Barcelona 2 - Celtic 1.

Watching Celtic playing Barcelona is the willing suspension of disbelieve. Before the game I confidently predicted we’d get beaten 3-0, or 4-0. But I’m not to be trusted. I secretly hoped we’d win, or at least not get beaten by very much. A draw would have been a bit like Farah Fawcett leaving your room because you’d smelly feet and finding Cheryl Ladd snuggled up next to you as you watched the footie. We might not have had Charlie’s Angels but when Alexis Sanchez’s shot snaked past the post in two minutes I knew we needed all the help we could get. The rules for winning these matches are handed down by the gods. Your goalkeeper has got to play the game of his life. Check. Fraser Foster made a number of brilliant saves, none more so when Messi, that little devil, tip-toed in and shot from six yards. Foster got a hand to it and kept it out. Any ricochet from Samarras to Mascherrano should count as two goals. We only got one. Samarras goes off before half time. I never thought I’d be saying this, but that was a big blow. Your defence must be rock solid. Ok. They weren’t, but it was Barcelona we were playing. They score bang on the end of the first half. There’s four defenders and one attacker. But let’s face it, all the Barcelona players are attackers. The next rule is you’ve got to be lucky. David Villa hits the post on ninety minutes. How lucky is that? The last rule of the gods is the most important. Don’t be unlucky or the gods will punish you. Ninety-four minutes. The last kick of the ball and it comes swooping over the six yard box.

Comments

And .. AND .. ??

same old. Scottish teams always get beaten by the last kick of the ball. Glorious defeat is our national anthem.