I was planning to run with the title “Let’s Get Ready to Rumble” as I contend that this is precisely what ensued from the cage fighters of Motherwell FC. They went out to bludgeon and maim their way to a cup final win and when this did not work they reverted to a deft pull of Dembele’s shirt with the left hand while using one’s body to shield their cheating from a weak referee. It’s the kind of professional cheating that is coached. One can envisage Robinson barking out instructions on how to cheat like a pro while directing others to pull up trees; interrupted by trips to his favourite salon to stare lovingly at his reflection while directing his agent on his mobile to score a media deal with BBC EBT Scotland.
I did not watch the BBC’s coverage as it was not available south of Hadrian’s Wall but I caught up with Alex McLeish’s comments later, prising my eyes open with matchsticks after the tedium of the FA Cup Final. Alex McLeish EBT (£1.7m) is a tax-evading cheat who would not know a level playing field if one was presented to him with his Parkison’s medication. His slow delivery and slurring of words rendered him unemployable until the desperate SFA, on the rebound from a Walter Smith (who has similar symptoms to McLeish’s malaise) knock back, came calling.
The audacity of McLeish, who fielded a complete team of EBT unregistered tax-evading cheats to win a title at Easter Road, to opine about level playing fields is unconscionable. His upper moral ground is built on sand and shot to fuck hubris. One can but hope that HMRC rag doll this slurring head on a stick as The Tartan Army and the BBC Licence Payers line up to pay his tax evaded dues. Given a choice between Chocolate Robinson and someone who does not know what day it is, I would choose the coach of the Cage Fighting All Stars on any given Sunday.
As to the game itself, Celtic had so much of the ball that someone should have introduced another one to give Motherwell a touch. Celtic dominated from start to finish. When they scored their second courtesy of the unsung but outstanding Ntcham, they took their feet off the gas. Motherwell, temporarily abandoning their baseball bats and wrenches, flattered to deceive. Had they scored with a free kick that had beaten Gordon but rebounded off the bar, Celtic would have moved up a gear and scored another.
Those at Hampden Park would not have been able to travel to The Celtic Way on time for the parade. The public transport arrangements on London Road have not improved since Brother Walfrid was feeding the poor in 1888. The thought of walking from Glasgow Central, along Argyle Street, through The Barrows and on to the faeces throwing hate fest of Bridgeton Cross would take a smile off one’s face. A razor has that effect.
Horseback would probably be one’s best option but even the Four Horseman of the Apocalypse would have to face the incoming faeces from the Bridgeton tenements. One wonders if they are engaging in their very own dirty protest to rail against the ongoing liquidation of their former club?
I digress. Celtic’s History Bhoys’ (jj:passim) achievement has not gone done well with the currants. The grapes are of the sour variety. However when it comes to our deluded friends their sense of self-entitlement is always bubbling under like hydrochloride in a sewer. Apparently when they achieve 55 their party will make the open top bus parade seem like a SAGA holiday in Butlins. Forgive me if I don’t hold my breath. Should the new club ever ‘honestly’ acquire 55 league flags most of us will be long dead or the most senior passengers on a SAGA mystery tour. Just like Alex McLeish’s drive home from a BBC EBT gig.
As for the FA Cup, the best I can offer is that I enjoyed the build-up. The actual game, where Chelsea parked the bus and Mourinho’s team got bogged down in midfield, was coma inducing. I had a quick glance at The Glasgow Scale on my phone to ascertain whether to continue to the second half.
It was so bad I almost turned over to watch the Royal Wedding. Prince Harry, who for a giggle turned up for a fancy dress party in his grandfather’s Nazi uniform, played it safe with an understated military ensemble. Did Prince Edward, caught in flagrante delicto with a male NCO (no one can deny that Eddie has the common touch) lend him his old uniform?
Harry going 4-4-2 with his coke snorting old Etonian friends would have been much more interesting than watching MU. Friends who inherited £500m from their deceased father’s estate. Friends who can prop up the bar sipping Cristal from champagne flutes at Annabel’s every night of the week. Miss Markle was the odd one out. She was the only individual in the wedding party who worked for a living.
It must have been an eye-catching spectacle for the great unwashed. I hope they enjoyed it as they paid for it.