Celtic Diary Thursday February 11: Is Ronny Being Undermined From Within?

Over the last few days we’ve tried to look, without fear or favour, at one or two issues at Celtic Park.

We have concluded that all is not well, and there has been a quite stunning lack of leadership from those in power at Celtic, with the noble exception of Tom Boyd, who rightly has come out and supported the manager.

Why hasn’t anyone else ?

Where is Peter Lawwell ?

If the ship is going off course, why hasn’t the captain gone on deck to re assure the passengers ?

As the response to the story about Martin O’Neill yesterday showed, supporters are keane ( sic ) to show that absolutely anyone but Deila will do.

You may have noticed the tone changing in todays diary already. The last few days have been about gathering information, and asking you for your comments and thoughts, whereas today it’s my turn.

A few of you might as well stop reading now.

ONeill first… (and it has come from a couple of credible sources )

When I first mentioned this to one of my fellow travellers within the Lennon a couple of days ago, his initial reaction was along the lines of, well, word for word actually, “aw naw, do you remember how bad it was in his last season ? ”

I’ve been going to games with this guy for nearly twenty years now, and although we can both admit that we are equally capable of making a long day longer, there is a mutual respect of each others opinions.

And I’m going to be extraordinarily lazy as well. This was written after Black Sunday, May 2005, and first appeared on the Kerrydale Street website, under the title “A Day Of Omens and rumours”.part of a series documenting the travels of the Lennon CSC

Sunday was a chance to wrap up the title in deepest, darkest Lanarkshire, and after much debating in the Lennon CSC, the chosen five set out for the north.

5am Awake bright, early and cheerful. Today is the day! I can definitely feel the buzz associated with the prospect of a trophy being won, and with more than a little enthusiasm, I get ready, having laid out my clothes the night before, like a child going on holiday. All I have to do is remove the ferocious little insects which have suddenly appeared in them.
” I might stay behind after the game to celebrate,” I tell her, knowing that she won’t be listening, but I’ve covered my back anyway.

6am An enthusiastic Teeboo jogs to the car
“Hello, neighbour.!”
He leaps into the front seat, bangs on the dashboard and shouts
“Lets go!” I stare for a moment, but it really is him.

6.20 Fozzy is the same as Teeboo, and it is a cheerful trio who join the M6 on the way to pick up at Sandbach. Signs warning of impending roadworks are greeted with thank yous’ as we only have one trip left this year, and the council are repairing the worn out stretch caused by my tyres.

7am. Supersec and Gray are collected, and there is definately a buzz around the car, as we look forward to the game.
Fozzy has his travel sized beer again, but unfortunately, he has a travel sized bladder, and it is soon time to stop.
Teeboo tells us he is not coming back with us. When the cheering stops, he tells us that he is picking up a new car in Edinburgh, and will drive back himself.
We start throwing bits of paper out of the window at regular intervals, to form a paper trail so he can find the way.
He asks “How long will it take me to get back?
“About three weeks,” answers Gray.

9am We haven’t called at Gretna for a while, and as options for breakfast are severely restricted on a Sunday morning, we decide to call in and renew our friendships. They seem glad to see us, and we relax, whiling away an hour or two in pleasant reflection and anticipation.
As we leave, a black cat runs in front of the car, and we are unsure whether it is good or bad luck. It was good luck for the cat, as I just missed him.
As talk returns to the game, we forget to mention that you wouldn’t believe that that is the River clyde, Scotlands only active volcano, and crucially, Fozzy , for the first time, doesn’t blow a kiss as we pass Lesmahagow, where his Grandmother lies at rest.
It is only when an furious cloudburst hits us as we approach Motherwell, we realise what we have forgotten.
The rain was fearsome, and when I concentrate fully on something, I have a habit of sucking at a gap betwen two of my teeth. As I steer through the rain, I glance at Teeboo who is staring at me.
“Whats up?” I ask.
“I thought you were gauny say something.”
“No, I was just trying to keep us alive.”
“You were twitching.”
“Eh?”
He goes on to mimic the slightest facial movement I have by looking like Bruce Lee being dubbed in one of his films.
The rain eases off, and we put the oars back in the boot. 
There is still a huge black cloud over Lanarkshire, however. 

11.45 Into Motherwell, and we park up in the car park behind the shopping precinct. Motherwell is a strange town, consisting of several Orange Lodges and some shops, none of which, I discover, sell fags. It will be the first game this term with no fags, unless I find some.
Walking along the precinct, we are accosted by locals in the form of Steviebhoy, 1ofthebhoys and their daughter. Stevie seems impressed by Supersecs St. Pauli top, which is a white top with a creosote sash.
Teeboo, who has a few of them, tries to sell him one.
The Railway Tavern , curiously, is open , but not selling beer.
After Ravenscraig closed, work became scarce in the town, and the pubs have adapted by remaining in the centre of community life, but not selling beer as money is tight. 1ofthebhoys, on hearing of our tales of forgetting certain rituals adds to the feel good factor by telling me she had run out of shampoo that morning, and this only happens when we get beat.

1pm Supersec, Gray and I leave Teeboo and Fozzy in the pub, as we have decided to try to park closer to the ground. On the way back to the car, a local tells Gray that he looks exactly like Tony Mowbray. 
“Big Mogga!!” he shouts , before disappearing back into his cell.
Another passerby tells us he is forever being mistaken for one of the Bay City Rollers. Clearly nonsense, as no-one can remember what they looked like. Mind you, unlike this guy, I’m pretty sure they had teeth.
The rain starts again, and I run on ahead to bring the car to the others. Despite my athletic sprint, we still arrive at the same time.
We park down by the Celtic end, where graffiti “welcoming” the “Taigs ” is sprayed on the wall. Only twelve orange lodges?
Our tickets are checked by a policeman, and then again three minutes later by another, in case we had bought any forgeries in the intervening period. 
Fir park, easily the worst interior design, for safety and looks , is as easy to negotiate as ever, and helpful stewards point to the pitch, as our seats must be somewhere around it.
Gray has his earpiece in, and tells me that O’Neill is leaving after the cup final, and Strachan is to replace him. Unusually for a rumour, Radio Scotland are interviewing Eck McLeish, and asking him what it will be like to go up against his old friend next year.
A large ginger haired object drops from the sky, as Fozzy has joined us , and neglected to use the tradional stairway route to his seat.
We tell him and Teeboo of the rumour.
“You’re talking crap,” says Teeboo, proving that he should never pick his own lottery numbers.

3pm The game begins, and we look nervous. Only when Chris Sutton scores after about half an hour can we relax slightly, and at half time its looking good. but then we never really expected anything else, did we?
Into the second half, and a few chances go begging, but we still look in control. Bizarrely, with around twenty minutes to go, MON starts to wave his players back along the eighteen yard line, and it becomes tense as we are not noted for our defending. 
“How long left?” I shout nervously, to Fozzy.
“Fifteen minutes, ” he replies.
“Let me know when its fourteen.”
Sadly, Celtic have failed to rid themselves of this habit of giving two goals to the opposition, choosing this week to do it at the end of the game rather than the beginning. 
We just stare at each other, and the players. A seat flies past me toward the pitch, as do a few scarves. The stewards and police now outnumber the fans. 
Strangely, they are wearing the same colour tops as Hugh Dallas. Only his is bulletproof. I’ve never understood why we always seem to get a raw deal from him, especially after that time when we heard how poorly he was paid and had an impromptu whip round for him at Celtic Park, before throwing the proceeds toward him.
Its over, and the league is lost. You can almost see and hear the dark forces gloating.
We leave, all bar supersec, who is simply standing staring.
“what are you waiting for?” I ask him
He doesn’t know.
We join the muted crowd leaving the ground, and return to the car. We decide not to bother with the radio.
4.30 We are on the motorway, and the only conversation is just swear words and sighs.
After a while, Gray and Fozzy fall asleep. We turn on the radio, and hear that O’Neill is leaving, and Strachan is getting the job. Its not offical yet, but it soon will be.
The other two are woken up, and the mood changes. After discussing it we find that despite being sorry to see O’Neill leave, the general mood is one of optimism, and we are more cheerful on the way back.

8pm Fozzy and I call for a quick pint, and the mood returns to the “how did that happen” mode. More pints are consumed, and it doesn’t help.

That was the last league trip of the year, and although from a results point of view it was a disaster, it was still a great day out.
Maybe one time I’ll get to write about a bad day out with a good result, something that hasn’t happened yet. 

Ah well, here’s to next season, and the cup final.   

After the game, Teeboo went through to Edinburgh, and at Waverley station bumped into some rather cheerful supporters of the now defunct Rangers. He later described it as the worst experience of his Celtic supporting life, and said that all of that team that day should have been made to stand on that platform and feel how he felt.

I never want to feel like i did that day either, especially so soon after the 2003 season, where we also made an arse of a potentially memorable year.

Nah, not for me.

I’m not too concerned about the fact it would be his second stint, I’m more concerned about how badly the last one ended.

The lack of leadership at Celtic Park, especially off the field, is a concern.

If Celtic are going to let Ronny go, then they should do so. No more hiding in the office when the reporters call, no more excuses.

Either back him, or sack him, and therefore remove the dissension in the ranks. Its one thing for the club ambassador to come out and plea for support for the manager, but when there is none from the board….

The talk of a replacement, and of sackings cannot be doing him, or the players any favours, and the situation cannot now be allowed to continue.

If the support are to be united, at least let us know what we are to be united behind.

As far as I am concerned, until Ronny Deila has gone, then he is still the manager, and will still get my support.

And a few in the dressing room need to be thinking along those lines as well.

Deila himself has stated he’s going nowhere, but he seems to be on his own with that, and the neglect by the board of a man they put in charge is shocking, and even shameful.

There are a couple of others hiding in the background as well, heads well below their desks in case anyone notices how much they are responsible for the way things are right now.

Collins and Kennedy, for a start.

Where is there public statement of support ?

How about a show of unity ?

Their behaviour is disgusting , and if Ronny does survive the next few weeks, he’d be as well nipping down to B and Q in preparation for his own Night of the Long Knives.

Something less I have noticed, courtesy of Barcabhoy on twitter, is that out of the Celtic squad, which is quite large, only four players have been injury free this season…

Is this the fault of the medical staff ?

I’ve seen a photo of one of the treatment rooms, and frankly, I’m not happy.

This relative ease with which players seem to get injuries is influencing the development squad as well.

Or are players being overworked ?

Or are they just complaining of niggly knocks more than they used to ?

Are they, too, hiding in case they face any of the fans wrath ? Look, they don’t need to go to London to spend five grand on beer. I’ve started a firm that will deliver it to them. Here’s what five grand will buy you;

Even the most seasoned drinker would agree that should be enough to be going on with.

I’m fed up of players flaunting their wealth, its making them detached from the support.

The more I look at it, the more the anger directed at Ronny Deila is becoming a convenient smokescreen for those who are not doing their jobs.

And that runs from the board to the management to the players to the ancillary staff.

Including Deila, of course, after all, he is nominally in charge, and if he isn’t, if he is having his hands tied or being undermined, then he should get the hell out of dodge. But whatever is going on, it needs to be addressed now.

I’m fed up of the whinging, i’m fed up of excuses, and I’m fed up of the club bumbling from seemingly one catastrophe to another, real or imagined.

Every single person involved with Celtic this morning should take a look at themselves.

They should ask themselves if they can honestly say they are doing their jobs to the best of their abilities.

They might well be surprised at the answer that stares back at them in the mirror.

Oh, i’ve just looked out my window. It seems a few of you don’t agree.

And I’m not in a bad mood today because she’s seen what i’ve got her for Valentines. Damn those marketing men;

We’ll finish with a caption competiton….