Mad About The Bhoys

Celtic moved an unbridgeable eleven points clear at the summit of the SPL the other week, contemptuously swatting Rangers as though they were a particularly slow-witted bluebottle, Foul Play was watching the proceedings with rather mixed emotions.

Resignation, at the fact that this latest triumph would have increased even further the already high standing of Martin O’Neill among Liverpool’s board members; dread, at what sort of clueless gannet Celtic might potentially choose to replace him in the summer; and finally a curious relief, as I realised that a mere change of manager will not be enough to stop the Bhoys winning the SPL for at least the next two seasons.
This is not only because O’Neill has assembled what can probably be termed the second best side in Celtic’s history (of which more anon). It is also because Rangers currently happen to be feebly inept, knock-kneed, demoralised, largely useless and (very important, this) stone broke. As a footballing unit, they are pure shite. They have not been this bad since the days of Jock Wallace’s hilariously ill-starred second spell in charge in the mid-1980s.
Indeed, the only Ranger who would currently get into the Celtic team is the embattled goalkeeper Stefan Klos, who singlehandedly prevented last weekend’s rout from being far worse than it was.
Rangers’ astounding crapness is half the story. The other half is that Celtic are currently so much better in all departments, from physical size to technical ability to squad depth to competitive hunger, that it is hard to see them being dethroned domestically for several years yet.
They played some superb football at times in the 3-0 Old Firm win, and their display was exemplified by the magnificent showing of Alan Thompson, once a discontented bench-warmer at Aston Villa and now an integral part of the Bhoys’ midfield. Which, when you think about it, probably reflects as badly on the managerial skills, or otherwise, of John Gregory, as it reflects well on the gifts of O’Neill.
Of course, this idea of Celtic as a crowd of ungainly long-ball cloggers who just happen to have a great manager has become extremely popular in certain quarters since 2000. It has become so popular that it now borders on a generally accepted truth.
But it would be grievously wrong to write off Celtic as a bunch of limited journeymen whom O’Neill somehow keeps lifting above their inherent inadequacies to produce great results. To dismiss them like that is to ignore the evidence of one’s own eyes that an awful lot of their players are talented individuals who can hold their own in elevated company. If “modest” players keep playing above themselves, week in week out, season in season out, at some point you have to acknowledge them as being rather better than you initially gave them credit for.
And this is why Celtic will survive, for the time being at least, even if O’Neill opts to head down the M8 and take up the Liverpool vacancy that will undoubtedly arise in June. They will even survive the imminent loss of Henrik Larsson, not to mention Liam Miller, who frankly needs his head examined for opting to join a club that already possesses about 36 midfielders.
The club just possesses too many players who are far superior to their Rangers equivalents (Balde, Agathe, Petrov, Thompson, Sutton, Hartson) for the case to be otherwise. Most of the above are tied up on long-term deals, and when Larsson leaves, a front two of Sutton and Hartson will still constitute more than enough firepower to terrorise all SPL defences.
Of course, the remainder of the current campaign is going to be less interesting than waiting for a late bus. Just as it was during those endlessly hellish years in the early 1990s, when Walter Smith’s all-conquering blue machine would routinely have the league wrapped up well before Easter. Even those boys, though, never managed the feat of killing matters off with only 50% of the league programme played.
The climax of last season’s title race, with Rangers prevailing by the wafer-thin margin of one single fucking goal, looks like more and more of an aberration with each passing week. It is, frankly, difficult to believe that this shower of drips and donkeys are the reigning Scottish champions. But not for much longer, they aren’t.