Things are back to normal. Fans are back in the grounds.
The last season of exceptional circumstances and heavy doses of caffeine supplements are at an end.
Things that were no longer are.
Things that seemed certain no longer loom so large.
All the predictions from over-excited hacks are already sticking in their throats like so many over-sized pretzels.
Tom English, you especially should be looking for a bed to hide under. You snivelling sycophant.
At the centre of the storm today was our own Charlie Mulgrew.
The man with the voice that could put insomnia pill manufacturers out of business, if you believe some of the internet chatter this week.
He did the Celtic game on Thursday and a lot of people who were otherwise alert had to slap themselves awake, and instantly told Alexa to replace their Rain In The Jungle bed-time sound effects to a remix of his extended interviews.
I personally thought it was a tonic to hear someone commentate on a Celtic match without feeling any need to pick holes in everything or try to look for the negatives.
I thought he did well.
Today he did absolutely brilliantly, turning in a sensational display which had my Facebook notifications pinging like the NHS app.
“Why did we let him go?” folk screamed.
We let him go for days like today.
It’s good to have friends of this club imbedded elsewhere.
It’s good to have them chipping away at the Gerrard legend one piece at a time.
That’s two defeats in a row now for his club.
When do the papers start calling this a crisis?
Dundee Utd were everything the mob from the Laughing Academy were not today.
Their manager has them organised quite brilliantly.
They never looked like losing the match.
Even Kris Boyd had to admit that, after he got his petted lip out from under his brown brogues.
The much heralded Lundstram was plodding and pedestrian. Kamara … haha oh please. If anyone has ever seen anything to justify all the hype and hysteria, well … answers on a postcard.
Mad Dog snapped and snarled as is his wont.
Kent turns in one good performance in ten. Today was not the day.
Some of their players looked out on their feet.
Comedown is a bitch, ain’t it?
So is having to play in front of fans again.
Their forums will be febrile places right now … fear and loathing again stalking the halls.
Do not, either, underestimate how despised their club is right now in the boardrooms of Scottish football.
Even if they were not trying to drive a wrecking ball through commercial contracts and threatening teams with the dire consequences, their high-handiness and arrogance have irked and irritated people at every level of the game.
Which brings me to tomorrow.
The script has been flipped.
Just last weekend you had eejits in the media howling that we were on the brink of being left behind.
Yet if we rattle some goals in tomorrow and really put on a show, we might even move in front of the Greatest Manager Ever In Football In Scotland. (One trophy in nine, folks. One trophy in nine.)
Celtic Park will not quite be full, but those of us who will be there will make enough noise for ten times the number.
We have a chance now to do what we singularly failed to do last season; to put the pressure on a team which already looks shakier than a junkie who hasn’t had his fix.
If we start hitting them this lot will fold like … like a house of cards.
We’ve made some signings, the shape of the team is starting to emerge, the manager has ideas about the style he wants and tomorrow we can put it all on display and start pounding on the door.
The smell of blood is in the air, Celtic.
Spread your nostrils wide and take it in.
This mob are there for the taking.
Foot on the throat time bhoys and ghirls.
And once we have it in place, do not do not do not let them up for air.
In the meantime, sing the praises of Charlie Mulgrew.
He’s one of our own, and today he struck one Hell of a blow on behalf of the cause.