There are bad nights in football, and then there are the sort of evenings that make you question your life choices, your club’s direction, and whether the universe is playing some elaborate cosmic prank. Celtic’s recent collapse at Fir Park wasn’t just a defeat… it was a full‑scale existential crisis wrapped in 90 minutes of tactical confusion, limp performances, and managerial delusion.

And yes, “mortifying” is the only word that even comes close.

This wasn’t a plucky underdog catching Celtic cold. This wasn’t a smash‑and‑grab. This was a dismantling. A dissection. A footballing vivisection performed by Motherwell… Motherwell! while Celtic stood around like they were waiting for someone to hand them a script explaining what sport they were playing.

But the most alarming part wasn’t the scoreline, or the lack of intensity, or the fact that half the team looked like they’d been replaced by cardboard cut-outs. No, the real horror show came after the match, when Wilfried Nancy calmly suggested that this wasn’t a setback because Motherwell are “a good side.”

At that point, I realised something: I’m done. I wanted to back him. I tried. I genuinely tried. But there comes a moment when you stop trying to convince yourself that the house isn’t on fire and start acknowledging the flames licking the curtains.

A Tactical Catastrophe of the Manager’s Own Making

Let’s get straight to the heart of the matter: Nancy is completely out of his depth. Not just struggling. Not just adjusting. Out. Of. His. Depth.

Motherwell didn’t merely counter his system, they obliterated it. They played through Celtic’s shape like it was a loosely assembled IKEA wardrobe missing half the screws. Every phase of play exposed another structural flaw. Every transition revealed another gaping hole. Every duel showed a team that had no idea what it was supposed to be doing.

It genuinely looked like Motherwell had an extra three players on the pitch, and in a way, they did, because several Celtic starters may as well not have been there. When your full-back, centre-half, winger, midfielder, and captain all turn in performances that resemble a testimonial match cameo from a retired pro, you’re not just dealing with an off-night. You’re dealing with a systemic failure.

And that failure sits squarely with the manager.

Nancy’s refusal to adapt his formation, his beloved, rigid, idealistic structure would be admirable if it weren’t so catastrophically mismatched to the players he has. This squad can’t play the way he wants. They don’t have the technical level, the tactical intelligence, or the physical attributes to execute it. Yet he persists, stubbornly, blindly, as if sheer belief will magically transform this group into peak Barcelona.

It won’t. It never will.

The players look lost. The shape is a mess. The tempo is non-existent. The pressing is half-hearted. The passing is backwards, sideways, and occasionally five yards behind the intended target. The captain, Callum McGregor, once the heartbeat of the team, now looks like he’s running on fumes and muscle memory, recycling possession in the most literal and least useful sense.

Nancy inherited a poor squad, arguably the weakest Celtic group in decades, but somehow he has managed to make them look even worse. That takes a special kind of managerial misadventure. It’s almost impressive in a tragic, gallows-humour sort of way.

And let’s be honest: the dressing room looks gone. The body language is dreadful. The confidence has evaporated. The energy levels are subterranean. This is a team that no longer believes in what it’s being asked to do, and who can blame them? They’re being sent out every week to perform a tactical routine they’re fundamentally incapable of executing.

When a manager loses the dressing room, the clock starts ticking. When he loses the dressing room and the fans, the clock stops entirely.

The Boardroom Blunders: A Masterclass in Strategic Incompetence

But if Nancy is floundering, the board is drowning. This entire situation is the predictable result of a leadership group that has spent years mistaking penny-pinching for prudence and complacency for stability.

Let’s start with the obvious: who in their right mind appoints a manager whose entire philosophy requires a specific type of player… technically sharp, tactically disciplined, physically dynamic… and then hands him a squad that is the polar opposite? Who decides to implement sweeping tactical changes mid-season with a group that wasn’t strengthened in the summer and was already showing signs of decline?

Only Celtic’s board could look at a squad held together by hope, tape, and sentimental loyalty, and think, “Yes, this is the perfect moment for a radical tactical revolution.”

It’s delusional.

The recruitment failures are glaring. The lack of investment is indefensible. The strategic vision is non-existent. And the leadership? Spineless. Utterly spineless.

There was a time, not that long ago, when Celtic’s boardroom had at least a semblance of backbone. You might not have agreed with every decision, but you could sense authority. Now? It’s a vacuum. A leadership void filled with corporate jargon, risk-averse dithering, and a CEO who appears allergic to decisive action.

The chairman situation is no better. The interim setup feels like a parody of governance, a pantomime of leadership where everyone is waiting for someone else to take responsibility. Meanwhile, the club drifts further into mediocrity.

And then there’s Paul Tisdale.

If Nancy is the wrong man in the dugout, Tisdale is the wrong man behind the scenes. His fingerprints are all over this mess… recruitment misfires, questionable scouting priorities, and the decision to bring in a manager whose style is so wildly incompatible with the squad that it borders on negligence.

Tisdale’s role in assembling this backroom team, this tactical experiment, this ill-fitting puzzle, cannot be ignored. He helped build the structure that is now collapsing under its own contradictions.

The board asked too much of Nancy, yes, but they also asked too little of themselves. They gambled with the club’s trajectory and now seem shocked that the house is falling down.

Where Do We Go From Here?

This is the part where I’m supposed to offer hope. A rallying cry. A path forward. But I can’t. Not honestly.

I don’t see how Nancy turns this around. I don’t see the tactical flexibility, the man-management spark, or the emotional intelligence required to pull a fractured squad back together. I don’t see a plan B. I barely see a plan A that works.

I wanted to back him. I really did. But there comes a point where loyalty becomes delusion, and I’m not willing to cross that line.

The players aren’t responding. The system isn’t working. The results are getting worse. The performances are regressing. The atmosphere is toxic. The fans are losing patience. The board is asleep at the wheel.

This isn’t a blip. This isn’t a rough patch. This is a crisis.

And the saddest part? It was avoidable. With proper investment, with competent recruitment, with a realistic managerial appointment, with leadership that actually leads, this season could have been stable, even promising.

Instead, we’re watching a slow-motion implosion.

The only hope now is that someone with influence… someone the wannabe owner actually listens to, steps in and forces change. Because the current leadership won’t. They’ve shown that repeatedly. They’re too timid, too detached, too convinced of their own infallibility to act decisively.

Celtic deserve better. The fans deserve better. The players deserve better. And the club’s history certainly deserves better than this rudderless drift into mediocrity.

Until the board wakes up, until the recruitment structure is rebuilt, until a manager is appointed who fits the squad, or a squad is built to fit the manager, this cycle will continue.

But as for Nancy? My patience is gone. My belief is gone. My hope that he can salvage this is gone.

It’s time for change. Real change. Structural change. Leadership change.

Because what we’re watching right now isn’t Celtic. It’s a hollow imitation wearing the badge but not the identity.

And that, more than anything, is what makes it truly mortifying.