This is it... Gamo Numero Uno of the 2012-13 season, and it's a toughie. They don't get any toughier... it's the potato-eating munchkins from Glasgow Celtic of Ireland at their 400,000 capacity Stadium (Seville Calculator) The Parkhead Tattiedome.
Celtic: This is all you need to know about Celtic.
Since the demise of the Blue Filth, the Green Filth have upped their game and been twice as fucking obnoxious to make up for it. Led by tactical 'genius' Neil the Ginger Potato Lennon, a man so ugly he's been described as EEEEEEK! by medical experts, the Glasgow Potato of Ireland Celtic are expected to romp the SPL without even fielding 11 players.
While this is probably true it would be nice if we could stick it right up the arses of all 5 million screaming Timmy retards (Seville Calculator) at the Parkhead Potatodome.
Let's get this game fired up and see what happens, shall we?
The teams line up as follows. Just ignore all the extra shit, this screencap came from the end of the game. It's the best I could do without putting any actual effort into it. That's going to be something of a theme, btw, halfarsedry. That's a good word. Halfarsedry. Anyway, as usual, click on the image and it gets bigger. How good?
The referee I assume looks at his watch, Mickey Mouse's hands say it's something o'clock, and the game... and the season.. are under way.
The early pressure, as is to be expected, is all Celtic's as they race forward like Celtic supporters at a Free Buckfast Morning at their twelve kids' nursery school. On they come, led by Freaks reject Scott Brown.. and just to bring this up, because I notice no fucker in the media has, how similar to the Freaks in the movie Freaks does Scott Brown look? I can't be the only one to have noticed this, surely?
Surely to fuck someone else has noticed?
LOOK OUT! THERE'S ANOTHER SCOTT BROWN BEHIND YOU!
Fucking Mong.
Anyway....
It's all Potato People in the early exchanges, as they hammer at our shaky defences like... I don't know... something hammery, I can't be fucking arsed thinking of simile. Suffice to say the cunts are all over us like a fat kid on a bar of chocolate. Oh, there's one.
It's only a matter of time before our defences are breached, and with 6 minutes gone it's the mong himself who engineers the goal. Wanyama and Brown exchange passes, before Brown whips in exactly the kind of lovely cross that he's not known for in real life, and Hooper rises like a jumping salmon on a Spacehopper fitted with Rocketboots, to nod the ball past Jamie Langfield, and that's the opening goal. It was coming... oh, it was coming more definitely than a Polish sailor on my whore ex's tits was coming... that's how inevitably it was coming. But, fuck me, Hooper literally jumps 6 feet off the ground to get to the ball? That's not even physically fucking possible, is it? Who programs this fucking game? Fuck off.
I'M RICKY ROCKETPANTS!
So with the still warm Polish jisms running down our big old titties, it's 1-0 to the boghoppers, and there's 84 minutes of unresisted tittyfucking still to go. Kids, if you're reading this, Uncle Kelt has a dirty mouth, so don't repeat anything you read on this blog in the presence of an adult. Not even the word Tittyfucking.. that's a bad word. As is jisms. In fact, if you read a word and you're not sure what it means, just assume it's bad.
Anyway... it's 1-0 to Rashellick, and shit just got real, bitches. That's Americaspeak.
Pareunia this for a game of soldiers.
The Terrorist sympathisers seem quite pleased with themselves, and Fatty McLennon chucks another celebratory pie into his stupid, toothless gub, like Desperate Dan eating one of his famous Cow Pies.... if Desperate Dan were a ginger cunt. Johnny Hayes uses this moment of Irish Jubilation to take the ball for a run up the line, a run that terminates inside the Celtic box as the ball is punted out for a corner by some nameless Tim defender. The corner is whipped in, it is unceremoniously humped up the park and falls to a retreating Gavin Rae who, unexpectedly, rifles in a 20 yard volley while backing away from goal. Well, that was out of the blue, and an almost immediate if unlikely response.
Rape Face. This is what Gavin Rae's looks like.
Potatohead goes silent, and Lennon starts crying about how he wasn't loved as a child to every journalist within a ten mile radius. "Oi Jaaas waaaaned tuh beh looved!" he slavers in his disgusting Oirish accent. Saliva and pie dribble down the front of that two sizes too small tracksuit that he insists on wearing... and what the fuck is up with that tracksuit? does he think he's still the svelt XXL he was during his playing days?
Put on a bigger tracksuit you repulsive Pikey potato.
So, incredibly, that's Celtic 1 - Aberdeen 1.
This lasts all of ten minutes. Once more the Dons fail to deal with a cross, this time from Chalmers, and Lassad is there to head the ball in from point blank range. Langfield can't believe it, he thought he had it covered, standing completely still and not attempting to prevent the ball from going into the net as he was. Surely Scotland's best goalkeeper (if every other goalkeeper in Scotland suddenly died) will be kicking himself for not getting to that one.
What the fuck's going on here, do you reckon?
So, not incredibly, it's 2-1 to the Riverdancers.
Goal hero Rae picks up a booking on 37 minutes for apparently having had enough of looking at Brown's mental coupon, and does the only decent thing and decks the Celtic troglodyte just because. Even the Celtic fans applaud, because they have to put up with that face week in week out. Rae will have to be careful here, another booking and he can shoot up the road early before traffic gets bad.
With only a couple of minutes of the half left, the Brown Hooper combination... ever had a brown hooper? Of course you have... the Brown Hooper combination combines once more to create the stuff of goals. A Brown flick on baffles the Aberdeen defence, and Hooper charges through to bury his second and Celtic's third.
This is more like what I expected. Maybe I'll change things at half time. Maybe not. The excitement is overwhelming.
Half Time: Celtic 3 - 1 Aberdeen
The second half sees a slightly improved Aberdeen, with several good looking moves down the flanks. The referee and linesman are programmed accurately, however, and any time it looks like we might be putting something together the match officials find some obscure reason to halt play and give possession back to the fuckers in green.
It isn't until the 73rd minute of the match before another goal is scored, and it's a cracker from bearded Greek ladyboy, LadyBoy Georgios Samaras.
McCourt picks up a loose ball in the box, and with three Aberdeen defenders watching him decide what to do, he eventually dinks an unchallenged ball onto the boot of Georgina, who gratefully rifles a shot into the back of Langfield's bag of onions. It's 4-1, and there's a good chance we may lose this game if I were to be entirely honest here.
And, indeed, that does it for this game. A crushing 4-1 trouncing at the filthy hands of the inbred Leprechaun people. A quick look at the league tells us, oh, we're bottom.
Sack Kelt
The Highlights, should you be interested, are up.
Well, that didn't go according to plan, and our aim to finish above previous manger Craig Brown has suffered an early setback. Still, there's lots of games to go, and with a positive mental attitude and a fuckload of good fortune we may yet climb our way up to that mythical 8th spot before the season is out.
The only bright spot is that the goalkeeper hasn't had a save to make.
Next up, away to Ross County, the team above us by way of being one goal less shit than we are.
So that should be pish.
No comments:
Post a Comment