UEFA Cup Thursday November 14th

Blackburn Rovers 0

Celtic 2

0:1 Larsson (15); 0:2 Sutton (68)

Att: 29,698

Ref: Bolognino (Italy)

Celtic: Douglas; Valgaeren, Balde, Laursen; Agathe (Sylla 82), Lennon, Petrov (Thompson 77), Sutton, Guppy; Hartson (Lambert 69), Larsson

This tie had the hacks salivating at the prospect of Celtic tumbling out of Europe at the hands of an on form English Premiership out fit. In the end, it left them choking on their own bile, as Celtic comprehensively outplayed, out gunned and out classed, Blackburn.

The Beast, smug, condescending and patronising as ever, was left firmly with his tail tucked between his hind legs, as droves of the home support streamed away from the terraces when reality bit. The Greek Euripides once summed up the mood at Ewood Park nicely, in his play the Bacchae; " What sweeter joy can man possess Than to stretch a conquering arm Over the fallen crest Of those who wish us harm" The Beast, is allegedly the recipient of a triple bypass ( and I don't mean blowing trebles) which confuses me, as it is a well known fact that he is a heartless critter, who deserves our sympathy following such a humiliating display from his supposed top flight professionals.

The pre-match hype was all too much for Chick Chump who got carried away with massive crowd disturbances and rivers of blood around the ground. The only blood letting was on the pitch where Larsson silenced Celtic's detractors by dinking the ball over an advancing Friedel to kill the tie on 12 minutes.

The party had begun, as Celtic, in a controlled display of European football, gave the much vaunted home side the run-around.

Early in the second period it should have been 2-0 as Sutton and Hartson both squandered a gilt edged chance. This was only a temporary blip as Sutton soon powered in a header for the second. Rovers , crest fallen, whimpered out of the cup, with only a strike off the bar for all their bluster.

Celtic were magnificent, none more so than Rab D who kept another clean sheet and Uli Laursen who had his finest game in Celtic colours.

The psychological fall-out from Basel has evaporated and Celtic march on . The sight of the Beast skulking away post match will remain with me always.

PAUL SHIELS

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Having just settled back in my seat after saluting Chris Sutton's unstoppable header I began to realise the gratification I felt was not derived simply from witnessing another fine European performance from Martin O'Neill's Celtic or even from the perverse satisfaction of watching Celtic wipe the smug smile of Souness's face. My heightened state at that moment seemed to transcend the normal schadenfreude felt by most football supporters when they celebrate impending victory at an opponents expense and had as much to do with watching the celebrating Celtic support in the stand below as it did with the scoreline shining brightly on the Ewood Park electronic scoreboard above them.

From my vantage point in the press box, right smack bang in the middle of the Jack Walker Stand I gazed down upon 8,000 or so cock-a-hoop Celtic supporters and could not help but marvel at the spectacle of it all. If the voyeur is the type who would rather watch than take part, then at that particular moment I was a voyeur.

Poor Blackburn. They never knew what was coming, did they ? For this, part of the blame must rest with the players. As Henrik acknowledged, they played "shit" at Parkhead and as we all know from the smug comments made by Souness and co., Blackburn didn't half fancy their chances at Ewood.

And part of the blame must also rest with the home support also. At Parkhead we sullenly sat for most of the first half, frustrated by Blackburn's refusal to give the ball away in the customary SPL tradition. Only after Henrik bulleted home a screamer from six yards did the support only really come to life that night. So when faced with a Celtic team playing fluent football backed by a Celtic support in full cry, the poor burghers of Blackburn could only sit in a stunned silence as the Bhoys played their team off the park, backed by 8,000 or so Celtic supporters making ten times the racket 60 000 did two weeks earlier.

The difference between the two sets of supporters was night and day. Or rather, it was the difference between the enjoyment a good night on the batter provides compared with the retribution endured at work the following day. And guess whose coupons looked like they wished they stayed at home.

Meanwhile, over at the Celtic end, the away support were in fine voice belting out song after song from the Ian McLeod hymn sheet, pausing once when a daft wee Hun emerged from the Blackburn end. Maybe he was looking for a lift home. Whatever his reason, he could not have timed his one man pitch invasion any more perfectly. I mean, what can be better than winning in Europe when the huns are left at home ? Well, laughing at a daft wee Hun whilst winning in Europe when the big, ugly Huns are left at home must surely qualify as the most novel example of icing on the cake yet.

As I said, it was after Sutton scored our second when I realised my interest was moving away from the action on the pitch and towards the fans behind the net. How I wished I was there. It wasn't as if I was alone in the press box, as all around, pockets in the Jack Walker Stand celebrated both Celtic's goals. But nothing in our comparatively muted celebrations could compare with the sheer wanton abandon and unqualified ecstasy shared by the fans in the Celtic end. As the minutes ticked away and the scarves and flags were raised aloft for a raucous and emotional chorous of You'll Never Walk Alone which continued well after the final whistle, I found myself applauding the Celtic support with the same enthusiastic appreciation usually reserved for my Hooped Heroes.

But before joining the celebrations, there was the small matter of the post match press conference to attend to. Conscious of the Celtic scarf around my neck, I opted for an unobtrusive seat at the back of the conference room and awaited the arrival of the beast. Before me, the ranks of the Scottish press corp. were assembled.

An odd mixture. Graham Spiers is shorter than you think and gives the impression he is sponsored by Burberry - you would think he could afford a decent suit by now; Glenn Gibbons looks like anyone's favourite uncle if his jumpers are anything to go by. And James Traynor is one fat bastard - I couldn't get anywhere near the free half time sarnies because of him.

Then Souness did duly arrive with an expression on his face that betrayed neither disappointment or even annoyance but seemed lacking of its usual smugness. The difference between the two teams ? Tonight's opening goal according to Souness. But when forced to complement Sutton's man of the match performance, the words seemed to choke him. My smile broadened noticeably watching him squirm, betraying yet more voyeuristic delight but this time at the expense of Souness's pain. Exquisite. Not wanting to attract attention to myself, I bit my lip whilst simultaneously holding onto to my aching sides, which is not easy to do I can assure you. I then began to wonder why not one of the assembled hacks could not muster the guts required to bludgeon the beast with a blunt question about his inappropriate comments made after the Parkhead leg. All seemed lost when an awkward silence descended, signifying the beast had had enough and he was for the off.

But just then my mobile phone rang. The beast's head turned and he was now staring down at me with a glare reminiscent of the type he once fixed on victims before scything them down. Mercifully, a desk and several rows of journalists separated us as the steam now belching out from his ears indicated he considered the Celtic Song now blaring out from my handset and the Celtic scarf wrapped around my neck were justifiable reasons for assault.

Meanwhile I stared at my phone and thanked the maker Monica Doyle chose that exact moment to phone her son to ask whether or not he enjoyed the game; which surely must qualify as the daftest question of the night.

PJ DOYLE