A standing ovation for Celtic. They have replaced stagger with swagger.
Falkirk's dismal attempt at gagging the Lichtenstein mouse that roared, coupled with the night Sigma Olomouc punched the Northern Lights out in Aberdeen left me ashen-faced with worry about the season ahead.
At least, whatever happens now, Scottish football is guaranteed European football until Christmas, courtesy of - as usual - the Old Firm.
When you lose two battles, for you the war is over.
Gordon Strachan had no chance of carrying on at Celtic the moment Rangers embraced the championship. He had already lost huge swathes of the club's support.
Two falls, a submission or a knock-out will do it every time.
In truth, he was a heartbeat from chucking it all in 12 months earlier amid the frenzy of clinching his third consecutive title.
By the time Celtic had slumped on to the Champions League floor on a winter's night in the Danish town of Aalborg, I suspect he was already regretting his decision not to head over the horizon in a blaze of summer glory.
So what happens next? Don't ask me. I've been so far off the mark I couldn't tell you what day Christmas is this year.
The championship lead has been tossed about like seagulls in a storm. But it's going to find a haven this Sunday one way or another.
You can't say that the football provided by the Scottish Premier League this season has been Barcelona-esque, but it has been a ripping yarn. Never mind the quality, feel the thrill.
Before a ball was kicked, I tipped Celtic to win it and Inverness to be relegated.
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"Tell them who you are and what you are about," they said. To be honest, there are days when I struggle to remember myself. Forty years toiling at the coalface of football journalism does that to you. But I have reason to believe that I have reached the heady heights of the title of Football Correspondent of BBC Scotland which gives me a renown, in Scottish terms, of somewhere between Alex Salmond and the deep fried Mars Bar.
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