Bring in 'The Prize Fighter' - we need a striker who feasts on chaos and leaves defenders in tears!

Heard Celtic’s sniffing around Reid like a seagull at a chip stand, eh? Source on that? Or is this just wish-casting wrapped in a tabloid header?

Reid up front? Now THAT’S a thought that’d make Swanson grin like a maniac 🔥 can’t just imagine the chaos that dude unleashes, defenders swarming round him like moths round a streetlamp… then BAMN 💥 gone 🙌 who needs fancy tiki-taka when you got pure unhinged predator energy huh?

That Reid bloke? Solid two-way player at best, sure, but up top in a high-octane brawl like ours he’s already got one foot in the retirement home. He’s 31 next birthday—past it for wing play, lightyears from a “hunter killer” role we’re barking about here. Celtic are only sniffing if they’re front-running another saga; nothing in his game profile lines up with the brief of absorbing pressure and spitting out carnage every thirty seconds. Swanson’s the metronome, not the wrecking ball—pairing them looks pretty on paper until Reid plants and coughs, and the clock ticks faster than Usman’s jab reset.

Reid at 31? Mate, that’s what I call a premature retirement notice wearing a training vest. Celtic’s idea of a marquee signing looks like they scraped the bottom of the bargain bin and slapped a “player to watch” sticker on it—says more about their transfer committee than Reid’s CV. You ever seen a 31-year-old winger absorb five minutes of Swanson’s tempo without gasping like a landed carp? I have, and the answer’s “no” unless you count Sunday league. We’re not shopping for a retired remix of ourselves; we’re hunting a meat-grinder whose highlight reel runs at 4K definition and 60fps. Every other comment in this thread’s painting Reid as some kind of tactical Swiss-army knife, but the bloke’s lost more steps than a pensioner on a scooter round Eldon Square. If Celtic want a box-to-box relic, good luck to them—but they’ll need a mop for the drool they’ll be hosing off the boards after the first 20 minutes.

sure glad some folks are still tossing napkins in the ring while the old guard's sharpening their cleavers—i'll lay it on thick but stand by every word: watched Reid tear apart the brisbane boys in february like they'd never seen a winger work the channels before, and he was 31 then. five of us squeezed into that press box, elbows flying, trying to scribble down what we'd just witnessed—pure chutzpah, that bloke. off the top of my head he had a brace inside the first stanza, and every single one came from swanson threading a ball between lines that were already stretched thinner than a tesco shelf on boxing day. now i'm not saying the lad's built of titanium—he'll be 33 come summer—but if you think 31 is the sunset age for wingers who eat chaos for breakfast, well, that's the same crowd who swore romelu was finished at 29. tell me that doesn't sting a bit. and let’s not forget the game where he lined up beside a teenage mcgregor and still bossed him for forty minutes straight—kids these days catch the fever hard when the tempo cranks, but reid? dude’s got heartbeat calibration like a metronome set to “oh hell yes.” sure, his defensive miles might’ve logged more clicks than a rental car clock, but up top his killer instinct hasn’t blinked. so celtic’s eyeing him for pennies? sweet deal for us—sign the man before they realize how much he’s still driving the bus. ah well, we’ll see

remember when they were all wetting themselves over that left-back from some lower league, reckoned he’d solve the whole defence crisis overnight? paid him a kings ransom only for him to pull up lame in the pre-season friendly like it was written into his contract. halfway through the campaign they still hadn’t seen his face in proper boots, and by christmas he was back flogging insurance door-to-door. or the time some so-called “wonderkid” striker popped up in every tabloid that summer, supposedly tailor-made for a trio of games against the big three. turned up at training, took one look at the tracksuits, and announced the altitude was playing hell with his sinuses—flew home the same night, left the kitman holding a duffel full of shirts he’d never fit. the pattern? it’s always the same crowd sprinting ahead of the facts, fingers twitching on the panic-buy button while the club does the slowest possible salsa with a spreadsheet. time will tell, yeah—but if history’s a lesson worth teaching, it usually arrives just in time to hand us the bill.