In the aftermath of yesterday’s game, Big Ange paid a glowing tribute to our midfield general Aaron Mooy, and why would he not? Mooy is his boy. In a very real sense he was a big part of why Mooy has had the career he did. Ange was not unsure of this lad when we signed him; in fact, Ange was 100% certain that he was getting a class act.
“He has been great since the break,” he said about Mooy. “I am the least surprised about that. It’s one of these things in football that it literally landed at my doorstep. I knew what I was getting. Maybe you can use that term, ‘I’m a lucky man’.”
The press knows what that was, and the Ibrox sites think they know what it was. It amazes me that people can be so purposefully witless, but they manage it every time. They still think this proves that Ange is “rattled” as though this man ever gets rattled, as though you crack jokes when you are rattled. This is the complete opposite of a man who is rattled.
No, Ange Postecoglou is amused. Tickled that The Mooch ever believed such a pitiful tactic would work on him, and if he keeps on bringing it up it’s because he wants to rub the Ibrox manager’s face in his own stupidity a little bit, to remind us all over and over again just what a fool he has made of himself with such inane twaddle.
Ibrox fans have always been good at deluding themselves, but it is some stretch to believe that it’s the Celtic boss who is wilting under pressure. Why would he be? The Mooch made a couple of daft remarks and Ange has been hammering him with them. On top of that, ours is the team sitting top of the league, transfer business done, all ticking along nicely.
The Mooch is already rattled. He’s sniping at Celtic, he’s sniping at Ange, but most of all he’s taking shots at his own directors over the shambles of this transfer window. Their fans are pretending they haven’t noticed what a mess they are in.
But by tomorrow night the full scale of it could well be clear. As Ross Wilson scrambles to pull a rabbit out of a hat, it’s his manager who is starting to sweat a little, not ours.