Gerrintaethem: a chant of Scottish provenance designed to encourage one side while causing the other to tremble, well, like a ewe at a Karagandy pre-match pep talk.
The words have not yet been introduced to the New Oxford English dictionary but they were the very battle cries of an extraordinary night at Celtic Park when the Scottish champions took almost every minute of the allotted time to qualify for the Champions League.
It is a measure of the spinning world of planet football plc that Karagandy can be a recent addition to the travelogue of Celtic while Gerrintaethem remains a regular haven for the desperate fan. The cynic would say there is no Catalan translation for Gerrintaethem and no need for one. The realist would add that Barcelona would not face a 2-0 deficit to Karagandy in the Champions League either. The Celtic joyful would shout loudly that Gerrintaethem was a blessing for their side and a curse on the visitors. A team who beat Barca on this very ground just nine months ago needed the spirit and aggression encapsulated in that chant to unnerve and confound a side that travelled with a substantial lead but surely with an extra baggage of apprehension.
This was a night for sheer force of will. This was not a night for possession, though Celtic had so much of it there was a thought that the ball had fallen into their garden and they were not for giving it back. It was also not a night for controlled football. It was about pace, tempo and pressure. It was noticeable that when the ball was moved quickly Shakhter struggled. The late winner was not only the result of a fine run and finish but of a cumulative battering of the Kazakhs.
Forgiveably, they placed as many men behind the ball as circumstances would allow but were still undone by the incursions of Adam Matthews down the wing and the clever passing of Kris Commons, who released Anthony Stokes on two occasions in the first half with the Republic of Ireland striker unable to manoeuvre room for a finish. Set pieces, too, caused the visitors some trepidation.
They survived in the early exchanges because Aleksandr Mokin, their goalkeeper, performed feats of flying heroism that the post-match interviews focused on whether there was a large S on his semmit and whether he tucked into into his pants. It was Krytponite Commons who was to prove that Mokin, who had several good saves and an excellent one from a Mikael Lustig header, was beatable.
The Scottish internationalist's left-foot shot from the edge of the area was the physical manifestation of Gerrintaethem. It was an act of pure aggression, perhaps fuelled by frustration as the half slipped to a close with Celtic still in substantial arrears. It was the foundation of qualification. This and a smart finish by Georgios Samaras soon after the break restored Celtic to a parity that produced a wave of sound that seemed to cause a shudder in the ranks and produce a surge of adrenalin through Celtic players that almost predictably culminated in James Forrest's winning goal.
This adrenalin addition was almost unnecessary because Neil Lennon had fielded a side that was uniformly committed to the cause with Scott Brown, the captain, marauding in a manner that upset the Kazakhs and threatened to invite the intervention of the referee. However, he was at his best when breaking up an attack and sprinting 60 yards to release Samaras.
Celtic, though, were at their worst when Shakhter had a corner or even a throw-in. Matthews had to kick off the line and every time Gediminas Vicius took the ball in his hands the Celtic fans put their hearts in their mouths and the players succumbed to a sort of collective madness, the main symptom of which seemed a paralysis of thought and body.
There was time amid the mayhem for the inevitable melee. Stramash: a succession of shots from Samaras, Stokes and Ledley that bounced around the box causing no increase in the scoreline but a significant rise in the collective blood pressure in the immediate vicinity.
Into time added and there was an unspoken Gerrintaethem. It carried on the winds of Celtic, Celtic, Celtic. It spoke of one last push. It was rewarded instead with a run. Stokes, who hit the bar, hit the goal keeper and seemed to hit the wall, finally produced a moment of genuine, unmistakeable threat. He burst to the bye-line and produced a cross that Forrest sidefooted into the net.
It was over. The roar that followed was sustained and complemented rather than overshadowed by the acclaim that burst into a Glasgow sky at 9.40pm. As Svein Oddvar Moen, the referee, blew his whistle there was a cry from the stand in front of the media area. Ya dancer: a expression of acclaim for a favourable result, particulalry to a football match.