Oh, the plight of Celtic in the dizzying heights of European football. As we weep into our green and white scarves, mourning a time when the name ‘Celtic’ carried a fearsome clang across the continent, we find ourselves at an impasse, a fork in the road paved with gold coins on one side and sensible shoes on the other. It’s as if Celtic’s European campaign has become the football equivalent of Groundhog Day, but without the redemptive arc.

Let’s embark on a little gallows humour, shall we? Once upon a time, not so long ago, a Celtic fan could swagger into the pub, pint in hand, chest puffed out, ready to wax lyrical about the upcoming Champions League fixture. Fast forward to now, where the only thing we’re puffing out is a long, desolate sigh. What happened to those halcyon days when Neil Lennon and Gordon Strachan had us dreaming beyond the last 16? Indeed, Celtic Park used to be a fortress where the mightiest of Europe tread carefully, now it seems to have the welcome mat permanently out.

The recent Champions League form reads less like a football record and more like a cry for help scribbled in a maths student’s margin: more crosses than tick marks and a bottom-line result that requires a magnifying glass to find the positives. And as for not keeping a clean sheet in 14 games, one starts to wonder if the concept of a ‘defence’ has been mistaken for a new brand of Swiss cheese.

Brendan Rodgers, with his Mallorca tan fading in the Glaswegian drizzle, looked to bring back the spirit of Europe to a side that, frankly, could do with a bit of continental je ne sais quoi. Yet, the same old Celtic tale unwinds, with recruitment that seems to whisper ‘meh’ rather than roar ‘come at us’. It’s a storyline even the most passionate fan is growing tired of thumbing through.

The boardroom, bastion of fiscal prudence, boasts a balance sheet that would make Scrooge swoon. Yet, as they bathe in the coins of financial security, they seem to toss only breadcrumbs to the hungry masses yearning for European glory. Peter Lawwell’s ledger love affair, while understandable in the cold light of economic day, leaves a bitter taste when the floodlights of Parkhead blaze on a European night.

This ‘security first’ philosophy does indeed keep the wolf from Celtic’s domestic door, keeping our dear friends from across the city peering through the window of success with envious eyes. Yet, it does seem to curb the ambition required to punch above one’s weight on the European stage. The fans’ love is tested; it’s one thing to be thrifty, quite another to appear almost complacently defeatist.

The question circles like a vulture over Celtic’s European carcass: to spend or not to spend? Do we storm the Bastille of European elites with all cannons blazing, knowing full well the ammunition could run out? Or do we continue to hoard our gunpowder, ensuring dominion over our own small island but never daring to conquer new lands?

This is the dilemma that pricks at the heart of every fan. The appetite for adventure must be weighed against the risk of ruin. When the likes of Newcastle and their financial muscle don’t flex as expected, being turned over by Dortmund twice, it only serves to deepen the furrows in the brows of the decision-makers at Celtic.

As for the fans, well, our dreams are made of European nights that echo with the sounds of victory. Performances may have been more polished before Tuesday evening in Madrid, but the group table tells its own story.

Could it be that the board at Celtic Park are the true realists, the adults at the table calmly urging moderation as we, the fans, cling to our naivety like a cherished scarf from a bygone era? We dream in technicolour, yearning for the days of European conquests, while they govern in monochrome, balancing books with the cold precision of an actuary. It’s a timeless tussle between heart and head, where the head seems to be perpetually reminding the heart that football is now a business first and a game second. Are we too wrapped up in the romance of the ‘what could be’, failing to grasp the stark realities of the ‘what is’? Perhaps. But then again, what is football without dreams?