Sandman
Well-known member
SANDMAN'S DEFINITIVE RATINGS: CELTIC @ THE FACULTY
"Aye, so there was this big bit 'o waste grund near the supermarket,
so the boys chipped in their old subbuteo pitches and we sowed
them intae one big carpet, sorry - pitch - then got a couple of
second-hand corrugated iron sheds and flanged them the gither
for a side an' away end, then got the local primary school weans
to paint big bed-sheet murals for the other end o' the grund themed
roughly on bloodied, emaciated hostages being liberated from
an Iron curtain concentration camp, and after that we took Billy
McGurkie's transit up tae the posh stables and nicked their
show-jumpin benches and gazebos fur tae finish the last side.
Then we called it 'New Douglas Park' to fool the authorities, like -
changed it fae 'Douglas Park' which is jist like whit the Huns did wi'
their actual club, funnily enough thon Douglas Park bein' the main
victim o' Davy king's financial violatin' - small world, eh?
Anyhoo, noo the stadium's called 'The Fountain o' Youth' grund.
Gets the local teenyboppers intae it 'cos we tell them the potholes
aroon the place pish Buckie."
Hamilton Academicals Groundsman's interview with Kevin McCloud
for Channel 4's 'Grand Designs.'
THE WALL - 6/10
Did you see it, big fella? The ball, I mean? Late on he handled - and
mishandled - a few loopers but remained untested, almost to a Mordor
extent.
HAT ATTACK - 7/10
Physical, consistent and useful. He'll become a stalwart with steady
performances like this. Looks to have the mentality to handle either the
frenzied trips to the Hate Factory or, like today, the undertakers.
JULIEN CLARY - 6/10
Concussion? Now he knows how we felt watching that second half.
Nasty dunt nearly put him out of a game he'd looked pretty comfortable
in but disgusted with in a Gallic way. We know how you feel, mon ami.
BOLIWOOD - 7/10
The mantle of Anton Rogan-esque Antii-hero is falling upon him.
Countless swashbuckling runs down the left flank, dinked in a few choice
crosses that deserved a finish. Tendancy to over-elaborate and let
opportunities slip but it's easier to refine that with good coaching
from his position of enthusiasm than draw it out of someone.
AJER - 6/10
Big Ironside lumbered about, looking slightly lost with no pressure on him.
Seemed to pick up a strain as we bumbled around second-half. Ineffective
due to the type of opponent we faced, not a game for his Viking War Gods
to relish.
BROON - 7/10
All the ugliness of the ugliest uglies in world football cannot daunt the
skipper supreme. He'll bring out the Hun in any Hun; A bit like the blood
test in 'The Thing' - when faced with Broony they all eventually reveal
themselves to be screaming mutated grotesqueries of humainty.
So from facing down ces ames de boue at the Gates of Hell, today was
practically recreation. Thank goodness he kept the heid in the latter part
of the game as our midfield disintegrated around him. Reliable as ever.
CALMAC - 5.5/10
Neat, neat, neat - probing and prompting with metronomic consistency
usually pays off. So it was in the opening half hour. Then? Sake, wee mhan -
sloppy and culpable, gifting possession away, failing to dictate anything
after the break. Faded to frustrating anonymity.
CORPUS - 6/10
Celestial being holy ghosted around gliding into space and picking a few
killer passes first half. But like Calmc, afflicted by whatthefuckery as we
lost a grip completely and offered no dynamism.
ELBANGYONHUSSY - 6/10
An interesting debut. Not shy, perpetual movement in and around their
defensive lines, well, defensive block. Then came half-time. Like a few
others he was lost to the game after that as our tempo slipped and patterns
of play became ragged and sporadic.
FORREST - 7.5/10 MOTM
Well aware that the Hamilton Palace offers the best exhibitionist opportunities
for miles around, Jamesy tried to get the job done quickly to catch 'cock'tail
hour (Ladies...).
However despite his precision run and finish on the third minute he spent the
remainder of his time like everyone else - trying to find some green amid the
red and white ramparts. Thankfully, Jamesy still offered some spark and quality
through the game; foiled by a brilliant save as his would-be second crashed off
the bar. Whenever he was on the ball our game lifted.
FRENCH EDDY - 5.5/10
Le Wunderkind spent his day in a maze of red and white hoops. Culture shocks
don't come much grimmer than an overcast lunchtime on plastic in Hamilton
after being lauded by your countrymen all week for smashing in four in two
games. Lucky if he got four sights of goal today past the human crash-test
dummies lining up between him and the sticks. Walked off bored as Celtic
staff scrambled to pretend there was a substitute ready.
SUBS:
SON OF A GUN - N/A
Thrown on to cover French Eddy's ennui, battled around admirably with
no service as our midfield had retired for the day.
OZ - 6/10
The wiz returned to action in the most unglamorous of surroundings -
not a bad test of his mettle; took a few kicks, flashed a moment or
three of guile. Welcome back, mayyyte, as they say down under.
Make it an extended stay this time.
HAYES - N/A
Time-travelling Hunskelper apeared in injury-time to take the plaudits
and a few choruses of his own song.
LENNONY - 6.5/10
Sheesh. Looked on with grim resignation as his charges almost contrived
to disinterestedly surrender some points. He had them set up to continue
where we left off at the Death Star and everything looked to plan until that
lapse in energy and sharpness after half-time.
He appeared as bewildered with the performance as we all were and couldn't
find the inspiration to sort it. The team slipped into Rodgers-esque flim-flammery
as they lost belief and rhythm; Lennony's successful trademark has been
maintaining shape and discipline. Surprised he didn't alleviate the mundanity,
or attempt to seal up the middle/bring some levity by throwing on a Muthufucka.
Still, after that Beautiful Sunday, he gets a pass for this mind-numbing Saturday
and we move on.
OVERALL: 6/10
So sometime just after the crack of dawn, as I'm adding some Creme De Menthe
to my weetabix, we rock up to a place somewhere in an industrial wasteland most
suited for post-apocalyptic video games, where there's a pitch made of the melted
lego collections of canniblalised child slaves. And we ponder why it's difficult to get
quality foreign players to sign on to playing in the Scotish top-tier... Hmmm...
But our Bhoys are professionals and after winning the battle against Tina Turners'
slavering mutants in the Thunderdome a fortnight past, no force of rag-tag bandits
playing in a ramshackle midden was going to faze the mighty Hoops.
At least that was the foresight. By the time I was sprinkling on some hundreds
and thousands, and being asked to leave the library, Jamesy scored.
That blistering start had us all confident of a rampant thrashing then somebody
laced the half-time Gatorade with mogadon. We got a second-half so unremarkable
that if it was female not even Griff would try and ride it. Only the final whistle brought
any joy, diluted mostly with relief.
We all know a season throws up games like this but its more vexing when they sneak
up on you from a position of relative enjoyment like today, from one up and freestyling
to a sudden loss of form and apparent lack of conscious awareness of looming disaster.
Personally, on a metaphysical level I blame low-level witchcraft, Huns everywhere rousing
themselves, crawling out of congress with their farmyard beasts to congregate in their
covens before today's sacrificial rites at the Doomdome.
Or maybe just one of those days. Three more points. Five wins in a row. 33 to go. NEXT!.
Go Away Now.
Sandman.
P.S
Oh, '10,001 pot holes in Lancashire', re: Charlie Mulgrew. lmao.
"Aye, so there was this big bit 'o waste grund near the supermarket,
so the boys chipped in their old subbuteo pitches and we sowed
them intae one big carpet, sorry - pitch - then got a couple of
second-hand corrugated iron sheds and flanged them the gither
for a side an' away end, then got the local primary school weans
to paint big bed-sheet murals for the other end o' the grund themed
roughly on bloodied, emaciated hostages being liberated from
an Iron curtain concentration camp, and after that we took Billy
McGurkie's transit up tae the posh stables and nicked their
show-jumpin benches and gazebos fur tae finish the last side.
Then we called it 'New Douglas Park' to fool the authorities, like -
changed it fae 'Douglas Park' which is jist like whit the Huns did wi'
their actual club, funnily enough thon Douglas Park bein' the main
victim o' Davy king's financial violatin' - small world, eh?
Anyhoo, noo the stadium's called 'The Fountain o' Youth' grund.
Gets the local teenyboppers intae it 'cos we tell them the potholes
aroon the place pish Buckie."
Hamilton Academicals Groundsman's interview with Kevin McCloud
for Channel 4's 'Grand Designs.'
THE WALL - 6/10
Did you see it, big fella? The ball, I mean? Late on he handled - and
mishandled - a few loopers but remained untested, almost to a Mordor
extent.
HAT ATTACK - 7/10
Physical, consistent and useful. He'll become a stalwart with steady
performances like this. Looks to have the mentality to handle either the
frenzied trips to the Hate Factory or, like today, the undertakers.
JULIEN CLARY - 6/10
Concussion? Now he knows how we felt watching that second half.
Nasty dunt nearly put him out of a game he'd looked pretty comfortable
in but disgusted with in a Gallic way. We know how you feel, mon ami.
BOLIWOOD - 7/10
The mantle of Anton Rogan-esque Antii-hero is falling upon him.
Countless swashbuckling runs down the left flank, dinked in a few choice
crosses that deserved a finish. Tendancy to over-elaborate and let
opportunities slip but it's easier to refine that with good coaching
from his position of enthusiasm than draw it out of someone.
AJER - 6/10
Big Ironside lumbered about, looking slightly lost with no pressure on him.
Seemed to pick up a strain as we bumbled around second-half. Ineffective
due to the type of opponent we faced, not a game for his Viking War Gods
to relish.
BROON - 7/10
All the ugliness of the ugliest uglies in world football cannot daunt the
skipper supreme. He'll bring out the Hun in any Hun; A bit like the blood
test in 'The Thing' - when faced with Broony they all eventually reveal
themselves to be screaming mutated grotesqueries of humainty.
So from facing down ces ames de boue at the Gates of Hell, today was
practically recreation. Thank goodness he kept the heid in the latter part
of the game as our midfield disintegrated around him. Reliable as ever.
CALMAC - 5.5/10
Neat, neat, neat - probing and prompting with metronomic consistency
usually pays off. So it was in the opening half hour. Then? Sake, wee mhan -
sloppy and culpable, gifting possession away, failing to dictate anything
after the break. Faded to frustrating anonymity.
CORPUS - 6/10
Celestial being holy ghosted around gliding into space and picking a few
killer passes first half. But like Calmc, afflicted by whatthefuckery as we
lost a grip completely and offered no dynamism.
ELBANGYONHUSSY - 6/10
An interesting debut. Not shy, perpetual movement in and around their
defensive lines, well, defensive block. Then came half-time. Like a few
others he was lost to the game after that as our tempo slipped and patterns
of play became ragged and sporadic.
FORREST - 7.5/10 MOTM
Well aware that the Hamilton Palace offers the best exhibitionist opportunities
for miles around, Jamesy tried to get the job done quickly to catch 'cock'tail
hour (Ladies...).
However despite his precision run and finish on the third minute he spent the
remainder of his time like everyone else - trying to find some green amid the
red and white ramparts. Thankfully, Jamesy still offered some spark and quality
through the game; foiled by a brilliant save as his would-be second crashed off
the bar. Whenever he was on the ball our game lifted.
FRENCH EDDY - 5.5/10
Le Wunderkind spent his day in a maze of red and white hoops. Culture shocks
don't come much grimmer than an overcast lunchtime on plastic in Hamilton
after being lauded by your countrymen all week for smashing in four in two
games. Lucky if he got four sights of goal today past the human crash-test
dummies lining up between him and the sticks. Walked off bored as Celtic
staff scrambled to pretend there was a substitute ready.
SUBS:
SON OF A GUN - N/A
Thrown on to cover French Eddy's ennui, battled around admirably with
no service as our midfield had retired for the day.
OZ - 6/10
The wiz returned to action in the most unglamorous of surroundings -
not a bad test of his mettle; took a few kicks, flashed a moment or
three of guile. Welcome back, mayyyte, as they say down under.
Make it an extended stay this time.
HAYES - N/A
Time-travelling Hunskelper apeared in injury-time to take the plaudits
and a few choruses of his own song.
LENNONY - 6.5/10
Sheesh. Looked on with grim resignation as his charges almost contrived
to disinterestedly surrender some points. He had them set up to continue
where we left off at the Death Star and everything looked to plan until that
lapse in energy and sharpness after half-time.
He appeared as bewildered with the performance as we all were and couldn't
find the inspiration to sort it. The team slipped into Rodgers-esque flim-flammery
as they lost belief and rhythm; Lennony's successful trademark has been
maintaining shape and discipline. Surprised he didn't alleviate the mundanity,
or attempt to seal up the middle/bring some levity by throwing on a Muthufucka.
Still, after that Beautiful Sunday, he gets a pass for this mind-numbing Saturday
and we move on.
OVERALL: 6/10
So sometime just after the crack of dawn, as I'm adding some Creme De Menthe
to my weetabix, we rock up to a place somewhere in an industrial wasteland most
suited for post-apocalyptic video games, where there's a pitch made of the melted
lego collections of canniblalised child slaves. And we ponder why it's difficult to get
quality foreign players to sign on to playing in the Scotish top-tier... Hmmm...
But our Bhoys are professionals and after winning the battle against Tina Turners'
slavering mutants in the Thunderdome a fortnight past, no force of rag-tag bandits
playing in a ramshackle midden was going to faze the mighty Hoops.
At least that was the foresight. By the time I was sprinkling on some hundreds
and thousands, and being asked to leave the library, Jamesy scored.
That blistering start had us all confident of a rampant thrashing then somebody
laced the half-time Gatorade with mogadon. We got a second-half so unremarkable
that if it was female not even Griff would try and ride it. Only the final whistle brought
any joy, diluted mostly with relief.
We all know a season throws up games like this but its more vexing when they sneak
up on you from a position of relative enjoyment like today, from one up and freestyling
to a sudden loss of form and apparent lack of conscious awareness of looming disaster.
Personally, on a metaphysical level I blame low-level witchcraft, Huns everywhere rousing
themselves, crawling out of congress with their farmyard beasts to congregate in their
covens before today's sacrificial rites at the Doomdome.
Or maybe just one of those days. Three more points. Five wins in a row. 33 to go. NEXT!.
Go Away Now.
Sandman.
P.S
Oh, '10,001 pot holes in Lancashire', re: Charlie Mulgrew. lmao.
