Apologies for copying an article about Celtic, but have you ever read such an arse kissing piece of sanctimonious drivel as this from Leckie today?
Poor wee Neil, a life of sickening abuse despite his bravery and maturity.
Looks like the agenda will be our fault if he doesn't get the job.
It takes the hide of a rhino and cojones like Mitres to be an Old Firm manager.
The words of Neil Lennon, a man who prides himself on being encased in the first, then in the same breath sends himself up for maybe not owning the second.
Though if he does not mind being contradicted on something so personal, I’d say he got it the wrong way round.
Because when it comes to balls, he’s proved himself time and again to be packing Spacehoppers.
He backs down from nothing, leads with his chin, defends to the last what he believes is right.
Yet you only had to listen to him in the minutes after Celtic clinched their eighth title in a row to know that he really doesn’t have a thick skin at all.
The relief in his voice, his emotions about it all happening in the wake of losing two Lisbon Lions, even his disappointment at his own fans repeating their “sad Orange bastard” chants about his opposite number Derek McInnes — there was no triumphalism here, no gloating, only reflection.
No, this is a man who thinks too deeply, cares too much, is way too sensitive to have that rhino hide.
And he’s all the better for it, even if it doesn’t match up to the image he paints of what it takes to do the job.
A thick skin means not caring what anyone says about you or does to you, being able to laugh off the vilest of abuse like flecks of dust.
A thick skin means asking the haters if that’s their best shot, almost goading them to give you more, like Houdini charging a dollar a go to get punched in his brick-hard abs at state fairs.
That’s not Lennon. His heart’s on his sleeve, not locked in a lead-lined box.
He hasn’t repelled the stick and the stress down the years, he’s absorbed it — and there’s only so much even the more resilient character can absorb before the weight of it all gets too much.
That’s why, as the Parkhead board sit down to decide who’ll be their next permanent manager, the question should be as much about how much Lennon needs it as how much they want him.
The man himself says all that’s on hold for now, that everything apart from the Treble’s on hold.
To be fair, it’s been that way every since he was about to board a late February flight to Dubai for a TV gig as a Champions League pundit and the phone rang with an SOS from Peter Lawwell.
Since that day Brendan Rodgers jumped ship to Leicester, the only focus in Lennon’s life has been holding the Celtic dressing room together, getting them to the Scottish Cup Final then dragging them over the line in the league.
Plenty believed he would toil to handle the pressure, that you should never go back.
But fact is, he’s been more calm, more in control, more understated and — let’s be honest — more mature over these past 69 days than at any other time in his career.
The football’s not always been classical, true.
But eight wins and three draws in 11 games with only two goals conceded have got them where they want to be and, at pretty much any other club, that would have been enough for the caretaker to be offered the role for keeps.
This is Celtic, though. This is the Old Firm. This is Glasgow. And this is Neil Lennon.
All of which makes the picture far more complicated than it would be in Manchester, Liverpool, Milan or most other cities.
Because beyond the football — the only bit that should matter — there is the question of all the crap that goes with bossing Celtic or Rangers.
The fact that they operate in such a bubble, one whose oxygen source is sectarian hatred and where Lennon is one of the most divisive figures in the rivalry’s horrible history.
He’d seven years in the bubble as a Celtic player, during which time he was forced to quit the Northern Ireland international side after death threats over his religion.
He’s already had four years as manager, winning three titles but also being sent bullets in the post, suffering attacks in the street and being jumped in the dugout by an angry fan.
All of which makes you wonder why he’d want to go back, what part of a man troubled by bouts of depression he’s been so honest about would choose to put himself through it all again.
Put it this way. On Saturday night, coming back from covering the game at Pittodrie, I parked the car just off Byres Road in Glasgow to pick up a takeaway.
As I waited to cross the road, two drunk guys went past and started slaughtering me — it was ‘f*** you Leckie’, ‘you’re a p***k’, ‘a c***’.
This happens on and off, maybe every few weeks, just as it does to others in the media, in football, in the public eye in general.
For Neil Lennon, this is every single day of his life.
There’s always someone who think he’s fair game — and, yes, there have been times when his behaviour has done him no favours, when it has played to the lowest common denominator of knucklescrapers — and that must be hard to live with for those who love him.
So for all that it would be one of the toughest calls of his life to say no if and when Peter Lawwell puts a contract in front of him, it might also rank as the bravest thing he’s ever done.
To decide he doesn’t need the grief, that he’s nothing left to prove at the club he loves, that there’s more to life than being every idiot’s Aunt Sally; none of it computes for most managers.
This is a profession where the only certainty is the sack, where you really could win eight titles in a row than be classed a failure for not delivering the ninth, yet one to which so many cling like limpets to any job they can get, long after their best years as husbands and dads and grandpas have passed them by.
So to put the family first for once, to choose the pundit’s chair over the dugout car-seat, to realise that — at 47 and still with half a life to lead — there’s a bigger world out there than the madness of the Old Firm?
Well, that would take king-sized cojones.
Poor wee Neil, a life of sickening abuse despite his bravery and maturity.
Looks like the agenda will be our fault if he doesn't get the job.
It takes the hide of a rhino and cojones like Mitres to be an Old Firm manager.
The words of Neil Lennon, a man who prides himself on being encased in the first, then in the same breath sends himself up for maybe not owning the second.
Though if he does not mind being contradicted on something so personal, I’d say he got it the wrong way round.
Because when it comes to balls, he’s proved himself time and again to be packing Spacehoppers.
He backs down from nothing, leads with his chin, defends to the last what he believes is right.
Yet you only had to listen to him in the minutes after Celtic clinched their eighth title in a row to know that he really doesn’t have a thick skin at all.
The relief in his voice, his emotions about it all happening in the wake of losing two Lisbon Lions, even his disappointment at his own fans repeating their “sad Orange bastard” chants about his opposite number Derek McInnes — there was no triumphalism here, no gloating, only reflection.
No, this is a man who thinks too deeply, cares too much, is way too sensitive to have that rhino hide.
And he’s all the better for it, even if it doesn’t match up to the image he paints of what it takes to do the job.
A thick skin means not caring what anyone says about you or does to you, being able to laugh off the vilest of abuse like flecks of dust.
A thick skin means asking the haters if that’s their best shot, almost goading them to give you more, like Houdini charging a dollar a go to get punched in his brick-hard abs at state fairs.
That’s not Lennon. His heart’s on his sleeve, not locked in a lead-lined box.
He hasn’t repelled the stick and the stress down the years, he’s absorbed it — and there’s only so much even the more resilient character can absorb before the weight of it all gets too much.
That’s why, as the Parkhead board sit down to decide who’ll be their next permanent manager, the question should be as much about how much Lennon needs it as how much they want him.
The man himself says all that’s on hold for now, that everything apart from the Treble’s on hold.
To be fair, it’s been that way every since he was about to board a late February flight to Dubai for a TV gig as a Champions League pundit and the phone rang with an SOS from Peter Lawwell.
Since that day Brendan Rodgers jumped ship to Leicester, the only focus in Lennon’s life has been holding the Celtic dressing room together, getting them to the Scottish Cup Final then dragging them over the line in the league.
Plenty believed he would toil to handle the pressure, that you should never go back.
But fact is, he’s been more calm, more in control, more understated and — let’s be honest — more mature over these past 69 days than at any other time in his career.
The football’s not always been classical, true.
But eight wins and three draws in 11 games with only two goals conceded have got them where they want to be and, at pretty much any other club, that would have been enough for the caretaker to be offered the role for keeps.
This is Celtic, though. This is the Old Firm. This is Glasgow. And this is Neil Lennon.
All of which makes the picture far more complicated than it would be in Manchester, Liverpool, Milan or most other cities.
Because beyond the football — the only bit that should matter — there is the question of all the crap that goes with bossing Celtic or Rangers.
The fact that they operate in such a bubble, one whose oxygen source is sectarian hatred and where Lennon is one of the most divisive figures in the rivalry’s horrible history.
He’d seven years in the bubble as a Celtic player, during which time he was forced to quit the Northern Ireland international side after death threats over his religion.
He’s already had four years as manager, winning three titles but also being sent bullets in the post, suffering attacks in the street and being jumped in the dugout by an angry fan.
All of which makes you wonder why he’d want to go back, what part of a man troubled by bouts of depression he’s been so honest about would choose to put himself through it all again.
Put it this way. On Saturday night, coming back from covering the game at Pittodrie, I parked the car just off Byres Road in Glasgow to pick up a takeaway.
As I waited to cross the road, two drunk guys went past and started slaughtering me — it was ‘f*** you Leckie’, ‘you’re a p***k’, ‘a c***’.
This happens on and off, maybe every few weeks, just as it does to others in the media, in football, in the public eye in general.
For Neil Lennon, this is every single day of his life.
There’s always someone who think he’s fair game — and, yes, there have been times when his behaviour has done him no favours, when it has played to the lowest common denominator of knucklescrapers — and that must be hard to live with for those who love him.
So for all that it would be one of the toughest calls of his life to say no if and when Peter Lawwell puts a contract in front of him, it might also rank as the bravest thing he’s ever done.
To decide he doesn’t need the grief, that he’s nothing left to prove at the club he loves, that there’s more to life than being every idiot’s Aunt Sally; none of it computes for most managers.
This is a profession where the only certainty is the sack, where you really could win eight titles in a row than be classed a failure for not delivering the ninth, yet one to which so many cling like limpets to any job they can get, long after their best years as husbands and dads and grandpas have passed them by.
So to put the family first for once, to choose the pundit’s chair over the dugout car-seat, to realise that — at 47 and still with half a life to lead — there’s a bigger world out there than the madness of the Old Firm?
Well, that would take king-sized cojones.
