     

    ———————-The Ageing Scottish Celtic supporter

     

     

    Anti-toxins in the morning, and potions late at night

     

    And in between a wholesome diet, of pills to make me sh*te

     

    Or pee and sweat and lose fat, then sleep or stay awake

     

    And pump my blood wae steroids, that make my toe-nails shake!

     

     

    There’s pink, blue, black and white ones, round, square, short and long

     

    There’s lozenge, capsule, pellet, ‘don’t get that sequence wrong’,

     

    So got my smart phone programmed, my timer set to play

     

    My ailment curing music from, “The Fields” to “Scots Wha Hae”

     

     

    “Hail Hail” stops diahorrea, “For it’s” soothes breaking hearts

     

    “Walk on” clears constipation, and perfumes sulph’rous farts,

     

    Angina yields to ‘Maley’, ‘Big Jock’ calms Asthma’s wheeze

     

    “They come from Bonnie Scotland…”, for ringworm, nits and fleas.

     

     

    Arthritis, rheumatism, distemper, dandruff, gout

     

    Baldness, toothache, haemorrhoids, a song will sort them out.

     

    B.O.? conjunctivitis? ‘sea creatures’ itch down there?

     

    A hymn or two will cleanse your pores with Antiseptic air!

     

     

    Hail Hail

     

     

    Matt

  11. I now have to go as I need to clean my boots in case during the warm up later tonight there is an injury and they need a fan with boots to play.

     

     

    But just before I go I would like to mention that as I was perusing the bible today, I was reminded of my like for circles, virtuous ones of course, not those old vicious ones.

     

     

    So as I reread my favourite miracle – The Marriage feast at Cana and the changing of water into wine – I thought I would commemorate it by completing this especially virtuous circle by changing the wine back into water…… probably in about 3 hours….after I’ve Ironed my socks and shorts!

     

     

    Goodnight all.

     

     

    Hail Hail

     

     

    Matt

  12. MATTSTEWART

     

     

    Normally I would politely request a snifter of whatever you’ve been drinking,but I won’t,as I’m driving.

     

     

    But whatever it is,it sure gets your creative juices flowing!

  13. Youse are all probably far too young to remember the days when the groundsman used to leave the big corner gates on Janefield street open?

     

     

    But I can.

     

     

    A few of us used to sneak onto the train at Blairhill, jump off one door and back on another avoiding the ticket man until we got to Carntyne or Belgrove.

     

     

    We were maybe 6 years old at the time.

     

     

    And then we’d make our way in to the empty stadium and……just sit there.

     

     

    Not one of us had been to a game at this time; but our uncles and aunts, mums and dads and a whole variety of important people like jannies, priests, teachers, polis, undertakers, meter-men, Provi man, ice cream men and rent-men talked incessantly about this magic called Celtic.

     

     

    There was Tully, Fernie, Fallon, McStay, Evans, Peacock, Thompson, McGrory, Delaney, and myriad other giants clad in green and white hooped armour!

     

     

    We just listened, learned, and stored it away for rainy housebound days when we relived the legendary exploits with an imaginary ball, on an imaginary pitch, in a real and all too inadequate bedroom. We would shoot into an imaginary goal, dive on the bed in a vain attempt to make a last ditch save, and then belt round all 6 ft of the shared bedroom silently screaming at the top of our open mouth, until we had to stop for breath and to prevent a burst blood vessel.

     

     

    Get-togethers and parties were not complete without a rendition of the Coronation cup song, or my Uncle Peter’s favourite – Land Of The Pope and McGrory.

     

     

    Day in, day out we had our own pre-internet blog where the conversations were posts, the descriptions were video links, the sun always shone when we won, the talk was short if we lost, but the crowds were huge, noisy and dedicated to the cause.

     

     

    True or not? It didn’t really matter!

     

     

    We had no telly, little radio, and no streaming. Only the waiting for the buses and trains to come back, the triumphant stride of singing witnesses to the latest heroic deeds, or the silent trudge of hunched pallbearers returning from the recent bereavement and interment of our hopes – for another week.

     

     

    And so with the magic of our minds’ eyes when we stole into the ground, we just sat there, looked around this citadel, and closed our minds to the grim reality of a grey world. Suddenly the sights, smells, sounds, cheers, groans, passes, shots, saves and goals were as real as the day they had happened and for me and James, and Joseph, and Tommy it was as magical as we had imagined it would be.

     

     

    Boy was that great!

     

     

    Anyway I’m now in the winter of my years and such romantic nonsense can be cast to the four merciless winds.

     

     

    We all know better now!

     

     

    Don’t we?

     

     

    A Whisper in Paradise

     

     

     

    Your whisper enticing, as clouds leave the skies

     

    Your warmth so inviting, is calling me home

     

    I turn to avoid you, but you won’t let me roam,

     

    Your heart pulls me closer to my Paradise

     

     

    El Paradiso, yes our Holy Ground,

     

    When life has deserted it’s there will be found

     

    My ashes upon the green grass in bliss

     

    A breeze soft caressing a heavenly kiss.

     

     

    The days when you held me in your welcome arms

     

    Those nights of great drama when we dared to dream

     

    Of hopes and of pride in Celtic our team

     

    No one can replace your spirit or charms!

     

     

    El Paradiso, yes our Holy Ground,

     

    When life has deserted it’s there will be found

     

    My ashes upon the green grass in bliss

     

    A breeze soft caressing a heavenly kiss.

     

     

    A choir starts softly and starts to resound

     

    Of Walfrid’s great passion to feed starving souls

     

    Those seeds he sowed then have flourished in shoals

     

    O’er St Patrick’s waters and St Andrews’s ground.

     

     

    El Paradiso, yes our Holy Ground,

     

    When life has deserted it’s there will be found

     

    My ashes upon the green grass in bliss

     

    A breeze soft caressing a heavenly kiss.

     

     

    Big Jock is awaiting with Jinky to greet

     

    With Bobby and Ronnie a welcoming smile

     

    Till then I’ll just wait at this stage for a while

     

    Where magic was conjured from conjuring feet!

     

     

    El Paradiso, yes our Holy Ground,

     

    When life has deserted it’s there will be found

     

    My ashes upon the green grass in bliss

     

    A breeze soft caressing a heavenly kiss.

     

     

     

    Hail Hail

     

     

    Matt (I’m getting a bit pished now….so …I suppose I better….. just open another bottle??)

  14. Jist wan more and I’m aff.

     

     

    Catch the ball

     

     

    It rose like an osprey on a thermal trying to get a bird’s eye view of the whole planet. Higher and higher; from the watcher on earth it was no longer a ball, no longer a coin, now a dot….a smaller dot…sitting on the cusp of invisibility…and then a dot again…..a coin once more as its speed and trajectory both changed.

     

     

    The street was empty of all distractions, just me and Donald Lynch and the challenge…. The street challenge!

     

     

    Who was the best, who was the quickest, who could keep the ball up for the most, who could run down the bing and stop before they ended up in the pond, and who could catch the highest flung ball better than anyone else?

     

     

    Street titles were the sort of qualifying rounds of the Scottish cup. This was competitiveness, pride, status, ego and possibly a winch wae Helen Rafferty all rolled into one and put on the line. This was the OK Coral, the rumble in the jungle, Rorke‘s Drift, The Alamo, this was us against them, me against him, a Tim versus a hun!

     

     

    Yes I know that Lynch doesn’t sound like member of the vast vomit of hundom and in fact he wasn’t; but he was my challenger as I was his, and the face-off was for the vacant title …….and in that cold furnace of street honour….. the fact that he was a Tim as well was pushed into the recesses of mind and he became blacker than the black soul of the black night riding a black steed in a blackout. Only ‘hun’ seemed appropriate.

     

     

    This was big time. Three all in the previous competitions, me with the running, keepy up and the long-jump, him with the hiding longest in the pond, holding fag smoke down for the longest without being sick or self-asphyxiating, and acquiring ‘hot’ goods frae Woolworths.

     

     

    This was the decider of deciders, no first and second, no winner and runner up, just ‘The Man and the nonentity (not even capitalised)’.

     

     

    First to eleven with both having thrown an equal number of balls. No honour saving weasely draws to oil both egos.

     

     

    1-1, 2-2 ………….at 10-10 he drops my chuck and then it’s me. His toss, equal to me, I’ll never get a better chance, catching it – never even considered the question.

     

     

    The ball started accelerating and infinitesimally increasing in diameter with each passing moment.

     

     

    I judged the flight path and belted for a reasonable estimation of where the ball would come down. But woe is the man who casts aspersions on his friend (albeit opponent as well). The hundom I had bestowed on him seemed to have influenced his behaviour. I could see by his movement that he not only probably reckoned I might catch it, but here was an opportunity to seriously take me out and grab the podium place in the roll of honour for ever more. (now I had only thought about him as a hun and look what that had done, imagine a born and bred one. It makes you shudder.

     

     

    My lumbering inadequate opponent broke into a thunderous lope heading to cause serious damage. And then I remembered another rule. If I fumbled and he caught the falling ball, he would have won. I put it out my mind.

     

     

    The coin grew larger and larger as both me and the favourite for the ugliest son of hades fine-tuned our position, stance, concentration and intentions. Mine? Catch the ball. His? Cripple me.

     

     

    The ball fell magnetically attracted to my outstretched arms at the top of the spring to gain a height advantage. The ball was so close, the victory salute rising from my lungs, into my throat, the advance micro-waves of the air vibration tickling my finger tips.

     

     

    “Hail hai…..”

     

     

    His octopus grasping fingers caught my trailing bottle green jersey and as the ball landed in the heel of my outstretched right hand, I tumbled left hand now reaching for the road, and with a jar as I lay on the ground my battered frame bleeding and paining from widespread trauma, my right hand still in the air like a dying soldier keeping his troops colours aloft, the ball slipped from my grasp…………

     

     

    Lynch (he wasn’t even deserving mow of a Christian name) saw it; he reached and I could do nothing to prevent him reaching that ball first and winning the fight of fights.

     

     

    Well nothing that was except a particularly painful knee in the solar plexus. So as his he smiled in premature triumph, the nervous system that sent the shooting pain as my knee and his stones connected brought a cross eyed slabbering look to his face, a whimper of pain being overcome by falsetto fainting, and the ball?…..Ah yes the ball….it dropped as I lay prone on the ground like a dolly into my left hand.

     

     

    CHAMPIONEE!!

     

     

    Definitely goodnight and hail hail

     

     

    Matt

  15. Dae youse remember a bloke wae dreadlocks who used to ply his trade wae us ?

     

     

    THE SANDMAN

     

     

     

    It was a typical Glaswegian spring evening as the bitter north wind carrying with it the last of the winter’s chill piercing rain, swept down streets, round corners, up closes and battered and rattled windows and doors like desperate men searching for sanctuary from the banshees of the night! The old man sat in not only his favourite chair, but also his ONLY chair in the spartan living room with only a few strategically placed sepia toned and now fading pictures to remind him of the vibrancy of his youth and family and friends now gone.

     

     

    The glass fronted coal fire under the mantle was lit, but the heat it generated no longer powered the moribund central heating, so he kept its glass door open to allow the little heat it radiated to at least prevent his breath freezing in front of his eyes. A television, his one luxury sat in the corner giving light and a flickering meaning to a sad substitute for a valued or valuable life. He watched without seeing and heard without listening as wars raged, disasters befell, politicians screamed, and people lived, laughed, died and were forgotten.

     

     

    It was that time of night again when he would pull himself up from his chair, struggle slowly step by interminable step up the thirteen stairs to his bed, cover himself up for the night, save coal, and fitfully and sleeplessly await daybreak, most of the time not really caring whether he was still there or not when the sun rose.

     

     

    Half-way to his feet, the news-reader announced

     

     

    “Tonight in the Stade de France, Barcelona won Europe’s and arguably the world’s major club prize for the second time in their history.”

     

     

    The old man stopped in mid-creak and sat back down again. Over the years although Celtic were his one true love, he had also held Barca in some affection not just because of its history, its fans -‘Les Cules’, but because of one man, one player, a unique man, a unique player…..Henrik Larsson.

     

     

    The newsreader continued,

     

     

    “Barcelona struggled for much of the game, with their much lauded stars either playing ineffectively in unfamiliar roles or territory, or failing perhaps through the burden of expectation to perform to their much vaunted capabilities. That is until, in a moment of inspiration they introduced to the fray, on his last ever appearance a certain Henrik Larsson……”

     

     

    In almost perfect synchronisation the old man’s body seemed to become alive and alert, his mouth smiled, his eyes widened, and like a shot of adrenalin to the tired athlete his mind became alive in a way that he hadn’t experienced in years.

     

     

    “Henrik Larsson is the King of Kings………Give me joy in my heart Henrik Larsson…….There’s only one Henrik Larsson….” he sang, his head and shoulders bobbing in time!

     

     

    As the words and melodies came back he sang louder and louder, his two arms raised to shoulder level now, swinging and half swivelling at the waist. And then with the gusto and energy of a teenager he sprung from his old sagging chair and did a little jig and lap of honour around the living room floor.

     

     

    “Please don’t take my Larsson away……”

     

     

    And as he jigged, the wind calmed, the rain ceased, and the dreich evening clouds dissolved into a delighted shepherd night as the revealed sun spread its fire across the horizon.

     

     

    “Right pub I think” said the old man to one of his family frames “they should all be there tonight!”

     

     

    He fairly belted down the road that night, causing wires to be red-hot as the curtain twitchers in the street phoned each other with the news that

     

     

    “Glory be to God, it’s a miracle, the old git across the road must have been to Lourdes and it has worked!”

     

     

    Doors opened as women in their hundreds dragged reluctant spouses and offspring to the novenas and devotions in praise of the Gorbals’ miracle, and the lads in the Barras started selling genuine blessed pure alabaster mementos from Nineveh at fiver each and two for a tenner! The old man was right, when he got to the pub, they were all there! Even his long gone family and friends were there.

     

     

    ”So this is where you went to. You’ve been gone for ages he said!

     

     

    Most of them as usual were crushed in their customary pose at the bar vying for who could shout the loudest to get the landlady’s attention.

     

     

    There was Harry ‘what a waste of money that Larsson is’ after his debut against Hibs.

     

     

    Tony ‘I think Harold will prove better in the long run’ after ten-in a row went down the pan;

     

     

    Jimmy ‘I cried in Lyon’ when his leg crumbled;

     

     

    Pat ‘Liverpool never knew what had hit them’;

     

     

    Matt ‘The night in Boavista will live forever’;

     

     

    Paul ‘He deserved a winners’ medal in Seville’;

     

     

    All of us, ‘what an arse he made of the Amoruso, Konterman, and Klos with the ‘goal of goals from the King of Kings’’.

     

     

    There was of course also baldy James ‘What do you reckon he done wae his dreadlocks?’

     

     

    The memories and flashbacks of Cup finals, hat-tricks, broken jaws, last minute winners, were all there. They flowed faster and were more intoxicating than the Guinness! Youthful days recalled became youthful days regained and as the evening came to a close, the much younger old man with family arms linked, made their way back home and two steps at a time they bounded up the stairs to their rooms.

     

     

    As his eyes closed and the land of imagination beckoned, he thought to himself.

     

     

    “Was Henrik better for us than us for him? Stupid question really! All I know is that I’m quite looking forward to tomorrow!”

     

     

    And there they all were again on the London road; there they all were again on the V for Victory road, there they all were again on the one road, but most of all there they all were again on the road to rediscovering forgotten dreams, discarded hopes and neglected ambition. Or perhaps the one road IS the road of dreams, hopes, and ambition!

     

     

    And to get us back on that one road perhaps it takes not just a goal-scorer extraordinaire; not just a player who knows that without the team and the fans there is nothing and plays without quarter that way. Perhaps it takes a man who is not only capable of uniting a support that can be the most fervent, the most vocal, and the most devoted but can also be the most fickle, critical and dismissive. Perhaps it also takes a man who is capable of raising the sick from their beds, the jakeys from the gutters and the sinful from their vices.

     

     

    Perhaps it is a dream-maker, a Celtic sandman, and perhaps we all know who he is!

     

     

    I know because it happened that night in the Gorbals.

     

     

    I know also because I not only witnessed it…. I was that old man!

     

     

    Thankyou Ghod!

     

     

    Hail Hail

     

     

     

    Matt

  16. DD & MIT

     

     

    Just lurkin and saw your post re The The and bassists. One of the most under-rated, tho not by bass players, was James Jamerson of the Motown ‘house’ band, the Funk Brothers. He liked the ould drink did James and, famously, had to play bass on one of the Motown hits, lying on his back, as he was too pissed to stand.

     

     

    Statistically, the Funk Brothers were the most successful group of musicians of all time, based upon the number of hit records they played on

  17. Hello again all you young rebels

     

     

    MATT STEWART

     

    Ha..ha Matt remember all that and more, getting a hudgie on the back of a tram

     

    to the gemme, climbing over middens and running through the back close

     

    puddles to avoid ragin huns in the Kinning Park hell hole.

     

    Enjoy your next bottle you deserve it.

     

    H.H Mick

  18. I now have to go as I need to clean my boots in case during the warm up later tonight there is an injury and they need a fan with boots to play.

     

     

    But just before I go I would like to mention that as I was perusing the bible today, I was reminded of my like for circles, virtuous ones of course, not those old vicious ones.

     

     

    So as I reread my favourite miracle – The Marriage feast at Cana and the changing of water into wine – I thought I would commemorate it by completing this especially virtuous circle by changing the wine back into water…… probably in about 3 hours….after I’ve Ironed my socks and shorts!

     

     

    Goodnight all.

     

     

    Hail Hail

     

     

    Matt

  19. BOBBY MURDOCH'S CURLED-UP WINKLEPICKERS on

    MATTSTEWART

     

     

    Normally I would politely request a snifter of whatever you’ve been drinking,but I won’t,as I’m driving.

     

     

    But whatever it is,it sure gets your creative juices flowing!