THE estimable Celtic FC Foundation recently held an event to bring an exhilarating rush to the fan. The punter was sponsored to zip-line across the pitch on a wire, raising blood pressure, anxiety levels and money for charity. I hesitate to offer advice to anyone. My very life has been a warning rather than an example, but I wonder if they missed a trick.

Surely the greatest adrenaline rush in football, indeed, in history, is playing alongside Efetobore Ambrose. Surely, there should have been an auction to play alongside the venerable Nigerian in the last couple of games of the season. Efe creates apprehension in the same way that Billy Connolly raises laughs and in deference to Oor Billy, the greatest comedian of this or any other time, it is a photo-finish between him and Efe in the mirth stakes

This is no insult to Efe, rather a testimonial to his occasional fecklessness and his extraordinary resilience. As I have remarked before, the last stage of officer training for the SAS involves wearing a Celtic scarf, sitting in the Lisbon Lions stand and watching Efe in a Champions League match. If one can survive the pressure of this, then one can lead a bunch of guys blindfolded into an Isis camp, armed only with a stick of celery.

I swear there are bomb disposal experts who whisper in the most extreme trials, while deciding just which colour of wire to cut, that they may be under stress but “hey, I have watched Efe.”

The price for playing with Efe for the rich punter could be astronomical. Geez, they pay a million pounds to go into space. But, hey, that is a flight in business class compared to the soaring, tumbling and death-defying experience that is playing with the big defender. There are those adrenaline junkies who conjure up the most extreme pursuits. But the moment Efe passes the ball across the back four induces a surge akin to launching oneself into the Grand Canyon with a hankie as a parachute while dosed on industrial amounts of Dexedrine.

But there is a wonderful conundrum at the gently beating heart of Efe. It is not just that he seems so relaxed that one suspects he has enjoyed a massage, whale music and a Valium sandwich before stepping out onto the park. It is not either that bemused look he adopts when a pass direct to an opposing striker causes some urgent difficulty, a look that suggests “who could predict that giving the ball away in the final third to a £30m forward could cause such a fuss?”

No, it is Efe’s ineffable resilience. The crowd may cringe, the fans may occasionally scream in fear as if the stands have been turned into the Big Dipper, his team-mates may point out vehemently that he is wilfully sabotaging the project. But big Efe stills gets picked.

There can only be two reasons for this. One, he has photographs of all the managers on that stag night in Prague that went horribly wrong and detox, chain cutters and penicillin had to deployed. Or, two, he is a decent player. Yup, I will say that again: there is a case to be presented that Efetobore Ambrose is a football player. Here is the evidence: he has won three titles and two cups with Celtic, has won the Africa Cup of Nations for his country, has earned a living in a brutally ruthless game for 10 years and has been picked for Celtic more than 100 times and represented his country on 50 occasions. People do not do this over such a period of time without quality, even if they may have lurid pictures of their bosses.

It is my contention that Efe falls into a bracket that exists at every club. It can be called the “abattoir position”. This is filled by the guy who is slaughtered every week. Every team must have one. Neil Lennon and Ronny Deila have probably looked at Efe and decided he can be too casual, a little unreliable and occasionally as relaxed as a dipsomaniacal newt. Poor old Ronny has recent evidence of that in this week’s performances against Aberdeen and St Johnstone. But managers have decided he is more than a decent option at centre-half given his ability, a talent that has been gilded with silverware.

The increasingly frantic punter, of course, does not ascribe to this view. He or she believes Efe must be viewed with an expression that owes everything to Munch’s The Scream and with a level of criticism that suggests the amiable Nigerian has just shot Bambi’s mother and is luring the orphan to a barbecue pit.

There should be consolation in all this for Efe for three reasons. One, he is earning a more than decent living playing football all over the world. Two, he is merely following the tradition of being the “abattoir position” player. This role has been fulfilled at Celtic down the tears by players of marvellous ability and talent. For example. One “abattoir position” holder was Tom Callaghan, a player of such touch, passing range and shooting ability that now a team would be built around his formidable gifts.

And, third, Efe should appreciate that in the annals of Celtic history, he will never be forgotten. Some will describe this in years to come as warm nostalgia. Others will label it post-traumatic stress.