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...