Sandman
Well-known member
That's 'TWO'. PART 'TWO' lingophobes...
LIAM/EWAN HENDERSON - 9/10
And we save the youngest and best, 'til last. Was his performance good? Undoubtedly. First-half, so sharp and
incise, beautiful link-up play- touch and decision-making beyond the rections of his opponents, great ball to
set up Eddy.
Then came the test. Second-half; that make-up - Hollywood special effects extraordinaire to make Liam become
the younger Ewan seemed to weigh on him as the half opened, perhaps the heat and a sweat melting the prosthetics a litle and distracting his game.
But, wait. It all kicks off due to those CHEATING BASTARDS and suddenly the wonderkid's bang in the middle
of a man's grudge-match. Experienced pros around him losing the plot. Did it faze him? Nope. He borrowed
some sticky-tape, fixed up the traitorous disguise with an impromptu sellotape facelift (pulled his cheeks back
taut behind his not-inconspicuous ears, cosmetic detail lovers...) and again involved himself in the patterns of
play, actively looking for the ball, seeking the link-ups, refusing to hide or be dominated.
Given what transpired, one of the best full-debuts I've ever witnessed. Deserved MOTM.
SUBS:
HENDRY - 6/10
Awe naw, young Jack trying to be eased into the first-teamk again, waits on the touchline to replace
Corpus and all hell kicks off. In he's thrown, negativity abounding, on a hiding to nothing as our
composure is gone. Acquited himself without incident and did all that was asked.
BURKE - 7/10
Wish he was ours. but he's not going to be. Meantime, Big Snatch builds towards a legend as
most-loved-least-time with another vital goal, and a great sweep of a shot into the roof of their
net to kill off the CHEATING BASTARDS once and for all.
Edit out all his contributions from online footage, tell WBA he's shite, offer five million.
HAYES - 6.5/10
Fucking Jerries! On he came, furious with the Kaiser's underhand tactics and melted one of them.
He escaped a booking and nobody told him WW1 had ended as he ably filled in for KT.
Definitely a great alternative at left/wing-back. His pace and determination cover him defensively
and his natural attacking ability means he's welcome to deputise for Young Caesar (© Sandman, NOW)
as he rehabilitates/rests.
As long as Johhnny doesn't realise the battle of Passchendaele has finished, we'll be fine; given SPL
pitches, there's no danger.
BR - 7/10
Hendry's coming on! The fuck, whit!? Jaws dropped as the CHEATING BASTARDS pulled that 'goal'
back and BR kept young Jack in mind. Then threw him on as many wondered if BR really saw what
had just happened.
But he picked a team to cope with chaos and by Christ, they had to. Bitton and Henderson in the
middle!? The fuck, whit? But it worked. Both outstanding contributions to the cause.
Again, BR tweaks in the fac eof fear and gets results. make no mistake - his season in absolute win
or bust. Lose the title to the squeaky Scouse bottle-merchant acrobat and his reputation's done.
NOTHING less than another title will win BR any grace or respect. He knows it and he operates
under that oppressive truth every waking moment. Pressure. Of a kind almost unique.
So he gets the job done, moves ever-closer. Soon, he becomes legend. Or... There is no alternative
as Celtic boss.
MIBs - Fuck Sake/10
'Red Card, redcard, redcard, rrrreedcard!!!' became 'Play on, playon, playonnn, ppplayyon!"' as
Hun Tory Wank-stain Ross ran the traitor's flank an let the CHEATING BASTARDS unfurl the new
dimension in CHEATING right in fornt of his eyes.
'There' nothing we could do,' will bleat Clancy as their joker was played, and failed.
Yes there is:
Blow your whistle when you see the CHEATING unfold - it wasn't difficult to spot... - and
call it back for any spurious excuse - there's a whole fucking dictionary of them catalogued
against Celtic to interrupt the flow of play - ask Hugh Dallas, who frequently takes the
hefty volume to the bathroom with him instead of Penthouse letters.
What befuddles me is the question - do they really think we don't see what they're up to?
They're either really thick or really don't care; looks like the only raison d'etre is to stop the
Tims at all costs.
LOL, good luck with that. This isn't the seventies or eighties - the paranoid were right and we
got your number; 666. The Tims are on course for the TEN, and there's only futility left in your
pathetic efforts as the great Stein's epitaph echoes in your nightmares - we'll beat you with
pure, inventive football.
OVERALL - 9/10
A tough nut to crack against the form team in the SPL beside us. Turns out they were
CHEATING BASTARDS all along. Murderwell manager Steven Robinson outs himself as
an effete wee HUN with his risible aftermatch comments. Classic whataboutery ensued as
we heard a plea for the CHEATING BASTARD SCOTT'S wages to be taken into account and
the CHEATING BASTARD'S age.
Unknown to us, it seemed he'd just been introduced to football sometime on Sunday morning
after a lifetime's embryonic state in a bio-pod at the Murderwell experimental genetic research
lab which is principally involved with research into the Hun gene so prevalent in the area and
the relative zoomer-imbalance in the population.
Poor kid didn't realise the etiquette of the game of 'soccer' and should be absolved of any
fault in the CHEATING BASTARDS' goal, apparently. Aye, wee soul. Could've started a fight at
an under-tens' match. Would have ended any of my old Sunday League matches there and then
in utter, utter carnage that would have made Game of Thrones look like a Windsor garden
party. Wee ingenue, my erse. Wee Hun bastard, FACT.
But Celtic, despite a makeshift team, kept to plan, kept their heads, gathered themselves against
the devilry, and prevailed, as Celtic have always done - thanks to moments of that pure inventive
football the Godman Stein spoke of.
And how sweet it was. How sweet it is. How sweet it will be.
You, me, everyone ever connected, aligned with, or who have held Celtic dear, are now right in
the moments of bright, high footballing fantasy becoming actual reality. And with that comes
the darkness, those zombie-wraith agitators who postulate as ra peepil but are notihng more
than goons led by a gangster.
It's playing out like a classic fairytale, or a decades-long Russian-penned epic of trial and triumph
drawing to a conclusion within the next few years that may forever silence the Klan. Whatever they
or their agents try, Celtic deflect and keep on striving for perfection.
Perfection is the TEN. As we close on the EIGHT the pressure brings a taste of the shape of things
to come. May they be hooped.
Sandman. Dreaming yet still.
LIAM/EWAN HENDERSON - 9/10
And we save the youngest and best, 'til last. Was his performance good? Undoubtedly. First-half, so sharp and
incise, beautiful link-up play- touch and decision-making beyond the rections of his opponents, great ball to
set up Eddy.
Then came the test. Second-half; that make-up - Hollywood special effects extraordinaire to make Liam become
the younger Ewan seemed to weigh on him as the half opened, perhaps the heat and a sweat melting the prosthetics a litle and distracting his game.
But, wait. It all kicks off due to those CHEATING BASTARDS and suddenly the wonderkid's bang in the middle
of a man's grudge-match. Experienced pros around him losing the plot. Did it faze him? Nope. He borrowed
some sticky-tape, fixed up the traitorous disguise with an impromptu sellotape facelift (pulled his cheeks back
taut behind his not-inconspicuous ears, cosmetic detail lovers...) and again involved himself in the patterns of
play, actively looking for the ball, seeking the link-ups, refusing to hide or be dominated.
Given what transpired, one of the best full-debuts I've ever witnessed. Deserved MOTM.
SUBS:
HENDRY - 6/10
Awe naw, young Jack trying to be eased into the first-teamk again, waits on the touchline to replace
Corpus and all hell kicks off. In he's thrown, negativity abounding, on a hiding to nothing as our
composure is gone. Acquited himself without incident and did all that was asked.
BURKE - 7/10
Wish he was ours. but he's not going to be. Meantime, Big Snatch builds towards a legend as
most-loved-least-time with another vital goal, and a great sweep of a shot into the roof of their
net to kill off the CHEATING BASTARDS once and for all.
Edit out all his contributions from online footage, tell WBA he's shite, offer five million.
HAYES - 6.5/10
Fucking Jerries! On he came, furious with the Kaiser's underhand tactics and melted one of them.
He escaped a booking and nobody told him WW1 had ended as he ably filled in for KT.
Definitely a great alternative at left/wing-back. His pace and determination cover him defensively
and his natural attacking ability means he's welcome to deputise for Young Caesar (© Sandman, NOW)
as he rehabilitates/rests.
As long as Johhnny doesn't realise the battle of Passchendaele has finished, we'll be fine; given SPL
pitches, there's no danger.
BR - 7/10
Hendry's coming on! The fuck, whit!? Jaws dropped as the CHEATING BASTARDS pulled that 'goal'
back and BR kept young Jack in mind. Then threw him on as many wondered if BR really saw what
had just happened.
But he picked a team to cope with chaos and by Christ, they had to. Bitton and Henderson in the
middle!? The fuck, whit? But it worked. Both outstanding contributions to the cause.
Again, BR tweaks in the fac eof fear and gets results. make no mistake - his season in absolute win
or bust. Lose the title to the squeaky Scouse bottle-merchant acrobat and his reputation's done.
NOTHING less than another title will win BR any grace or respect. He knows it and he operates
under that oppressive truth every waking moment. Pressure. Of a kind almost unique.
So he gets the job done, moves ever-closer. Soon, he becomes legend. Or... There is no alternative
as Celtic boss.
MIBs - Fuck Sake/10
'Red Card, redcard, redcard, rrrreedcard!!!' became 'Play on, playon, playonnn, ppplayyon!"' as
Hun Tory Wank-stain Ross ran the traitor's flank an let the CHEATING BASTARDS unfurl the new
dimension in CHEATING right in fornt of his eyes.
'There' nothing we could do,' will bleat Clancy as their joker was played, and failed.
Yes there is:
Blow your whistle when you see the CHEATING unfold - it wasn't difficult to spot... - and
call it back for any spurious excuse - there's a whole fucking dictionary of them catalogued
against Celtic to interrupt the flow of play - ask Hugh Dallas, who frequently takes the
hefty volume to the bathroom with him instead of Penthouse letters.
What befuddles me is the question - do they really think we don't see what they're up to?
They're either really thick or really don't care; looks like the only raison d'etre is to stop the
Tims at all costs.
LOL, good luck with that. This isn't the seventies or eighties - the paranoid were right and we
got your number; 666. The Tims are on course for the TEN, and there's only futility left in your
pathetic efforts as the great Stein's epitaph echoes in your nightmares - we'll beat you with
pure, inventive football.
OVERALL - 9/10
A tough nut to crack against the form team in the SPL beside us. Turns out they were
CHEATING BASTARDS all along. Murderwell manager Steven Robinson outs himself as
an effete wee HUN with his risible aftermatch comments. Classic whataboutery ensued as
we heard a plea for the CHEATING BASTARD SCOTT'S wages to be taken into account and
the CHEATING BASTARD'S age.
Unknown to us, it seemed he'd just been introduced to football sometime on Sunday morning
after a lifetime's embryonic state in a bio-pod at the Murderwell experimental genetic research
lab which is principally involved with research into the Hun gene so prevalent in the area and
the relative zoomer-imbalance in the population.
Poor kid didn't realise the etiquette of the game of 'soccer' and should be absolved of any
fault in the CHEATING BASTARDS' goal, apparently. Aye, wee soul. Could've started a fight at
an under-tens' match. Would have ended any of my old Sunday League matches there and then
in utter, utter carnage that would have made Game of Thrones look like a Windsor garden
party. Wee ingenue, my erse. Wee Hun bastard, FACT.
But Celtic, despite a makeshift team, kept to plan, kept their heads, gathered themselves against
the devilry, and prevailed, as Celtic have always done - thanks to moments of that pure inventive
football the Godman Stein spoke of.
And how sweet it was. How sweet it is. How sweet it will be.
You, me, everyone ever connected, aligned with, or who have held Celtic dear, are now right in
the moments of bright, high footballing fantasy becoming actual reality. And with that comes
the darkness, those zombie-wraith agitators who postulate as ra peepil but are notihng more
than goons led by a gangster.
It's playing out like a classic fairytale, or a decades-long Russian-penned epic of trial and triumph
drawing to a conclusion within the next few years that may forever silence the Klan. Whatever they
or their agents try, Celtic deflect and keep on striving for perfection.
Perfection is the TEN. As we close on the EIGHT the pressure brings a taste of the shape of things
to come. May they be hooped.
Sandman. Dreaming yet still.
