As
a follower of both Hibernian and Newcastle United, you can probably imagine how
much fun Saturday 23rd January was for me. First of all,
unaccustomed to the role of competition favourites, Hibs succeeded in fluffing
half a dozen more than presentable chances in the opening period against St
Johnstone in the League Cup semi, before disintegrating catastrophically and
recording a 3-0 defeat. Having already lost the 2020 Cup semi-final to lower
division Hearts, a second defeat at Hampden in three months felt even more
galling than expected. Thankfully, there wasn’t a great deal of time to mull
over this disaster, as Newcastle’s predictably spineless capitulation to Villa
kicked off soon after the St Johnstone debacle.
In the words of Steve Brooooth, all we could do was to take the positives (honestly; he really does say that), dust ourselves down (yes, he did) and move on to the next game (I know, I know), which were against Leeds and The Huns respectively. Two more defeats of course, though both utterly undeserved for differing reasons. In the second half Newcastle, inspired by new coach the Reverend Graeme Jones, threw everything at the unpopular, dirty, cheating Yorkshire bastards, but still came up short. At Easter Road, the game hinged on a sickening, unprovoked, unnecessary and predictably cowardly stamp on Ryan Porteous, by Alfredo Morelos, the solitary outfield bastard (McGregor’s still a filthy OB in between the sticks of course) still on the Castle Greyskull payroll from the first, trophy free decade of The New Huns’ existence. Having escaped censure for his disgusting assault on the prone Hibs defender, who later left the field injured, there was a certain inevitability about Morelos scoring the evening’s only goal.
The referee who had a clear sight of this act of thuggery was none other than Lord Lundy with a whistle, Kevin Clancy. As can be deduced from his name, he is ethnically Irish and almost certain a member of the Church of Rome. The disestablishment of the Scottish Labour Party as an elected organisation, marked the end of any vestiges of Socialist or socially progressive political representation for Scottish-Irish Catholics at either Westminster or Holyrood, meaning those whose roots are in that historically marginalised and oppressed minority, are required to play the Useful Idiot for their thirty pieces of silver. Clancy is renowned as being the most pro Rangers official since the days of Tiny Wharton and, while obviously not “on the square,” he has to dance barefoot for his Lodge masters, if he wishes to make a career in the higher echelons of the Scottish game.
Ironically, while the corrupt activities and sectarian ideology at the heart of Jeanette Mugabe and her husband Tough Guy Murrell’s Pizza Crunch Republic get worse by the week, New Rangers, under the tutelage of that famed alumnus of Cardinal Heenan Catholic High School, Steven Gerrard, get better by the game. No longer do The Huns fill their first team with slit eyed and shirty blade artists from Ayrshire or lumbering drunks from the darkest spots of the Black North; under Gerard they are swaggering to the beat of a different sounding non-Lambeg Drum, on a distinctly non-Orange cakewalk to the title. While the SNP’s Krankie Kommandants seek to ruin the life of that corpulent Ken Stott of the Highlands, Alex Salmond, something remarkable is happening at Ibronx. For the third time in Scottish football history, a club has dragged themselves off the dissection table and brought back to life their body politic to deny their traditional, fierce rivals the near mythical prize of 10 in a row titles. Old Rangers did it in 1974-1975; Celtic (with the help of both Andy Goram’s own goal v Killie) did it in 1997-1998 and now New Rangers, after only 9 years in existence, are about to do it in the most emphatic circumstances. As an institution, New Rangers may be as vile, sectarian and repulsive as their antecedents, but the team that Gerard has fashioned, drearily functional though it may be from front to back, are grinding Celtic’s pouting puss further into the dirt with every passing game.
Standing 23 points clear of the Tic, despite the trifling matter of 3 games in hand for The Bhoys (which they’ve no guarantee of winning), the real and most important fact to digest about this season is not just how far Celtic have declined, but how good Gerard’s team have been. Undoubtedly, they will match Celtic’s 2016-2017 achievement under Brendan Rogers, by going an entire league campaign unbeaten, though Gerard will have to address his side’s pitiful weaknesses in domestic cup competitions, if they wish to achieve anything resembling the dominance Celtic enjoyed under the now Leicester City boss as, with the greatest of respect, epochal sides don’t lose to St Mirren at the quarter final stage. Of course, Europe was always the nut Rogers failed to crack during his Parkhead tenure; in contrast, who would bet against a Leicester v New Rangers Europa League final? Gerard has really been pulling up trees in Europe, while poor Neil Lennon’s busted flushes stagger from one continental humiliation to another. It’s a sad thing to admit, but Neil Lennon is yesterday’s man, which is not what you want to be in football vortex defined by contrasting interpretations of 17th century Irish history.
What may have played into the hands of the Newco from Edmiston Drive this season, is the complete and utter absence of supporters in grounds. We can take it as read between now and the end of time that Rangers fans, old and new, will always engage in 90 minutes of sectarian bile inside football grounds, even if they are playing in Perth or Dingwall. Simply put, that is their DNA, their raison d’etre, their articles of faith. Having assembled the most loathsome following of any football club on earth, Old and New Rangers have often been hamstrung by the excesses of their fans influencing the conduct of some of their more volatile and cerebrally hard of thinking players; I’m talking Bilal Mhosni’s meltdown at Fir Park all the way back to Graham Roberts conducting the Hunnish horde here. In a silent and empty ground, football is all that matters. Realpolitik and Kulturkampf have taken an enforced gap year. Make no mistake, Gerrard has assembled a functional, efficient and wholly professional side, blending the aged Davis, Defoe and McGregor, with the hitherto unsung Goldson, Aribo and Arfield, with the more eye-catching talents of Kent, Hagi and, it has to be said, Morelos. The result is they’ve won the title by playing football, rather than by force of their sickening ultra-right wing ideology and institutional sectarianism.
Meanwhile, what of Celtic? The game was probably up before a ball was kicked, following the atrocious error of judgement that allowed Fraser Forster to return to Southampton, resulting in the panic signing of Greek keeper Barkas, who has not convinced from day one. With Scott Bain out of favour, this has left new signing from Cliftonville, the wet behind the ears Connor Hazard, to don the gloves; he looks nervy to say the least. Equally, Shane Duffy arrived from Brighton, assuming the title was a done deal and his slippers-on, reading the paper in a comfy armchair approach to the SPL, has seen the big stopper humiliated on the pitch and dropped to the bench to mend his ways. Laxalt is another underwhelming loan signing, enjoying a gap year in the Merchant City, while all Ajeti has to recommend him is that he isn’t Klimala. Celtic, while still boasting a midfield stuffed with players of flair, guile and mastery, such as Christie, Forrest, McGregor and the impressive Soro and Turnbull, have only the unreliable duo of Elyonoussi and Edouard, backed up by the willing, if ageing Griffiths, to rely on for goals. As for the defence; other than Ajer, you’d think Liam Brady was back in charge. Mind I would imagine Neil Lennon wishes he was.
The fundamental issue with Celtic is partly that Lennon has taken an underachieving and poorly recruited squad as far as he can. He appears vincreasing tired, drawn and tetchy in press conferences. Witness the aggressive defence of the wholly indefensible jolly to the world capital of Watches and Trainers, Dubai. Not only that, the distance between him and Peter Lawall is becoming a public embarrassment. Don’t get me wrong, Lennon has been a wonderful servant to the Hoops. Clearly, he will be regarded as one of the greatest managers and players ever at Celtic Park, though his race is effectively run. I’d suggest it is pointless to fire him this season. Instead, let him work his notice and look to appoint a new man in the summer.
One name being bandied around is El Fraudo himself, Rafa Benitez. However, I would suggest his dull, pragmatic, sterile approach to the game would not be tolerated at Parkhead. In fact, he’s more suited to the Rangers approach to the game. Perhaps he could replace Gerard, who I’d have at Newcastle in a shot. Frank Lampard has recently been bulleted by Chelsea and while I wouldn’t necessarily want him as NUFC boss, I’d definitely play him ahead of Shelvey and Hendrick. If I were asked who should take over from Lennon, I’d unequivocally state Eddy Howe is the man best suited, though that is for the future.
At the present time, we must give thanks that the Premiership and lower division Championship, home of the financially unviable Hearts, are still going. In terms of personal tragedies; my first is Hibs stuttering so badly, my second is the cessation of Leagues 1 and 2 and my third is the still empty terraces, but this vaccine may yet hasten a return to normality. Until then, we must count our blessings. There’s a League Cup final between St Johnstone and Ferranti to look forward to, as well as a Cup competition that probably won't have recommenced by the time they’ve unfurled the pennant round Govan way.
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