Something truly extraordinary happened on Wednesday night.

Apart from this generally befuddled scribe managing to spell the new Rangers manager's name correctly at the first go - I've have always had a blind spot with Pidro - the battle to get the lad interested in football took a dramatic turn for the better.

Normally when long, tiresome bouts of Peppa Pig and Digby Dragon finally come to an end, I reluctantly surrender control of the TV remote and let him and his mum choose the viewing.

Within about six seconds of a live game kicking off on the telly his attention is inevitably diverted away somewhere, recently towards his grief-stricken auld man with 10-man Motherwell already 3-0 down by this point.

Sometimes the torment stops and Peppa goes back on.

It can be difficult to nudge your offspring towards a past time so futile that it led a band of Fir Park season ticket holders in the Maurice Malpas era to instead go mountain climbing across Holland.

Apart from the love of feeling your buttocks go numb on a plastic bucket seat while the rest of you slowly turns a rather fetching shade of blue, it can sometimes be a struggle to justify putting the poor sod through the same lifetime of frustration my poor mother introduced me to 22 years ago.

Every now and then, though, something happens which jolts your decaying memory bank into reminding you of why you love this auld game.

Sitting on the sofa on Wednesday, Junior and I watched in amazement as goal after goal flew in at the Nou Camp on the way to an amazing 6-1 Barcelona triumph. We had to reassure each other just the eight times that the Well weren't the team in white.

Eventually after the hysteria subsided and the two of us were put to bed, I sought to assure him that, as unlikely as it is, Scottish football has the ability to throw up such a gem.

After all, even a Scotrail train arrives on time now and then.

Miracles do happen, and I was fortunate enough to be there the last time one of such magnitude struck planet football. Fortunately it was at Fir Park.

The memory of May 5, 2010 will have come flooding back to two bands of supporters who were in this sporting cathedral on that damp Wednesday night. There are possibly a few Hibs fans still on medication as a result of it.

As much as the achievements of Messi, Suarez, Neymar and pals was impressive to come back to beat PSG as they did, it pales in comparison against the industry, magnificence and sheer calamity offered up by Motherwell.

At the time Craig Brown probably saved his dancing for Hamilton Palace on a Saturday night but the Well boss jigged uncontrollably as his team somehow came back from the dead to draw 6-6 with Hibs.

While Barca needed three goals in 28 minutes on Wednesday, Brown's team had just 25 minutes to grab four.

A Colin Nish hat-trick, an Anthony Stokes brace as well as a Derek Riordan effort had Hibs 6-2 up, with the home fans already streaming towards the Fir Park exit. A decision each of them will forever regret.

Within two minutes Giles Coke made it 6-3 before Tom Hateley and John Sutton brought them game to within one. With the miss of Ross Forbes' penalty just a handful of minutes from time, the greatest of hard-luck stories appeared to be complete.

That was, of course, until Lukas Jutkiewicz swung his left boot three minutes into injury time to thump an incredible volley beyond Graeme Smith.

It triggered scenes of wild celebration not seen in Motherwell since the announcement of a new Asda. A joy those Catalan natives can only dream about, the poor souls.

The same sense of sadness drifted over Junior on Wednesday as it did me on that night as I walked out of Fir Park, brought about by the worry you'll never see anything like it again.

Don't worry wee man, the next Motherwell v Hibs game could be just a few months away.