Poets Corner: A Matter of Time and Prayers for Reo

Saw Antonio Conte.

No. Not at the Celtic Park, on the telly, in the concourse as I was eating a steak and gravy pie. He looks a haunted man, like he should be in some American emo band’s video about having trouble with his parents that ends with him standing in a field burying the bodies.

There is no way Angelos Postecoglou will have that look at the end of the day. We never stop. Don’t stop believing on this journey. And it is Hibs. What are Hibs? A sleeping force in Scottish football or just another badly run football club who pay Waitrose prices in home bargains?

Cabbages, cabbages, cabbages.

That’s what the Hearts fans call Hibs. I heard the song Bandages by Hot Hot Heat on the radio the other day. I’m singing cabbages instead of bandages. Try it. It will drive you daft.

Worried about a Mooy less Celtic? Join 40,000 others in the club. A wizard of oz not on the pitch. Why do we give players cliched simple cultural nicknames? Australia gave us Mad Max and Bouncer the dog. Not the wizard of oz.

Refugees Welcome. Stop The Tories.

The game kicks off.

We run towards the Hibs goal with purpose. This will be done before the queue for the half time pies has time to fully form and develop into a long snaking endurance test.  Greg Taylor looks feisty and full of energy. Stuff you Steve Clarke. Best left back in Scotland even if playing on one leg.

His name is Reo and he is ours and he is down holding his hamstring. Ever heard 50,000 odd thousand audibly hold their breath? Turnbull gets the chance. Hopefully it’s not like replacing Simon Le Bon with Bob Geldolf on the cover of smash hits.

Can you feel that sinking feeling? That something is going to wrong? Missing Mooy. Hamstrung Hatate. One legged Taylor. Countdown injury conundrum. Three from the top please Carole.

David Marshall we will always have the Nou Camp. This is not the day to try and recreate that memory. Kyogo has never seen the video and he doesn’t want to. Marshall time wastes with the air of a man that knows he won’t get booked for it and the countdown clock will never bong.

He waves his two center backs away from the his six yard box then hoofs the ball towards the annoying number two whose aim is to win the header while fouling Taylor and getting away with it. 88.7% of the time Marshall puts the ball out for a Celtic throw in. There is much time wasted. A crisp poke escapes the stadium. Starfelt hits the bar. O’Reilly forgets to head the ball. They get a man sent off.

He should have been sent off for his first challenge on Starfelt.

That’s the game over as a contest we think. Only a matter of time we think.

Then we stop. Both on and off the park. We become slow, sluggish and are checking Netflix for Saturday nights viewing. Eye off the ball, eye off the prize, VAR sees it’s chance.

Penalty. No claims. No one complains. No-one can hear you scream in the VAR truck anyway.

Never a feeling that Joe Hart is going to save. I’m willing to welcome Barkas back if he can save penalties and not dive out of the way of them. Eddie Howe did this happen? Headline writers dream this.

We get crabbit. We try to rush. We are never going to catch that bus no matter how much injury time the referee plays. David Marshall waves his two centre backs away from the six yard box then hoofs the ball towards the big annoying number two – Hen Broon without the comedy value – and out the park.

VAR checks the temperature of the pies in the posh seats. No foul, play on. Maeda runs and runs and runs to nowhere. No one sees Taylor anymore. Jota Jota’s. Lee Johnson is booked for kicking a ball onto the pitch. Why has Scottish football become a safe space for guys who dress like they are accompanying Tommy Robinson to court? Anyone seen Turnbull since he came on? Feriss Bueller’s day off in the midfield. They’ve stolen a car and visited a museum.

We have a title to win lads. Half Time.

Taylor comes out far earlier than the rest of the team. Kicks a ball about a bit. Runs a bit. It doesn’t look good a bit. Oh does forward rolls while warming up. What’s that all about?

Its ten past four and the second half hasn’t kicked off yet. Are the officials claiming overtime? Let’s just get this going.

We threaten to threaten. I will switch the telly off if you don’t eat your dinner type of threat. Everyone wants to watch the news and it will never happen. Then it happens. Penalty. Where is Mooy? Jota has it. Hands meet my face and both meet my knees. Jota taking penalty kicks doesn’t read right. It’s the comic sans of fonts. If you get a letter written in comic sans you don’t read it as the person is quite clearly an idiot. Jota passes the ball under the goalkeeper. Thank you David. We will always have the Nou Camp.

Note to those in charge. Jota penalties are not allowed. Never again do I want to see such nonsense.

Surely a matter of time now? The procession it should have been now? No, damned to eternal struggle and not neat neat neat. Time for the subs. Time for change. Did Maeda manage to find the dugout ok? Can O’Riley please find his form again. I don’t like League One Matt O’Riley. Oh on for magic. It needs to be. Taylor goes off injured. Those football gods are now dealing cards of the devil.

Guys are losing their heads here. Have we not learned? Yes, it may not happen but that’s fine if it doesn’t. One of those days. Shouting abuse at David Turnbull is not making it better, mate. Seek therapy or spend a Saturday cleaning your car and taking your partner to Frankie and Benny’s. Time is moving fast. Is Celtic Park a Tardis? Somethings may have happened it’s all just treading water until the inevitable happens.

A Hibs player gets subbed. A tortoise laps him twice on the way off the park. Plenty of Celtic Adidas Iconic range going about. Right nineties vibes. We need an Andy Payton. Someone call a taxi.

Oh turns into Giakoumakis (He’s never heard of Andy Payton). We no longer miss him. The tweets asking why did we sell him that have been saved in drafts since January are left untouched for this week.

Oh takes his top off. Stop mimicking the guy you have replaced. You haven’t got the muscles of that Greek god in his Gym King gear. You are built like a Weetabix. Solid. Not toned. That means you keep the top on. Love you always.

The origin of the species kit. Late goals. It’s in our DNA.

David Marshall proves he can hurry up when the notion takes him.  He hoofs the ball out of play, quickly. Abada scampers through on goal. Marshall brings him down. Penalty. Jota grabs the ball. Abada protests. VAR decides that Jota taking another penalty is not allowed. Bounce ball to Hibs. Why not a booking for diving then?

Jota is the only player worth paying money to watch today. Man of the match. The corporate junkies vote for Oh. Someone check the champagne for LSD. Taking your top off is not MOTM material. That Portuguese armada will sail one day and you will regret this.

Top of the league looking down on the Rangers.

Time for Haksabanovic. It’s always time for Haksabanovic at Celtic Park for late goals that light up the afternoon. Like Noel Gallagher reusing Beatle chords. Never gets tired.

Full time. Ever get the feeling that you have been cheated? Never with this side.

Oh and Haskabanovic lead the celebrations. Move over Kyogo new kids in town.

Please all light candles for Mooy, Hatate and Taylor is not announced over the PA at full time. It should have been.

I’m praying for the next two weeks bringing my washing down and doing the dishes. Need to be good for the football gods.



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