I didn’t need to be at Hampden to feel the collapse. Watching Celtic lose 3-1 to St Mirren in the League Cup Final was enough to leave me gutted, hollow, and adrift. The screen became a mirror of despair, each misplaced pass and lifeless run reflecting back the truth I didn’t want to face: this team has lost its soul.

The moment we went behind the second time, the fight drained away. You could see it in their movements, hesitant, resigned, almost indifferent. Players who once embodied defiance now looked like men going through the motions. It was not just defeat; it was surrender.

The coach stood powerless, a figure caught between frustration and futility. Perhaps he knows what we all know: this squad is the poorest Celtic has fielded in a decade, maybe more. There is no spine, no spark, no sense of belonging. Too many of them seem like they no longer want to be here, wearing the shirt without conviction, as if waiting for the next train out.

And the board? Their fingerprints are all over this decay. They have delivered us this squad, this pale imitation of Celtic, and they did so with a complacency that borders on betrayal. To call this the worst squad in ten years is not exaggeration, it is a grim truth, a wound that bleeds every time we take the pitch.

As for me, I am left with apathy and abject disappointment. I used to rage at defeats, to feel the fire of injustice and the stubborn hope of tomorrow. Now I feel only emptiness. I don’t know where to go from here, or what to do with this love that feels more like a burden. Supporting Celtic was once a ritual of joy, of belonging, of myth. Now it feels like watching a loved one waste away, powerless to intervene.

I write this not as catharsis but as confession: I am lost. The club I believed in has become unrecognizable, and I no longer know how to carry the weight of that loss.