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Quick Review
Celtic's best chance of the first half came just before the break when Jiri Jarosik slipped the ball through to Derek Riordan. His effort was saved by Howard and Kenny Miller's follow-up was kept out of the net by Gary Naysmith.
Aiden McGeady scored the only goal as Celtic beat Everton in a reasonably entertaining pre-season friendly.
The young midfielder came on as a second-half substitute and he picked up the ball in midfield and struck a right-foot shot past Tim Howard from 25 yards.
Teams
Celtic (4-4-2):-Boruc (Marshall 45); Telfer (Lawson 81), McManus, Caldwell, Wilson; Nakamura, Petrov (Thompson 86), Jarosik (Sno 67), Riordan (McGeady 57); Miller (Quinn 81), Zurawski.
Subs not used:- Varga, Camara, O’Dea, Pearson.
Goal:- McGeady 78.
Everton (4-4-2):-Howard; Neville, Weir (Lescott 46), Stubbs, Naysmith (Boyle 75); Osman (Cahill 70), Davies, Carsley, Arteta (Buckley 76); Johnson (Anichebe 46), Beattie (Kilbane 70).
Subs not used:- Turner.
Att:- 33,797
Ref:- C Richmond.
Articles
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. Adam Virgo made the experimental substitution that we saw in the States, as he appeared up front. At one point he 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.
(Author: rswan1967)