Sandman
Well-known member
SANDMAN'S DEFINITIVE RATINGS: CELTIC v MOTHERUCKERS
"Yes, the mighty Glasgow Rangers stand on the brink of another
wuruld recurd. No, nothing to do with a half-dozen match pumping
of SPL dross - this is wur peepli's two-hunner and ferty-if
anniversary of forelock-tugging to an inbred cadre of genocidal
monarchies; proud, very proud, to be the slavering degenerate
fuckwits of Her Majesty's ridicule. WATP. 55 is coming...'
Jasper Felcher, spokesman for the True Blue Loyalist Militia Wing
Of The Paranormal Abnormal Hun Activist Global Warming Extinction
Non-Rebellion Appreciation Society Of Bewigged Belligerents.
'Football without strikers is nothing.'
Jock Stein.
B.A BARKAS - 6/10
Still stoned, still in nets, wondering half the time what
the fuck is going on; had to look lively/sluggish first half
when a shot dragging wide suckered him into a dive and then
was surprised out of his hashish fugue as, inexplicably, a
dude wearing a garish-cloured carnival outfit arrived on
the scene looking for a tap-in. This gear...ffs...
GREGGS THE BAKER - 6/10
Advance, check. Advance, check. Appears to be waiting for
the 'PING' on an oven timer before he'll fire in a cross.
All very well when the finest delicacies in the land are
baking to maturity, but the ball is no a sausage
roll and could do with being lashed into the oven -
penalty box, slow readers... - ocassionally, without
turning back 20 yards for approval/ultra-disciplined
possessional play.
AJER - 7/10
Well, he might want to head to the effette reaches of the
English empire in his pilgrimage to follow in the footsteps
of The Hair to Southampton, but right now he still appears
to be a first-choice Celtic centre-back.
Aside form the disgrace to his Viking legacy and the faint
hope Ragnar lothbrok will quantum-leap into his timestream
and smack him about a little so he sees sense and stays a
couple more seasons, we can't complain about his professionalism;
Solid and creative going forward to lay on the second. If you're
gone by the time the clocks go back, bug guy, it's way to early.
Enjoy the money and monotony down there while your teammates
become legends.
JULIEN CLARY - 7/10
No blemishes, and a physical test to shake his Gallic
Sunday ennui. He came through a few minor alarams intact
and gilded the day with a fine break in support to finish
well.
HAT ATTACK - 6/10
Wednesday's Scooby Doo villain retained his place when
really, at any level, he must have expected a pitchside
gaming chair at best. But, yadda-yadda, Lennony has to prove
a point and threw in his calamatous super-agent once more.
To no avail. at leats notihng of note; tidy, committed,
bursting forward; all well and fine and leaving us wondering
about his cuckoo brain malfunction last ime out.
BROON - 8/10 MOTM
Of course YOU don't agree. 'Cos he doesn't score an' that...'
But some will. Broon is your boiler - you don't notice until
it's done/not working and then you're cold/out of pocket
calling for a replacement.
Not everyone's a Calmac, not everyone can carry the water
with aplomb and still extert maximum influence; he took a
booking for the team after a poor break of the ball and
faced an early bath, yet still had the discipline and
control to maintain a functioning part and hold the team
together. We appeared aimless and clueless for 75% of
this game yet never lost our grip; there's one man and his
will to power to thank for that.
It's a captain's job he did, and his detractors won't realise
his huge value until he's gone and we're falling apart like
a Hun in a tax audit.
CALMAC - 7.5/10
Wake up call pitched perfectly around the 4.15 mark,
and our tacit maestro brought his class to the fore
to fill the gaps left by the departed and put a
gallus opponent on the back foot. More responsibility
roused his talents as he orchestrated the attacking
thrusts; keep him forward-thinking, please.
SAM JACKSON - 5.5/10
The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by
the iniquities of the selfish... Or something like that,
muthufuckas. And it looks like this Muthufucka is daym
DONE, muthufuckas. This was a muthufuckin' conservation
exercise for a Muthufucka in preservation mode; doin'
the job and no daym muthufuckin' more. If the tales are
to be told, we ain't never seein' the maturity of this
Muthufucka's potential; He be gone into history like an
1872 Klan hood.
CORPUS CHRISTIE - 6.5/10
'I'm fucking what?!' rang around the hallowed corridors
in the politest and poshest of tones as the teamsheet
went up.
Thankfully for Matron, it was Sunday and her office
closed as young Corpus stomped to her door.
A jolly rude rapping of the laminated plywood
awoke his young fag, Hagi, but Corpus was in no mood
to apologize...
"What ees eet?," the suspiciously
foreign-sounding goblin asked, rubbing sleep from his
eyes.
Corpus hitched up his pressed grey flannels and poked
the air with a brazen finger: "The damn ginger quartermaster
has only gone and usurped me from my favoured batting
role and now I'm supposed to be as goshed effervescent
as Wednesday despite continuing to be played out of
position; it's jolly unfair..."
"That it is...but I'nm sure you'll do just fine..."
groaned Hagi, rolling his eyes as he anticipated another
disappointing season, and perhaps a good beating or two.
And Corpus did do fine, once more despite being pointlessly
played in the false 9 invisible fucking stirker coup de tat mime
artist role, or whatever the fuck its called that manages to
entirely negate the qualities of our best attacking midfield
runner.
Well done, kid; maybe next time, eh?
FORREST - 7/10
Ah, Jamesy, the Pele from darkest Prestwick who shows up
like his wanger in a busy bar - intermittently and maybe
even sporacdically, but when it happens its impactful and
full of exciting magic... Ladies....
Today, we remember nothing of his display apart form the
laces-across-the-ball guileful swerve of the opening
strike and the bar-kissing-should-have-been-a-goal icing
on a dangerous cut-in second-half. Yet that's enough.
Enough every game if the results are one in two.
Get in the groove, Jamessy.
ELSHAGYONLASSIE - 5/10
Well, he turned up. But didn't really turn up. Be thankful we
didn't spend 15 million rubles on him. More of a mind-changer
than a game-changer; ten minutes in, if he doesn't fancy it,
good luck everybody...
SUBS:
THE YETI - 7/10
Smash! 'Abominable defending,' the Hun SMSM cry but that's
what happens when you play a natural striker - they sniff
out the space. And what a finish - taught at the college
of Nofuckaboutery; Bigfoot (did it again, 3 in a row, pun fans...)
through ball, through goalie, through net.
But he's 'not fit enough yet'. Ayyye...
KLIMALA KLIMAX - 6/10
This bhoy need a GOAL! There's a player in there but for
confidence. A manager continually insisting you can do 90
doesn't help... So we get 20 minutes and he could have scored
a double - one-on-one highlights the lack of belief. So...
Play him, Lennony, ffs - give the kid a run and let him prove
himself or fall on the sword.
PINGPONG - 7/10
That's what we need! - the exhuberance of youth charging
on and charging around and creating chaos. But for some
finesse in his final choices/ball we'd have notched
half-a-dozen.
LENNONY - 6/10
Yeah... Point proven. Nah. Nah, it's not. Celtic play with
strikers. YOU played with some of the finest, THE finest...
a King of Kings. Shame on you for setting up a Celtic side
against SPL opposition with not a natural goalscorer in
sight.
Overthinking the CL qualifiers two years on the trot is
one thing; blase belligerence in selecting the same side
you savaged for their efforts on Wednesday is just dumb
ignorance.
Clear your fucking head, Lennony, and get back to Celtic
basics -
1) We set up to attack, and take it from there.
2) see above.
Now go win the TEN and forget we had this blip.
OVERALL - 7/10
Groundhog Sunday in August. Gloom was gathering like
Tornado season in the Midwest - that's America, not
Newton Mearns... - and only one solitary lighting
bolt had lit us up.
So, second half and fucking Bill Oddie's turned up
with the Autumnwatch squad to report on the rare sighting
of a striker.
And would you believe it, such an event causes disruption
in the tranquil Motherwell defence as they suddenly have a
Hooped shirt in their box to worry about. And we see why
you play a natural forward: goals are the bonus; every
moment of the game there's the affect - unsettling defenders,
breaking concentration, creating openings, finding space...
Finishing.
It's not brain-coding-rocket-science-appliance-surgical-implantery
- it's just playing a side that contains a member of the eleven
who's been coached in the art of forward play and is handsomely
paid to attempt such, from the start.
So do it.
And then we cause mayhem and lots of chances and score some
of them and win again and again and we all post happily ever
after. The Fucking End.
Go Away Now.
Sandman.
"Yes, the mighty Glasgow Rangers stand on the brink of another
wuruld recurd. No, nothing to do with a half-dozen match pumping
of SPL dross - this is wur peepli's two-hunner and ferty-if
anniversary of forelock-tugging to an inbred cadre of genocidal
monarchies; proud, very proud, to be the slavering degenerate
fuckwits of Her Majesty's ridicule. WATP. 55 is coming...'
Jasper Felcher, spokesman for the True Blue Loyalist Militia Wing
Of The Paranormal Abnormal Hun Activist Global Warming Extinction
Non-Rebellion Appreciation Society Of Bewigged Belligerents.
'Football without strikers is nothing.'
Jock Stein.
B.A BARKAS - 6/10
Still stoned, still in nets, wondering half the time what
the fuck is going on; had to look lively/sluggish first half
when a shot dragging wide suckered him into a dive and then
was surprised out of his hashish fugue as, inexplicably, a
dude wearing a garish-cloured carnival outfit arrived on
the scene looking for a tap-in. This gear...ffs...
GREGGS THE BAKER - 6/10
Advance, check. Advance, check. Appears to be waiting for
the 'PING' on an oven timer before he'll fire in a cross.
All very well when the finest delicacies in the land are
baking to maturity, but the ball is no a sausage
roll and could do with being lashed into the oven -
penalty box, slow readers... - ocassionally, without
turning back 20 yards for approval/ultra-disciplined
possessional play.
AJER - 7/10
Well, he might want to head to the effette reaches of the
English empire in his pilgrimage to follow in the footsteps
of The Hair to Southampton, but right now he still appears
to be a first-choice Celtic centre-back.
Aside form the disgrace to his Viking legacy and the faint
hope Ragnar lothbrok will quantum-leap into his timestream
and smack him about a little so he sees sense and stays a
couple more seasons, we can't complain about his professionalism;
Solid and creative going forward to lay on the second. If you're
gone by the time the clocks go back, bug guy, it's way to early.
Enjoy the money and monotony down there while your teammates
become legends.
JULIEN CLARY - 7/10
No blemishes, and a physical test to shake his Gallic
Sunday ennui. He came through a few minor alarams intact
and gilded the day with a fine break in support to finish
well.
HAT ATTACK - 6/10
Wednesday's Scooby Doo villain retained his place when
really, at any level, he must have expected a pitchside
gaming chair at best. But, yadda-yadda, Lennony has to prove
a point and threw in his calamatous super-agent once more.
To no avail. at leats notihng of note; tidy, committed,
bursting forward; all well and fine and leaving us wondering
about his cuckoo brain malfunction last ime out.
BROON - 8/10 MOTM
Of course YOU don't agree. 'Cos he doesn't score an' that...'
But some will. Broon is your boiler - you don't notice until
it's done/not working and then you're cold/out of pocket
calling for a replacement.
Not everyone's a Calmac, not everyone can carry the water
with aplomb and still extert maximum influence; he took a
booking for the team after a poor break of the ball and
faced an early bath, yet still had the discipline and
control to maintain a functioning part and hold the team
together. We appeared aimless and clueless for 75% of
this game yet never lost our grip; there's one man and his
will to power to thank for that.
It's a captain's job he did, and his detractors won't realise
his huge value until he's gone and we're falling apart like
a Hun in a tax audit.
CALMAC - 7.5/10
Wake up call pitched perfectly around the 4.15 mark,
and our tacit maestro brought his class to the fore
to fill the gaps left by the departed and put a
gallus opponent on the back foot. More responsibility
roused his talents as he orchestrated the attacking
thrusts; keep him forward-thinking, please.
SAM JACKSON - 5.5/10
The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by
the iniquities of the selfish... Or something like that,
muthufuckas. And it looks like this Muthufucka is daym
DONE, muthufuckas. This was a muthufuckin' conservation
exercise for a Muthufucka in preservation mode; doin'
the job and no daym muthufuckin' more. If the tales are
to be told, we ain't never seein' the maturity of this
Muthufucka's potential; He be gone into history like an
1872 Klan hood.
CORPUS CHRISTIE - 6.5/10
'I'm fucking what?!' rang around the hallowed corridors
in the politest and poshest of tones as the teamsheet
went up.
Thankfully for Matron, it was Sunday and her office
closed as young Corpus stomped to her door.
A jolly rude rapping of the laminated plywood
awoke his young fag, Hagi, but Corpus was in no mood
to apologize...
"What ees eet?," the suspiciously
foreign-sounding goblin asked, rubbing sleep from his
eyes.
Corpus hitched up his pressed grey flannels and poked
the air with a brazen finger: "The damn ginger quartermaster
has only gone and usurped me from my favoured batting
role and now I'm supposed to be as goshed effervescent
as Wednesday despite continuing to be played out of
position; it's jolly unfair..."
"That it is...but I'nm sure you'll do just fine..."
groaned Hagi, rolling his eyes as he anticipated another
disappointing season, and perhaps a good beating or two.
And Corpus did do fine, once more despite being pointlessly
played in the false 9 invisible fucking stirker coup de tat mime
artist role, or whatever the fuck its called that manages to
entirely negate the qualities of our best attacking midfield
runner.
Well done, kid; maybe next time, eh?
FORREST - 7/10
Ah, Jamesy, the Pele from darkest Prestwick who shows up
like his wanger in a busy bar - intermittently and maybe
even sporacdically, but when it happens its impactful and
full of exciting magic... Ladies....
Today, we remember nothing of his display apart form the
laces-across-the-ball guileful swerve of the opening
strike and the bar-kissing-should-have-been-a-goal icing
on a dangerous cut-in second-half. Yet that's enough.
Enough every game if the results are one in two.
Get in the groove, Jamessy.
ELSHAGYONLASSIE - 5/10
Well, he turned up. But didn't really turn up. Be thankful we
didn't spend 15 million rubles on him. More of a mind-changer
than a game-changer; ten minutes in, if he doesn't fancy it,
good luck everybody...
SUBS:
THE YETI - 7/10
Smash! 'Abominable defending,' the Hun SMSM cry but that's
what happens when you play a natural striker - they sniff
out the space. And what a finish - taught at the college
of Nofuckaboutery; Bigfoot (did it again, 3 in a row, pun fans...)
through ball, through goalie, through net.
But he's 'not fit enough yet'. Ayyye...
KLIMALA KLIMAX - 6/10
This bhoy need a GOAL! There's a player in there but for
confidence. A manager continually insisting you can do 90
doesn't help... So we get 20 minutes and he could have scored
a double - one-on-one highlights the lack of belief. So...
Play him, Lennony, ffs - give the kid a run and let him prove
himself or fall on the sword.
PINGPONG - 7/10
That's what we need! - the exhuberance of youth charging
on and charging around and creating chaos. But for some
finesse in his final choices/ball we'd have notched
half-a-dozen.
LENNONY - 6/10
Yeah... Point proven. Nah. Nah, it's not. Celtic play with
strikers. YOU played with some of the finest, THE finest...
a King of Kings. Shame on you for setting up a Celtic side
against SPL opposition with not a natural goalscorer in
sight.
Overthinking the CL qualifiers two years on the trot is
one thing; blase belligerence in selecting the same side
you savaged for their efforts on Wednesday is just dumb
ignorance.
Clear your fucking head, Lennony, and get back to Celtic
basics -
1) We set up to attack, and take it from there.
2) see above.
Now go win the TEN and forget we had this blip.
OVERALL - 7/10
Groundhog Sunday in August. Gloom was gathering like
Tornado season in the Midwest - that's America, not
Newton Mearns... - and only one solitary lighting
bolt had lit us up.
So, second half and fucking Bill Oddie's turned up
with the Autumnwatch squad to report on the rare sighting
of a striker.
And would you believe it, such an event causes disruption
in the tranquil Motherwell defence as they suddenly have a
Hooped shirt in their box to worry about. And we see why
you play a natural forward: goals are the bonus; every
moment of the game there's the affect - unsettling defenders,
breaking concentration, creating openings, finding space...
Finishing.
It's not brain-coding-rocket-science-appliance-surgical-implantery
- it's just playing a side that contains a member of the eleven
who's been coached in the art of forward play and is handsomely
paid to attempt such, from the start.
So do it.
And then we cause mayhem and lots of chances and score some
of them and win again and again and we all post happily ever
after. The Fucking End.
Go Away Now.
Sandman.