There are defeats, and then there are Celtic in Europe defeats – that particular brand of slow-motion disaster where disbelief gave up years ago. You don’t even flinch anymore. The moment the Europa League anthem played, everyone knew what came next. Roma didn’t just win; they performed an autopsy. Opened Celtic up, poked around inside, and showed everyone the festering bits fans pretend aren’t there.
The Walking Dead of Parkhead
No use sugarcoating it: this Celtic side is a crime scene. A crime against football, fitness, and faint hope. It’s less a squad and more a collection of expensive regrets.
Kasper Schmeichel: done. Finished. Looks like every goal kick requires a small prayer and a cortisone injection.
Kieran Tierney: the prodigal son returned, only to eat up the wage bill and prove nostalgia’s a dangerous drug.
Daizen Maeda: last season’s hero, this season’s ghost. You could put him in front of an open goal the size of the Clyde and he’d still find a way to miss.
Yang, Tounekti, Nygren – a witness protection programme disguised as a forward line. Names you’ll forget by the time you finish reading this sentence.
And before anyone starts sobbing about “confidence” or “systems” – no. They’re just not very good at football. That’s the beginning and end of it. You could parachute in God himself and even he’d struggle to get these lads stringing three passes together.
Nancy’s No-Miracle Mission
Wilfried Nancy has been here five minutes and already looks like he’s aged five years. A likeable bloke, sure, but you wouldn’t wish this job on your worst enemy. He’s already been crucified for dropping Ralston into centre-half, which was basically football self-harm, but to be fair – what else has he got?
Both things can coexist: Nancy’s made mistakes. He’s managing a squad so toxic it should come with a health warning.
Anyone expecting him to deliver instant salvation is either deluded or on the Celtic payroll. He needs time, he needs players who can trap a ball, and he needs a board that gives a toss. Which, neatly, brings us to…
The Board: Where Hope Goes to Die
Forget the players. The true rot starts upstairs. A boardroom so smug and out of touch they’ve probably got corporate buzzwords framed on the wall – “synergy”, “sustainability”, “Champions League revenue”.
They’ve gutted Celtic Park of atmosphere. Banned the loudest fans, sterilised the stands, and watched the stadium go from fortress to funeral. You could hear the players’ studs last night. The “Celtic roar” has been replaced by a polite cough between failed passes.
And what has the board delivered in return?
A squad packed with Poundland imports and failed experiments.
A balance sheet they treat like a trophy.
A fanbase expected to clap politely while the club slides into mediocrity.
As for the match – it was business as usual.
Concede early.
Collapse emotionally.
Miss sitters.
Miss penalties.
Gift an own goal for good measure.
By halftime, the only suspense was how much more damage Roma could be bothered to do.
The “better” second half was just mercy in disguise. Roma let Celtic play with their food.
The Rotten Core call it hysteria if you like, but this is realism. Celtic are broken from top to boardroom. The team’s rotten, the leadership’s delusional, the supporters are exhausted.
Nancy deserves patience, but he also deserves professionals – not walking contracts with studs. Until that happens, expect more nights like this.
Glasgow Celtic, once the pride of Europe, now reduced to damage limitation and wishful nostalgia. The results don’t shock anyone anymore, and that’s the most damning part of all.
About the Author
