I see our Rogne has apparently gone to the Daily Record to complain about the terms of the new deal Celtic have offered him. Now I like the tall defender and rate him as one of the better we have had over the last 3 or 4 years. His big problem is his inability to stay fit and a regularly unfit player is not really what any club wants. I thought that it was maybe his relative youth, especially with him been rather tall, was maybe the reason for his so many injuries. On the other hand maybe he has an extreme low pain tolerance and feels he is more injured than he is. That is just speculation but what isn't is his complaining publicly and threatening to leave if he doesn't get the deal he thinks he is worth. I think Thomas, that you are completely out of order running crying to the Daily Record of all papers. Celtic don't go shouting threats or releasing information of individual players deals. The Celtic Club give every player the confidence and respect they deserve. It would be nice to see all our players reciprocate. If Rogne leaves because he cannot agree a deal, it will reflect badly against him rather than the club, because almost all the players who have left over the last number of years is because the club were happy to see the back of them. I just fear Rogne's bleating to the Daily Record has sealed his exit.
During the interval there was a cool draught in Hélène’s box as the door opened and in walked Anatole, stopping and trying not to brush against anyone. ‘Allow me to introduce my brother,’ said Hélène, her eyes shifting uneasily from Natasha to Anatole. Natasha turned her pretty little head towards the handsome adjutant and smiled at him over her bare shoulder. Anatole, who was just as handsome close to as he had been from a distance, sat down beside her and said this was a delight he had long been waiting for, ever since the Naryshkins’ ball, where he had had the unforgettable pleasure of seeing her. Kuragin was much more astute and straightforward with women than he ever was in male company. He talked with an easy directness, and Natasha was agreeably surprised to discover that this man, the butt of so much gossip, had nothing formidable about him – quite the reverse, his face wore the most innocent, cheery and open-hearted of smiles. Kuragin asked what she thought of the opera, and told her that at the last performance Semyonova had fallen down on stage. ‘Oh, by the way, Countess,’ he said, suddenly treating her like a close friend of long standing, ‘we’re getting up a fancy-dress ball. You must come – it’s going to be great fun. They’re all getting together at the Arkharovs’. Please come. You will, won’t you?’ As he spoke he never took his smiling eyes off Natasha, her face, her neck, her exposed arms. Natasha knew for certain he was besotted with her. She liked this, yet she could feel the temperature rising and she was beginning to feel somehow cornered and constrained in his presence. When she wasn’t looking at him she could sense him gazing at her shoulders, and she found herself trying to catch his eye to make him look at her face. But when she looked into his eyes she was shocked to realize that the usual barrier of modesty that existed between her and other men was no longer there between the two of them. It had taken five minutes for her to feel terribly close to this man, and she scarcely knew what was happening to her. Whenever she turned away she bristled at the thought that he might seize her from behind by her bare arm and start kissing her on the neck. They were going on about nothing in particular, yet she felt closer to him than she had ever been to any other man. Natasha kept glancing round at Hélène and her father for help – what did it all mean? – but Hélène was deep in conversation with a general and didn’t respond to her glance, and her father’s eyes conveyed nothing but their usual message, ‘Enjoying yourself? Jolly good. I’m so pleased.’ There was an awkward silence, during which Anatole, the personification of cool determination, never took his voracious eyes off her, and Natasha broke it by asking whether he liked living in Moscow. She coloured up the moment the question was out of her mouth. She couldn’t help feeling there was something improper about even talking to him. Anatole smiled an encouraging smile. ‘Oh, I didn’t like it much at first. Well, what is it that makes a town nice to live in? It’s the pretty women, isn’t it? Well, now I do like it, very much indeed,’ he said, with a meaningful stare. ‘You will come to the fancy-dress ball, Countess? Please come,’ he said. Putting his hand out to touch her bouquet he lowered his voice and added in French, ‘You’ll be the prettiest woman there. Do come, dear Countess, and give me this flower as your pledge.’ Natasha didn’t understand a word of this – any more than he did – but she felt that behind his incomprehensible words there was some dishonourable intention. Not knowing how to respond, she turned away as if she hadn’t heard him. But the moment she turned away she could feel him right behind her, very close. ‘Now what? Is he embarrassed? Is he angry? Should I put things right?’ she wondered. She couldn’t help turning round. She looked him straight in the eyes. One glance at him, standing so close, with all that self-assurance and the warmth of his sweet smile, and she was lost. She stared into his eyes, and her smile was the mirror-image of his. And again she sensed with horror there was no barrier between the two of them. The curtain rose again. Anatole strolled out of the box, a picture of composure and contentment. Natasha went back to her father’s box, completely taken by the new world she found herself in. All that was happening before her eyes now seemed absolutely normal. By contrast, all previous thoughts of her fiancé, Princess Marya, her life in the country, never even crossed her mind. It was as if it all belonged to the distant past.
Call me Ishmael. Some years ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs- commerce surrounds it with her surf. Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme downtown is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall, northward. What do you see?- Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster- tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here?
"Rogne pushing for better deal" -Sky football news says he is "surprised by the terms of the new deal on offer". He was apparently "informed that he will have to take a wage cut"...
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way - in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
I must say a fantastic response. I suppose been the Daily Record does not add to its credence. I hope for the club's sake but mostly Rogne's sake that the D.R. has made a mountain out of a molehill. There seems to be quite a lot of footballers without contracts and most have not a injury history as long as Rogne. I think he should do more talking to Celtic and make sure he isn't reported for talking about Celtic. I don't think D. O'Dea thought last may, he would end up playing this season in Toronto. Not really the stepping stone to a major league or a top club. It seems to have become clubs are gaining control again for better or worse.
When you wish upon a star Makes no difference who you are Anything your heart desires Will come to you If your heart is in your dream No request is too extreme When you wish upon a star As dreamers do Fate is kind She brings to those who love The sweet fulfillment of Their secret longing Like a bolt out of the blue Fate steps in and sees you through When you wish upon a star Your dreams come true Fate is kind She brings to those who love The sweet fulfillment of Their secret longing Like a bolt out of the blue Fate steps in and sees you through When you wish upon a star Your dreams come true
Dev has proved today what I have thought for a long time. There isn't one Dev. I am not sure, is he a man? or is he a mouse ? or is he an animal possibly a poodle? He just loves to follow the crowd, barking away, maybe like a Jack Russell but he doesn't seem to have a care or a thought in his mind. A couple of days ago he was going to ignore me but, poor Dev.
Shut up you, you are either a **** or a fanny. I don't usually bother with Hoopy. which is strange for me because I seem to bite at everyone else. I just thought that was funny.
Several people suspect - and have done for some time - that Hoops is one of our old posters Popesicola, he's about the only person who maybe has the patience to carry out this pretense, if that is what it is. That's why not many people bother with him, I include myself in that. I have chosen to put him on my ignore list simply because if it is a long game he's playing, it is tiresome, if not, I won't lose any sleep over not having to read his posts. If he is indeed a real Tim, then thank God he is a rare breed.
I obviously don't know anything about 'popesicola' but in any case I cannot, for the life of me, see what satisfaction could be gained from or understand any reason or possible point in, a non-Celtic fan posting so knowledgeably about all things Celtic?
Google is everyone's friend ES, for someone who is commited enough it's easy to pass yourself off as a fan of another team on an anonymous forum like this. I could pretend I was an expert on signs if I put my mind to it.
