Imperious Celtic in metaphor


There has been a lot of noise around football in Scotland since we put Newco on the canvas to win the league on Sunday.  Notions are being peddled that directors left Newco because they had to make room for new people, who will bring bags of money any day now.  It’s just nonsense.

This photo of an imperious Ali (then Clay) and Liston on the canvas is the perfect metaphor for football in Glasgow right now.  Ali went on to set records, entertain, and become one of the world’s sporting greats.  Whereas this is the best known photo Liston; flattened two minutes into a match against his then rival.

The world had already changed for both boxers before this fight, although Liston only realised it that day, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Now Clay swings with a right, what a beautiful swing!
And the punch raises the Bear clear out of the ring.
Liston is still rising, and the ref wears a frown,
For he can’t start counting till Sonny comes down.
—Muhammad Ali

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  1. Dontbrattbakkinanger on

    Ole Malorbhoy the revenue runner, with a bootful of Frosty Jack from Asda in Carlisle.

  2. Bateen Bhoy on

    Cheap beer.


    If the cash transfer takes place across the border, no crime is committed re pricing. There might be a problem with Del Bhoy not having a lcence to sell alcoholic beverages though. But then – is he selling it, or merely transporting it…


    The logistics of the deal would be a minor annoyance, but not necessarily a legal impediment.


    Not that I’m advocating or encouraging anyone getting involved in organsied crime. ?

  3. weebobbycollins on

    My dad took me to Paisley Ice Rink(?) 1963 to see a Walter McGowan fight. Sonny Liston did a sparring session before the main bout. This was before his first fight with Cassius Clay. I don’t think I had ever seen a black man in the flesh and up close before, certainly not one as mountainous as Sonny Liston…and when I say close, I mean close. I was sitting in an aisle seat and watched gobsmacked as he stepped down past me on his way to the ring. He was already wearing his sparring gloves which appeared the size of basket-balls to me. And boy! Did he look tough. He was rumoured at the time to have mafia connections (probably what killed him) and his two fights with Clay were best described as dodgy. He sparred and moved and skipped to James Brown’s version of ‘Night Train’. At one point he was doing some skipping, the punters clapped and stamped their feet in time to the music…er! not exactly in time…a wee bit out, in fact. So the big man stops and asks if everyone would refrain from clapping as it was putting him off. A big cheer goes up and Sonny resumes his skipping…but the fans began clapping and stamping their feet again, even louder than before and even more out of time. This time when he stopped, he put on a real threatening tone to the punters…kinda last warning like…he started skipping once more. This time the clapping and feet stamping was accompanied by chants of ‘Cassius Clay-Cassius Clay’. I was a bit concerned when he went by me again on his way to the dressing room…but I was alright-I had my dad with me…





    How do you shift vast quantities of cocaine,heroin,green,all sorts of illegal goods?

  5. thomthethim for Oscar OK on

    I have my own memories of a couple of today’s topics.



    On the night of the second Clay-Liston fight, I was geared up to watch it.



    I had a plate of sandwiches sorted and a jug of orange juice.


    Before the fight, the classic Western High Noon was screened. A perfect “showdown” drama.



    I was stretched out on the couch as the bell went for the first round.


    I reached down for a sandwich…and bang, it was all over. I missed the “punch”.



    A few weeks before the Dunfermline game, I chipped and dislocated my left shoulder in an accident on the QE2.



    I was still sling bound when the game came around, but, along with some work mates, I drove through to the match, in the hope that it wouldn’t be too crowded and be crushed!



    Thankfully I survived and there was no way I would feel any pain that night.



    Happy days.

  6. Bateen Bhoy on

    I’m taking my van out for a run on Sunday, thinking of heading to Carlisle. Want me to get you anything while I’m there ? I’ll drop it off when i get back but would need the cash up front.


    What crime is committed ?


    Who needs lawyers ???

  7. LETS ALL DO THE HUDDLE ? on 3RD MAY 2018 12:43 PM



    Don’t worry; Keech Jackson has made a living from listening to people talk ?? and then printing it as fact! ?




  8. Celticrollercoaster supporting @WalkWithShay on



    The ole Giffnock Glaswegians are pure ragin that their fancy dan Wholefoods went pair shaped and is being replaced by Lidl.




    Brings the wrong fag smoking, sqwerr eating urinating up a close cooncil types to the area.



    Allegedly CSC






    This was a fake article on a parady/satire facebook page called “Neilston News” who’s previous article was about a taking swan. This was lifted by the mainstream media and published as ” real news”







    Lazyjournalism indeed, but probably about right for the residents mind :-)







  9. BMCUW



    Lets take it to street level, wee bag of coke, weed, pils are easily distributed by mules and transferred by a simple hand shake etc ( I’ve watched the Wire btw). However, try doing similar street trade with 60 cans of Tennents!

  10. DD booked in for the Presentation Breakfast!





    Hot Smoked




    POG’s Bhoy


    Bateen Bhoy









  11. Afternoon all



    ‘The radios have given the news….


    Suddenly it’s lift off here at Love Street’



    Happy Albert Kidd Day folks





  12. Sorry to bring up the old food debate again.. Just remembered my mum and dad used to stop off at Lockerbie to get Lorn sausage for family that stayed down south. She used to also take loads of potato scones, black pudding Lees macaroon bars, and bread wtf


    I am sure there was other stuff.



    D. :)

  13. townheadbhoy on




    On that day in 1968 Kenny Dalglish scored all four goals in Cumbernauld Utd’s win against Neilston

  14. Bigyinmilan



    Got me there! Had me checking back on the 6 at the start of last century.



    I didn’t allow for overlap in my calculations, too busy counting improperly registered players!

  15. Dontbrattbakkinanger on

    Any self respectin’ole mule can easily carry 60 cans of lager., that’s only 26 kilos.



    You could strap on a wee Tennents Lager lovely and the humble beast of burden wouldn’t even break sweat.

  16. !!Bada Bing!! on

    Morrisons have begun stocking ‘British’ square sausage in stores south of the border, with the packaging on the product featuring a Union Jack.




    Ali. More, much, much more than just a boxer.



    Heart of a Lion, truly fearless in the face of any opposition, both in and out of the ring.



    Got him to autograph my copy of Thomas Hauser’s superb biography when he visited Waterstone’s in Glasgow a while back.



    And got to shake his hand.



    The Greatest, indeed.

  18. Dontbrattbakkinanger on




    Other stuff?



    Packs of aggressive lookin’ole lesbians.

  19. !!Bada Bing!! on 3rd May 2018 2:00 pm



    Morrisons have begun stocking ‘British’ square sausage in stores south of the border, with the packaging on the product featuring a Union Jack.




    Brussels Sprouts are now packaged as “British Sprouts”.



    That’s Brexit for ya!

  20. Surely there’s an online booze shop based in Englandshire that delivers? Would bypass this nonsense law that discriminates against those on low incomes.



    When I place my order at The Wine Society it gets processed and shipped from sunny Stevenage…




  21. Dontbrattbakkinanger on 3rd May 2018 2:02 pm






    Other stuff?



    Packs of aggressive lookin’ole lesbians.





    Classic case of where expectations are never met. I blame Hollywood. But they do sound like a fun bunch…




  22. jeez_I_thought_blinker_was_pants on

    Amazon do “Stella”, possible free delivery on “Prime”


    Other than that, I’ll need to look out the old Makro card

  23. fieldofdrams on

    Grab a copy of McIlvanney on Boxing, you can get it for about £3 on a well-known site or why not go to your local bookshop? At least they pay the minimum wage. Great, powerful writing covering Liston and pre-Cassius Clay via Ali, Frazier, Foreman, Norton, through Buchanan, Tyson, Duran, Sugar Ray…worth it for the writing and the memories.



    There were two volumes, but the book you can get now is a condensed single volume. It’s from a time when boxers were giants, and so were the journalists that wrote about them.



    McIlvanney on Horseracing is also a terrific read. Not much boxing in it, though.

  24. Matt Stewart on

    I’m not particularly familiar with pithy metaphors, especially as they are usually concise and pointed, whereas I tend to go on more rambling journeys of exploration …usually without a map or compass.



    As boxing parallels go however I sort of remember back in 2006ish when we were debating how Celtic had come through the tortuous 90s and were hopeful of a period of clear domination and a bloke who used to inhabit my brain meandered a parable on another of Ali’s fights…The Rumble in The Jungle ….and perhaps how we had got to the brink of sustained success.



    In the far corner the mighty combatant flexed his magnificently toned, honed, and oiled muscles as the oppressive atmosphere of the capacity filled hall raucously anticipated the bell announcing the first round.



    He bounced on the balls of his feet sending secondary tremors across the expanse of the ring!



    He was the man and everyone who was anyone not only believed it, they knew it!



    He shadow jabbed, swung left, swung right, and in perfect harmony planted his right foot forward and swung a left upper-cut. The beads of sweat flew of his huge but taught arms and landed with a sting on anyone standing nearby



    He fired that smirk of the confident, shot that grimace of the cruel, and despatched across the ring that scowl of disdainful certainty that he would be walking out the ring and his opponent would be stretchered out!



    Beside the arena, stars of stage and screen (and even some real actors) in the front row, hangers on, groupies, and corner men mostly turned to each other knowingly and scribbled their betting slips anticipating the riches to come, the parties to be enjoyed, the photographs to be re-touched and the reflected glory of being able to say



    ‘I was there, I knew that man, I predicted his win’!



    The pack of hyenas who scribbled at their obituaries, epitaphs, and paeans furiously recorded their accounts of the fight, minute by minute, punch by punch, cliché by cliché confident that they would only require a slight reordering and a bit of topping and tailing to get their literary masterpiece ready for despatch and consumption by their family of expectant scavengers.



    In the opposite corner to the champ, almost cocooned in a field of mental tranquillity, the once great champion but now apparently resigned underdog sat in studied contemplation as first his hands were tightly bandaged and then each glove was almost reluctantly forced on.



    Things hadn’t been going too well for him as the six weeks sparring in unaccustomed humidity and heat had taken its toll, physically draining his energy and mentally draining his will, as partner after partner found each and every limitation, each and every weakness, each and every flaw!



    Each morning, each hour, each round had been the same.



    A left, a right, a retreat to the rope or the corner. Batter, punch, parry, deflect, jab! Jab! Defend defend defend!



    From corner to rope, from rope to corner, covering up when he could and taking punches his nerves screaming for mercy, when he couldn’t!



    Every minute of every day, the piranha of the press had torn at his psyche, had undermined his belief, but most of all had disrespectfully laid their bets and their sordid little reputations on their predicted outcome, based not on their judgement, experience or real knowledge, but on their prejudices, their desires, and crucially on their own agendas!



    The reports of course had already made their way back to the big favourite’s camp.



    “Listen champ, that guy is finished, last legs, gasping for air, will take the money and limp away’!



    ‘Hey champ, you’re the man, even his corner and his supporters are putting their bangers and mash on you’!



    The champ knew different!



    And now the sparring, the training, the waiting was over.



    A single bell rang for the adversaries to enter the ring and as they eye-balled each other, raising their fists to touch gloves, the discredited challenger looked at the champ and with the clarity of strategy born not in sparring but in studying his opponent, he smiled and winked!



    The bell tolled and in a mad rush of adrenalin, the champ rushed towards his opponent and started swinging, swinging, and swinging!



    The hooks landed on the challenger’s wrists, gloves, arms and kidneys!



    The challenger couldn’t dance for long anymore, but he could still deflect and avoid the testosterone induced machismo that was coursing through the distended veins and arteries of the champ’s muscles.



    But the punches weren’t scoring and the challenger’s defences were holding, and while they were holding, he was thinking!



    The crowd in their ignorance was on its feet as the champ drove the challenger, his gloves and arms protecting his upper body, into first one corner, and then pushing, punching him along the rope into the other.



    The crowd was not only on its feet, it was screaming, the bloodlust destroying all sense of humanity and rational thought as it sensed a kill, a final blow, a beaten and broken body, and another victory for brute force and ignorance.



    The challenger rocked and swayed, he peered through a gap in his gloves, he saw the staring eyes, he saw the fear, and he heard the laboured breathing.



    Round after round passed. The pattern was the same…..A rushed assault from the champ, a defiant painful defence from the challenger.



    But the assaults were getting shorter by the round, the respites longer, and the champ’s laboured breathing ever more pronounced.



    The challenger jabbed sometimes, but most of the time he covered up!



    He took the best that the champ had to throw. He felt the bruises rise, the blood vessels burst, his brain rattling inside his skull and he felt thankful for the the numbness anesthetising the worst of the pains.



    But he also heard the anguish of the press’s cries as their scripts were discarded to the dustbin and they had to think for themselves. He heard the crowd start to turn as the animal screams for carnage turned to honourable cheers for a hero.



    He opened his gloves again, he saw the confusion in the champ’s eyes, he heard the despair from the champ’s corner, he saw the champ’s arms drop for a second and his shoulders hunch.






    Like a gazelle the challenger leaped, like a tiger he roared, like a lion he pounced, but like a man he cast of fears and doubt and revelled in his own certainty as one, two, three, four! Jab jab, hook, uppercut! And the champ sank to his knees, rolling over onto his back, staring blindly out into the depths of the night sky, …..now as the ex-champ!



    ‘Sparring’ the victor thought to himself ‘Pah what a load of rubbish. That just kept me fit. But thinking, planning, and most of all belief now that’s what heroics, heroes and winners are made of’



    Hail Hail




  25. mike in toronto on

    BATEEN BHOY on 3RD MAY 2018 1:37 PM


    I’m taking my van out for a run on Sunday, thinking of heading to Carlisle. Want me to get you anything while I’m there ? I’ll drop it off when i get back but would need the cash up front.



    What crime is committed ?



    Who needs lawyers ???






    Bateen bhoy



    You were doing so well until that last line.






    If Sicilians sleep with the fishes, what would be an appropriate delivery for Bateen?

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