Dear Jota,
It’s been a tough time without you, Jota. Since you left for the not so dazzling lights and the vast wealth of Saudi football, there’s been a Jota-shaped hole in our Celtic hearts. They promised you the world, but let’s be honest, they can’t love you like we do. Here, you’re not just a player; you’re a hero, a magician with the ball at his feet, dazzling the fans at Parkhead like a modern-day wizard.
As I sit here, munching on my perfectly air-fried chips – crisp on the outside, fluffy on the inside – a thought strikes me with the force of a well-struck free-kick. Celtic needs you back, and I’m willing to do the unthinkable to make it happen. Yes, you read that right. I am prepared to part ways with my beloved air fryer, the cornerstone of my culinary exploits, to bring you back to Paradise.
So, here’s my pledge. I will sell my air fryer, my vinyl collection (yes, even the rare ones), and maybe even that signed Henrik Larsson shirt I treasure more than my family heirlooms. I’ll host a car boot sale, a bake sale (non-air-fried goods, obviously), and if need be, I’ll even part ways with my prized collection of Celtic scarves.
Why such drastic measures, you ask? Because Celtic isn’t just a club, it’s a family, and you are a long-lost brother. The way you used to glide past defenders as if they were mere training cones, your crosses more accurate than a nine darter by Luke Littler, and your goals… oh, those goals were like poetry in motion.
We miss your flair, your passion, and that infectious smile that could light up the darkest Glasgow winter. Sure, the Saudi league might have the money, and the sunshine, but does it have the heart-pounding thrill of a packed Celtic Park singing your name? I think not.
So, come home, Jota. Come back to where you’re cherished, where you’re more than just a player. And if my air fryer’s sacrifice isn’t enough to tempt you, I don’t know what will.
