I don't pretend to understand everything (or anything, really) about subjects I claim to have an interest in, so it's not surprising that the first lecture of the new term at The Astronomical Society of Glasgow on Thursday evening left me baffled and not wanting more. Professor Robert Lambourne of the Open University gave a talk on 'Faster than light galaxies' and, whilst I believed every word he said, I struggled to comprehend any of it. I didn't find him a particularly engaging speaker and wasn't enamoured of quite where he pitched his talk. I can only presume that, as in other walks of life, I am the slowest cog that others are supposed to go at the same speed as. Quite why I chose a life on the fringes of Physics I will never know. I can't recall a time when I was ever cut out for it.
Fast forward to Saturday, and another mad dash to the East End of the city to watch my team play. It became much madder than originally planned due to a parade of boats on the canal, a rare sight that I found impossible to resist. If Celtic play the way they did yesterday, I suspect I will find it easy to resist these sojourns to Paradise. It's beginning to resemble a little hell on earth.
Yes, I know there are injuries (and one unwanted suspension) that make it impossible to settle on a back four (assuming that Neil actually knows what back four he wants) but surely we must have, at youth level, two men who instill more confidence in the support than Messers Majstorovic and Loovens. Last week, on Twitter, Marc Crosas, who is fast becoming Celtic's biggest exiled supporter, claimed not to understand the fans' antipathy towards our Glenn. He doesn't have to watch him. Partnering him with the square-headed Swede was always going to result in the kind of nervous tension that others are on medication for, so it was no surprise that we lost. Sorry, I lie. We actually won, though I have no idea how.
Well, we won because of two quite nice goals from Joe Ledley and James Forrest. The midfield come good again, while the strikers don't even get a shot on target. Hooper limped off early in the second half to be replaced by Mohammed Bangura, who is quick and agile but still looks as much like scoring as Fraser Forster. Badr El-Kaddouri turned in another solid performance, but his lack of height and pace was obvious, at times. Also obvious was the return of last season's lack of any real bite in midfield. Ki and Ledley do not make any sort of partnership, much less an effective one and, as an injury or suspension for Beram Kayal can't be far away, my nerves are preparing themselves to be shattered.
Then there was the crowd. May I say that, although I rarely agree with the subject matter of their songs, or the object of their affection, the Green Brigade do provide an atmosphere at the ground that has been lacking since the days of the old stadium. Their protests, however, are becoming tedious. What did they think yesterday's latest childish, pseudo-political raging against the establishment machine would achieve? In the same week last year, Celtic thrashed ICT 6-0 in a League Cup game, a match I was unable to attend due to two prior engagements. Not only did I miss a scintillating performance (and a soaking) but I won't ever be able to claim that 'I was there' the night Georgios Samaras scored a hat-trick, yet the talking point in the aftermath of that game was not this rare feat of prowess from the far-from-prolific Greek, but the lack of any attention being paid to the departure of Emilio Izaguirre due to injury. Legend has it that not one of the die-hard supporters in this group applauded the little Honduran or showed even the slightest concern for his condition because they were too busy protesting about something. I can't confirm this, but it wouldn't surprise me. If they think that the Anti-Sectarian legislation going through the Scottish Parliament is a threat to them and their freedom of speech, then it is with justification. If, God forbid, I live another 50 years, I don't think I'll ever know what a discredited religion or a proscribed organisation has to do with Association Football. I'll also never understand how silence is meant to motivate a team that needs all the help it can get at the moment.
Finally, Doctor Who. The penultimate episode of this quite wonderful sixth series set viewers up nicely for the finale next Saturday with a chilling, unexpected ending. On Confidential, Steven Moffat seemed to suggest that it's all very much as it seems (yeah, right); the adult Melody is in the suit, not the child version, and she, River, kills the best man she's ever known in the middle of his regeneration, with some sort of blaster gun. Do I think he, or she, is just...going...to...go? No. Behind every good man is a good woman, and I trust both of them, with a little help from Amy and Rory, to do the right thing. Do I trust the fiendishly clever Moffat to do the right thing in 45 minutes without giving me a migraine that lasts a year? Spoilers!
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