HEARTS about to collapse into coronary failure, Glasgow Rangers scrabbling about the nithering nether regions of lower tier outposts such as Annan and Montrose, and the national coach’s job now up for grabs.

Scottish football could be forgiven for thinking it was slowly crumbling into the sea like so much soft Edinburgh rock cracking and creaking in the hands of a greedy candy-eater.

But then along comes the sort of result that dispersed shockwaves of incredulity around European football.

Celtic set not just one half of Glasgow alight but the Continent too with a blazing glory possessing the ferocity of a solar bonfire when they humbled the mighty Barcelona 2-1 in a Champions League game at Celtic Park.

Morale-sappingly robbed of a share of the spoils by a late Barca winner in the clubs’ previous European collision, the boot was well and truly on the Celtic foot second time around.

While Barca repeated their Nou Camp feat of a late strike, this time in the Scottish capital the Catalan titans were already trailing by two goals, the second a joyously drilled shot by Tony Watt, a bargain-bucket £80,000 signing from Airdrie.

The eventual blowing of the final whistle to seal the unimaginable win was even enough to reduce that plastic Scot Rod Stewart to tears. And even though the cox-combed former decent singer looked a silly old duffer as he blubbed his salty outpouring of joy, it amply demonstrated sport’s timeless capacity to surprise, stun and stimulate the senses.

Not even the most die-hard Bhoys fan would have given their side, blighted by injuries, any chance of unhinging the blue and red striped wizards from Barca, even if it was the Scottish club’s 125th anniversary.

Most football followers are in homage to the Catalonia crew, their tika-taka brand of football a confection so easy on the eye.

Yet Celtic did the business and, as manager Neil Lennon rightly asserted, accorded themselves a place in the club’s rich folklore.

The victory also proved that Barca’s philosophy of revelling in near-total domination of the ball is not the ‘b all and end all’ of the perfect way to play.

Indeed, Celtic had so little possession – at 16.4 per cent the lowest by a team ever to win a Champions League match – any number-cruncher worth his statistician’s salt would have dismissed a Celtic win as impossible.

But the impossible happened on Wednesday night and for Celtic and Scottish football its magnitude had echoes of Celtic’s most famous footballing eve when in 1967 they became the first British winners of the then European Cup when they saw off another Continental powerhouse, Italy’s Inter Milan, in the final in Lisbon.

Those green-and white hooped warriors went down in legend forever to be known as the Lisbon Lions and, while this week’s performance did not accrue the same end product as that cup with football’s biggest ears, it was still glorious enough to ensure a place in the history books for those who played.

And for those who were actually there… well they will be living on that memory, cherishing its recall until the end of their days.

That’s the measure of sport. That’s the power of sport. That’s the unalloyed beauty of sport.

And its appearance could not have been more timely or beneficial – even if it lasts country-wide but for a few days – for a nation which has been mired in football’s financial calamity.

NEXT a humble apology. In last week’s column I touched on the way racehorses are treated with almost religious reverence in this country.

I highlighted the farewells to Frankel and Kauto Star from their respective magnificent racing careers and that they would now be retiring to do “what comes naturally” as a hot-blooded, four-legged beast freed from the shackles of racing.

However, as one reader pointedly reminded me, such a retirement is impossible for Kauto Star… he is a gelding. Ooops.

Just goes to show that what I know about the pedigree of racehorses, and certainly their potential to win races judging by my gambling gaffes, could be written on the back of a baby’s fingernail.