Celtic 1 Everton 0
23rd July 2006
match report
Hail Hail Gang
It
was now the tenth time that I had flicked the black cover open and then
closed it again. Did I
somehow imagine it could have vanished in the three minutes since I last
looked at it? Did I think it
had changed in some way? Not
only was I checking the sliver of its white edge that stuck out beyond the
pocket but I found myself actually removing it completely, checking it
over, touching it, and then replacing it yet again.
I scolded myself internally for being so obsessive, put my new
Celtic smart card back into my black wallet and thrust it into my pocket
before heading out of the door.
As I
waited in the car for my neighbour to arrive and take the passenger seat,
I thought to myself: even the wallet is an official Celtic wallet!
Was this healthy? My mind turned to the fans website I had read during the week
and the topic that was raised about Celtic obsession. Apparently the litmus test was possession of a green
toothbrush; the colour having been deliberately selected.
I pondered on the green travel toothbrush I had in my backup
toiletry bag. Then there was
the official, club-crested, hooped, Celtic toothbrush I had in my drawer
at work, for emergencies with meetings that may follow particularly
aromatic lunches. I
considered my personal obsession rating at this point and immediately
classed it as ‘satisfactory’, knowing fine well that my subconscious
mind was screaming to remind me about my main toothbrush in the bathroom
cabinet. You know, the Braun
electric toothbrush with the two heads that I had spent about 10mins with
one day, making sure I squeezed the little coloured rings out of the extra
packaging – just to make sure I got the green and the yellow rings for
each head! “Yes, that
one!” screamed my conscience.
My
obsession seemed worse when I considered the fact that the topic of
today’s travel was merely a friendly match against Everton. I hate friendlies. I
only go if they’re either free with my season book, or just really
special opposition. But today
was different, I quickly reassured my schizophrenic self.
Yes Precious, different it is.
This was the first home match of the new season and the first time
to use my new shiny smart card; my plastic key to Paradise.
Not even St. Peter could turn me back from the gates with this
baby, never mind an acne-ridden kid wearing a yellow bin-bag with the word
‘steward’ on the back. Could
they?
I
parked the car down the street and Tommy and I headed out to seek out
fellow hooped comrades that would soon be congregating for the supporters
club bus. The 2pm Sunday
kick-off meant this was quite a task.
No-one in the first pub, which was rigidly sticking to its 12:30
opening time; even the second more relaxed pub didn’t respond to the
usual quasi-masonic knock at the back door.
With streets deserted, the realisation hit us, and we promptly made
our way to the secluded lane that ended at the bowling club.
There amongst the crowds of grey-trousered bowlers lurked the
incognito posse that is the Carluke Shamrock Supporters Club.
The early-opening licensed bar was being used to full effect.
Pints and bottles were being quietly emptied under the disguise of
an early Sunday morning bowling tournament; hooped Celtic tops carefully
hidden under non-descript cardigans and sweaters.
12’o’clock heralded time for an exit to grab the bus, or so
should have been the case. However
this is the club that we affectionately nickname the ‘Shambolic Club’
due to its long litany of organisational disasters; created in the mould
of Celtic’s own ticket office department.
Noon came and went; the bus didn’t; bodies milled around in a
zombie state, stuck between the sudden suspension of drinking and the
absence of a bus promising travel to pints awaiting collection in Glasgow.
Some members spoke of the local paper wrongly advertising a 1pm bus
for a 3pm kick-off. Harried calls went out on mobiles and the bus eventually
appeared twenty minutes late; the Motherwell-supporting driver collecting
the constructive criticisms with smug disregard.
Bodies piled onto the vehicle and we headed to Paradise.
At this point I could offer lengthy psychoanalysis on the
individuals that make up our crew but I will spare the readers at this
point. If I’m fortunate
enough to create further reports this season I may return to the delights
of what is our club. Suffice
to say at this stage, that if this band of merry men were to be described
as a theatre troup on tour, the play advertised on the side of the bus may
be titled something like “ASBOs and why we need them” or “Explain
this one Darwin!” The bus
eventually stopped on London Road in the nick of time.
A lengthy and detailed competition had taken place on the journey
to judge the ‘best holiday tan’ of the returning supporters, most of
who were meeting for the first time since the end of last season.
Those just back from 5-star, 2-week accommodation in exotic Cuba
were outraged that the prize had been taken by one chap who had popped
down to Torquay for the week.
Some
of the lads were still suffering from the effects of drinking in town with
Everton fans the previous night. The
sound of scouse voices outside the Belvidere Bowling Club led to these
relationships being continued. There
were many blue Everton tops on show around the stadium in the Sunday
sunshine and the banter from both sides was in full swing. A small group of toffee lads were using all of their
persuasive skills to convince the uniformed policeman directing traffic
outside the Tavern, that he should take part in their YMCA dance tribute;
he declined. “These guys
are easy to spot aren’t they?” offered a hoops fan passing by, “If
they’re not wearing Everton tops, then they’re big, fat blokes with
shaved heads and dressed in Shell-Suit Bob’s wardrobe!” he concluded.
I
removed the shiny Celtic smart card from my wallet as I strolled in the
shadows under the towering North Stand.
‘Easy access’, ‘customer needs’, ‘pilot schemes’,
‘thorough testing’ – these were all the phrases running through my
mind from the pamphlet that came with the card.
“Sorry pal, it’s all bust the day!” interrupted the harassed
steward at turnstile T5. Yes
the flagship technology was on its ass on day one.
Respect to the club; our bus might have been a disaster to organise
on the first day but Celtic were still a whole level above our lowly
mismanagement skills. On
finally gaining entry, I climbed the stairs to find my new seat, as I had
taken up the opportunity to transfer to the singing section occupied by
the Jungle Bhoys community. After
a few Everest base camps and some quick oxygen intakes, I finally made it
to my seat in the clouds – 4 rows from the very top wall!
Between the eagle-soaring height and the surprising pillar
obscuring a line of sight on the pitch, I wondered if my transfer had been
the correct thing to do. We’ll
see how the season unfolds.
The
Everton team was read out to polite applause from the assembled Celtic
masses and more exuberant cheers from the highly respectable gathering of
toffee fans, who had swallowed up the south-east corner in their
thousands. I’m not sure if
it had been a deliberate tease, or a subliminal message to train us into a
reality check of the modern financial situation, but the giant screens
played historic footage showing the brilliance of Larsson, Sutton and the
like, while the announcer read out the names of our new buys like Miller,
Caldwell and Riordan. Several
weeks of potential transfer activity lie ahead but the polite acceptance
of our recent purchases was hardly feverish.
A slight current of jeers rippled under the surface of applause
when Petrov’s name was read out. The
game got underway and unfolded in the typical non-event fashion that is a
friendly match. All zones of the ground were occupied but with many empty
seats splattered amongst those present.
Wednesday’s coverage of the Man Utd game being on Channel 5, with
a £15 ticket price, will no doubt ensure further empty seats.
The
Jungle Bhoys threw out some hymns in an almost testing way and most were
faintly taken up by the relaxed onlookers.
No doubt a more competitive atmosphere will increase the volume.
Miles below on the turf, some crisp but un-pressured passing took
place by Celtic through the middle. Everton
would win the ball back and attempt their own linkage through the team,
mostly up their right wing before being thwarted by the likes of Wilson
and McManus. Wilson as usual
put in a solid display for most of his game, the frustrating unknown being
how much better could he actually be if put in his own right-back slot.
That slot of course being currently occupied by the ever-present
Strachan enigma that is Paul Telfer – who even during this friendly was
condemned for his play later in the match, where he was unable to turn
inside, or would clumsily trip over his own ball, or would immediately run
out of invention and imagination. But
we all know of the team’s current gaps and requirements, we were here
today to view some of the new bhoys.
Miller’s hunger up front impressed me for the most part.
His obvious pace was apparent when he raced after a ball that
seemed to be lost out on the left. He
quickly collected it and brought it inside as expectation built in the
stands. But his other trait – the striker’s greed – then took
over and as players ran expectant into the box, he lashed a shot himself
that deflected off a defender for a corner.
SPL? – his pace and hunger should certainly return a load of
goals; Europe? – huge question mark.
Shortly after this small excitement, a string of one-twos concluded
with Petrov striking from distance and going just wide of Tim Howard’s
right post.
Jarosik
showed glimpses of the technique that will hopefully blossom at his new
club but also found several misunderstandings to be ironed out, as he
criss-crossed with his midfield counterparts on a few confusing occasions.
Riordan was largely absent in the match, perhaps through no fault
of his own with the way the game dilly-dallied around different sectors of
the pitch with polite tackling undertaken by both sides.
His ex-Hibee pal Caldwell doing enough at the back to get through
most blue attacks. But just
how tested was he? Everton,
like the game, were largely uninspiring.
The context of the game meant that most good points in our team
shouldn’t be over hyped and most failings shouldn’t be anxiously
worried about. The truth is
balanced somewhere in between and will only be uncovered as the season
grows in earnest. Quiet play
flowed back and forth between both boxes with barely an attack on goal
itself. Fans chatted and
caught up with each other. The
background noise being broken every time Arteta appeared for corners and
free kicks. “6-2 ya hun,
6-2 ya hun” gleefully sang seething spectators, who delighted in the
chance to goad the ex-Rangers man. “Where’s
yir alice band the day ya wee ponce?” questioned someone close by.
Countless corners and kicks barely troubled Boruc in goal.
In fact the only real note of his requirement came when he had to
stop an Everton advance with first a right-foot stop then a left-foot
block in quick succession.
Celtic
weren’t doing much at their attacking end either mind you.
Nakamura would dazzle with short dribbles but then bemuse by
running into players or foolishly overplaying the ball out of the park.
The game trundled along to half time, with the last few minutes
bringing a short burst of near-excitable goal area action.
A poor penalty claim was waved away and accepted by most tic fans,
except for one gent nearby who burst into a quickly crafted verse of
“Who’s the mason in the day-glo?”
The 2nd half ensued; subs flowed in; players departed;
some fans sneaked away to nearby pubs; the sun darted between clouds.
One nice chip from Miller had Zurawski running onto it but Howard
managed to marshal him out to the right of the box before finally taking
the ball from his feet. Marshall
himself took the place of Boruc for this half and steered a long-distance
shot beyond the right post for a corner.
One sub that did catch the eye was that of Evander Sno.
Sno was more than eager to make himself present for passes and it
was he that eventually played a sweet through ball for McGeady to quickly
collect then drive a low, crisp shot past the diving keeper into the
bottom left corner of goal. McGeady
had collected the ball in dead centre of goal and this area was the
subject of a glaring demonstration later on.
There was an occasion where five or six white shirts buzzed around
the edge of the penalty area prodding and probing for an attack but no-one
at all was present in the middle. There
may be several players in the team that have the title ‘striker’
knitted into the label of their tops but obviously none carrying that of
‘centre forward.’ Just another requirement we’re well aware of.
And
so it continued. Petrov had
spent most of the game with barely much effect, save for a short burst of
energy and passing, that almost seemed prompted by his agent shouting from
the side that teletext was announcing a rumoured Fulham bid.
At one point near the death, Zurawski became the filling of an
Everton sandwich; the meal constructed inside the penalty box and yet the
stone-waller was brushed aside by the referee.
“Aye, you’ll go far” mockingly cheered an SFA-conspiracy-theorist
from his seat. The ref
finally produced his whistle for the last time and I began the abseiling
descent that would take me to terra-firma way below.
We had a goal, we had our victory, we had our first home game, and
we had the answer to Mike Parry’s Talk Radio jibes about how his
Merseyside crew were going to dismantle our hooped ‘haggis-munchers.’
The one thing we didn’t have was conclusive evidence of what the
season ahead holds for us. That,
would have to wait.
Yours in Celtic,
Ricky Swan
carlukeshamrock.com
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