John Lydon, 1978
Cast your minds back to December 2008. Celtic were Scottish champions and coasting to the SPL title. We played the R-word in January, establishing a 7-point lead in the SPL table. We were heading for a fourth title and bemoaning two title blips under Martin O'Neill that had spoiled what should have been a historic run of championships. All was right with the world, right?
Well, not quite. Few of us were actually fooled into thinking we had a good team. Complacency had appeared to set in at every level of the club.
Gordon Strachan had already submitted his notice (as suggested here), despite lies to the contrary. As with almost every man who knows he is marking time in a job, his demeanour changed. He was that bit less angry and more dismissive.
His ideas - when he appeared to have any – increasingly looked tired and predictable. The performances on the pitch were reflective of an attitude that everyone seemed to be guilty of – going through the motions in a slightly disinterested expectation of eventual success.
The team on the park was leaderless, gutless and lacking any spark of creativity or passion. The players turned up, regularly failed to win and went home, only to take the same approach week after week.
The fans were unhappy but there was little that could be recognised as a consensus. Some said the football was boring. Others said they were unrealistic and should be thankful of the inevitable title, however it was achieved. Some questioned the board's fiscal policy. Others told them they were the sort of people who brought Leeds Utd to financial ruin. Some feared for the future. Others told them the club was in the best hands but that average Celtic fans were too ignorant to understand the strides being made at boardroom level. Some were angry, some were bored and, frankly, some didn't seem to give a damn.
But we had one consolation. We were going to win the title because our nearest rivals were an abysmal team, almost totally bereft of talent, and in such a financial hole that there was damn all they could do about it.
Then came the long, cold January of 2009. It is a time that will live in ignominy in the history of Celtic. Rumours abounded that Celtic directors had reneged on promises to improve the team in the summer. The arrival of Willo Flood had all the impact of Neil and Christine Hamilton turning up at a charity event as surprise celebrity guests.
The rest is so much history – the title was lost, the manager vanished, he was replaced with someone who had just had his team relegated after the manager of Burnley turned us down (only to later be lured by the bright-lights-big-city of Bolton). And, yes, we were told lies about that too.
Well, the chickens have come home to roost. On this blog, I expressed concern about the sort of managers Celtic had approached, not even considering someone like Davie Moyes who was clearly interested. But, in truth, I suspected that they would get away with it.
I had a hunch that a new manager would see players more motivated, kick a few backsides, inject a few ideas and comfortably outclass the other teams in Scotland. Shouldn't have been too hard, should it? To outclass St Mirren? Or the Scottish champions who had actually got weaker than that side we were lolling past just 14 months ago?
For those of you who deplore the blame game, look away now. It's high time to indulge in recriminations with gusto.
I blame the Coolmore Mafia's Dermot Desmond, a man with an ethical business record that makes David Murray look like Richard Branson. Brian Quinn has not been forgotten.
I blame Dr John Reid, who spent a lifetime betraying and backstabbing political colleagues to get what he wanted, who had no qualms about killing children in an illegal war, yet has shown no stomach to fight for Celtic.
I blame Peter Lawwell and Eric Riley, partners in crime who have made huge sums of money while Celtic have declined.
I blame the players – nearly all of them – who have shown no sense of understanding that it is a privilege to play for Celtic.
I blame Tony Mowbray, who I urged to resign with dignity several weeks ago, and who appears to lack the most basic footballing intelligence.
I blame the Scottish football establishment and their friends in the media who perpetuate the myth that, just because we are playing badly, we are not entitled to impartial officiating, while another team that is playing badly is gifted points and has players let off scot-free after committing assaults just because of who they are.
I blame the Celtic supporters, who in five years under Martin O'Neill started to think of winning trophies as something that just happened.
I blame the insidious campaign of propaganda and disinformation masquerading as “independent” comment on a certain blog and I blame the adherents to that blog's “party line” who smugly derided fans who just wanted to adhere to Celtic's traditions, including trying to win things. They are perhaps the worst of all. They have embraced decline and declared themselves to be financial geniuses in doing so. Rest assured, the volunteer men who built the first Celtic Park with their bare hands did not do so for the likes of them.
A club and a support divided? So be it. Draw the battle lines, prepare for idealogical warfare. We must root them out, whatever the cost. We are not even serving in heaven, but in hell.
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