A DRAW is even-steven, honours shared, play it again Sam. Not this one. Falkirk won the draw. You knew that when you saw their team holding hands and swaying towards their delirious fans; in contrast the Celtic faithful were stealing away, Dads trying to explain to wee, green-hooped boys that they could still win the cup, that good times were just around the corner . . . and having a hard time convincing themselves.

For this is a Parkhead outfit with seriously flawed credentials. ''There is no greater pleasure,'' declared Falkirk manager Alex Totten, wound up like a peerie for the big occasion, ''for a manager than to see every one of his players giving all they have.

''You can't ask for anything more.''

His counterpart, Tommy Burns, was entitled to request lots more, for he was seriously let down. There are Celtic players, at the top end of the wage scale, who are guising, hiding when the going gets rough, pursuing a private agenda, be it increased wages or simply a desire to be somewhere else.

The club started the season with hopes higher than for many moons; they may end it with recriminations which will shake the foundations.

Oh sure, the bookmakers will still make them favourites to win the semi-final replay. What odds would you get, though, for Burns' name still being on the manager's door in August? Right now there seem to be more managers for Celtic than you would find in the entire National Health Service, more candidates than are standing in the election. It is the cruel side of sport and I am not at all sure Burns deserves such treatment. He is a bright, brave young man; he should at least be entitled to the full support of his players.

Paulo di Canio is one whom I have criticised this season - on Saturday he worked his socks off. When he wants to play football and not the fool this man has a glistening talent. He made several chances for his team-mates but only one was accepted.

His work-rate was an example to others. There was little sign of some of them following it.

Celtic always come to Ibrox uneasily, maybe even more so when they are not playing Rangers. The predominance of green on the blue seats is a bit like discovering the Tory Eurosceptics at a Herr Kohl rally.

''They asked me to cover up my Rangers' blazer,'' a steward confided, though he was assiduous in assisting supporters to find the right place. Once inside though they stood a little sheepishly at the blue burger bar, surrounded by reminders of their rivals' achievements. Switching the venues of the semis might have seemed absurd; nevertheless I doubt if many Celtic supporters would have pro- tested too long.

Celtic heated up in their ridiculous huddle, a picture of which was printed in the programme. Not even the girls playing hockey on the pitch behind the main stand would indulge in such big Jessie behaviour.

Andy Gray was soon spraying passes into the heart of Celtic's defence. Scott Crabbe provided a real fright when he popped a rebound from a post into the net. ''He thought it was a good goal,'' his manager said. Yes, they all think that, Alex, but he was well offside. That stirred Celtic into life and all sorts of opportunities presented themselves. A rare error by Gray presented Andreas Thom with the kind of chance strikers pray for; he missed comfortably.

So we were without goals when the pies came. Celtic reappeared early, maybe glad to escape the wrath of TB.

They did perform better, di Canio making the Falkirk defence twist on a rack of his own construction. Goalie Craig Nelson was booked for taking too long with the goal-kick; his side obviously was not going to weep about a replay.

But they were rocked when newcomer Tommy Johnson powered in the Celtic goal. Di Canio deserved to score it, having done all the work, but it was no more than the team deserved. Now they would surely send the out-of-towners back to battle in the first division.

Not so. Totten sent a message to his 6ft 7in centre-half Kevin James. ''You are now the centre-forward.'' There is more meat on a butcher's pencil than this lad but he nods like a giraffe. Sure enough Jamie McGowan strode down the right, bent a wonderful cross and Kev's head did the rest. A hush hung over the bulk of the ground as the Falkirk followers began a carnival.

Tommy Burns was brisk. Dis- appointed, taking it on the chin, all still to play for, see you. I did not blame him for a moment.

Totten would have stayed for tea. His players would be the stronger for this experience.