Although the past few footballing weeks have been dominated by the convulsive conclusion to Arsenal’s season – and the upcoming few will be dominated by the World Cup – I wonder if some of you might spare a thought for my own traumas north of the border. As a Celtic supporter, I’ve had one of the worst seasons imaginable. After years of victory in the relatively impoverished (and severely mocked) Scottish Premier League, my team has had one of their most disastrous stretches, knocked out embarrassingly early from all European competitions and then continually shamed and outperformed by a resurgent Hearts, who haven’t won the Scottish League since 1960. Except all that changed on the last day of the season when Celtic beat the new challengers in the most cathartic circumstances to win the title by two points. Nowadays, to safeguard my mental health, I can’t watch Celtic play, and if I’d viewed this last game I know I would have been physically sick. But there has always been something of a fairytale about this team and there is good reason why the fans refer to their saviour manager as........

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