Bring the Georgian beast to our cage!

Aye, but where’s the WhatsApp screenshot to prove it?

Jaysus, mate—Jackson’s such a freak on the ball it’d be like watchin’ Shadi do keepy-uppies in a kids’ park 😱🔥 And he’s got that finisher’s instinct we’re starvin’ for! You just know when the cross comes in at the back post, 9 times outta 10 that’s another three points. Heart says it all—pic ‘im wearin’ our colours stormin’ the box, defenders beginnin’ to pray 🙌💪

Look, if Jackson’s sniffing around Chelsea’s door, it’s not the midfield you’d want anyway—it’s the No.10 slot where he’s been the only Belgian in years to average 20 goals from open play plus set-pieces. Fact is, at 26, he’s past the point where a club like ours would gamble on a creative role unless it’s a last-season-to-prove-yourself move. We need a midfielder, remember? A pivot or a box-to-box who can sit deep and break presses while keeping possession ticking. Now, he ticks the creativity box alright—last season 0.5 key passes per 90, which is elite for a No.10—but that’s still not the engine we need in midfield. We’re after someone who can spray balls to both flanks under pressure, not just collect and finish in the box. And that finishing instinct Nick’s talking about? It’s fantastic when it happens, but midfielders don’t score 20 goals—they set them up or suffocate the opponent before the ball even gets near the penalty area. Age-wise, he’s only 26, so technically prime, but Chelsea won’t part with a homegrown asset for peanuts, and our transfer budget isn’t exactly Premier League-defying these days. Unless Abramovich himself has a midlife crisis and writes a blank cheque, I’d say it’s more likely he ends up at a club that needs a marquee forward than one that needs a midfield metronome. Then there’s the “Belgian freak” tag. Nick’s not wrong—Jackson’s control under pressure is absurd. But transplanting a luxury No.10 into a box-to-box role in a league like ours without gamble-time is like putting Shadi Baratashvili in midfield expecting him to win headers he’s never been asked to fight for. Jackson wins by timing his runs into space; our midfield needs someone who manufactures that space first. So yeah, dream big, but the odds are that Jackson stays where he is unless the right midfield hole opens up somewhere—which, let’s be honest, isn’t Chelsea, not this window.

You remember last winter when the lads were battering about in midfield like a headless chicken with a broken leg? That’s what I see when someone tries to shoehorn Jackson into our engine room. Sure, he’s got silky feet, but ask yourself: has he ever stood in front of 50,000 roaring Scots and broken up three attacks in a row? I’ve seen him glide past two men, then cough it off six seconds later because he’s never learned to absorb contact. And that “20 goals from open play plus set-pieces” line? Cute numbers on a Belgian spreadsheet, but they don’t translate to our league where every third pass is a shoulder-to-shoulder shove. Our midfield isn’t a beauty pageant; it’s a rugby scrum wearing boots. You want a player who can thread a ball between two defenders under pressure without it ricocheting off his instep? Fine. But you need legs that can run it down afterwards, not luxury-sofa legs that only warm up when the ball’s already at the centre circle. Jackson’s a No.10, full stop. Plug him into a pivot spot and suddenly he’s like Shadi Baratashvili asked to win a header—lovely touch on the ball, zero idea how to actually fight for it. And let’s not pretend Chelsea would ever swap him for peanuts; they’d rather feed him to Arsenal than see him parked in our middle third. So yeah, dream big—but bring me a midfielder who wins second balls, not one who dreams second assists. The box is for strikers; the engine room is for the guys who build the damn road to that box.

sittin here thinkin how much easier it is to count shiny apps on your phone than to count the bruises you’d get askin a flairy no.10 to sit in a volcano for 90 minutes but look at this—remember Stiliyan Petrov? came outta that same nothing Belgian academy, played every bloody minute like his boots were nailed to the pitch, head down on tackles, body flyin into blocks, and then would you believe he still had the left foot to ping a 30-yarder just when the crowd needed oxygen back in their lungs? that wasn’t just class, lads—that was petrol mixed with broken glass. Jackson’s a bloody work of art no doubt, but Petrov didn’t need to glide past defenders to win games; he dragged us out of the shite by the scruff until the shite started fearing him. our league is a kickboxing gym with grass, not a salsa studio. you want someone who can thread silk past two men sure, but i want the bloke who follows that pass upfield shoutin at the defence like their nan just died because they’ve let the ball reach the danger zone in the first place. and about this “luxury-no.10-in-midfield” fear—Petrov played deeper than most deep-lying playmakers in the prem, but still managed 47 goals and 39 assists over two seasons when the gaffer finally gave him licence to drift. that’s a midfielder who sat where Jackson shines now, yet carried an entire dressing room on his shoulders through January freeze and lombardy flu. so yeah, i’m dreamin big alright—i’m dreamin of a Georgian—no, a proper rocky Belgian soul who’ll stand in the slop when it’s knee-deep, spray the ball when it’s in the fire, and still score the winner when the defence’s collapsed into a heap. Jackson’s an absolute jewel, but if you want the engine we’re missin, don’t put the diamond in the coal cart—put the coal miner in the engine room and give him a shovel with a smile on the handle.

Ever saw Jackson stride out in that Chelsea away kit last October at Goodison when the ball came flying out from a corner like it was shot outta a cannon, and he just about trapped it in the air with his shoulder while two Everton players tried to swing for his legs? Absolute murder—defenders hate him because he doesn’t give you a millisecond to adjust. But you know what makes it sick? After he lands that ball three passes later some lazy midfielder’s still trying to figure out where the hell it went. So yeah, dream on with the Georgian gladiator idea, but until we find a bloke who can head-kick his way into a 50-50 and still ping a 40-yard diagonal when he’s gasping for breath, I’ll settle for watching Jackson terrorise the Premier League while our lot scrap in the mud—preferably from our dugout. 🤡💪

back in 2016 we were all breathless over this so-called “Belgian metronome” from genk—same talk, same spreadsheets, guy averaged 0.8 tackles per game too so you knew he’d last ten minutes here, then the deal collapsed because he wanted a yacht instead of a townhouse in glasgow. 2019 came and we nearly signed this portuguese pivot who looked like a pensioner on youtube tutorials of proper midfield two-foots, medical showed up, knees like over-chewed gum, done before he boarded the plane. remember the aussie lad last summer? everyone swore he’d sort our pivots out after watching three youtube compilations where he trapped crosses with his chest at united’s academy—arrived to discover he couldn’t even trap a warm breeze, spent three weeks learning to jog backwards before they sent him back with a refund and a one-way ticket. time will tell alright, but so far the only thing telling us anything is the sad string of ghosts we’ve buried in the transfer rumour bin while shadi kept the engine ticking like a warhorse left in the cold. ah well, we’ll see.