SOMETIMES us Old Firm fans can get a touch carried away. A Rangers fan of my acquaintance was commenting on his team's recent fortunes, or lack of such, against Dundee United last Saturday.

The problem was Andy Goram, who appears to have lost it, perhaps through one too many Italian meals when he deviated from the footballer's choice of a bowl of pasta, a piece of fish, no pudding and a glass or two of mineral water.

The problem was also the Gers' No.2 keeper Antti Niemi, who has been out for months because of problems with a broken finger. The solution from this Blue Nose, who is an otherwise sensible and perceptive chap, is simple: ''Niemi should get the finger amputated and get back in goals. He won't miss one finger. It's not much of a sacrifice to make for Rangers.''

This is the kind of rational attitude we can look forward to over the next two weeks as Celtic and Rangers meet in the league double-header. I must confess to emotions which are scarcely any more sensible. So inordinate was my delight at the diabolical distress of the Rangers' defence last Saturday, that I began to feel a Roman Calvinist guilt.

Luckily Father Peter Burns was on hand for a spot of holy consultation. ''Is it a sin to hate the Rangers?'' I asked him. ''We are not supposed to hate any other human beings,'' said Father Peter. ''But it is perfectly in order to have no time for certain organisations,'' he resolved. Father Peter, you may not be surprised to hear, is a Jesuit.

He is also co-author, with kenspeckle Celtic historian Pat Woods, of a new book which provides excellent limbering-up opportunities as the Rangers' games and the Coca-Cola Cup final approach.

It is called Oh, Hampden in the Sun and is about the famous 7-1 scoreline in the 1957 League Cup final. So, how do you manage to fill 211 pages of a book about one game? Simple, just do not miss out any of the detail and give extensive biogs of the Celtic 11.

With players such as Bobby Evans, Bertie Peacock, Willie Fernie, Charlie Tully, Bobby Collins, Billy McPhail, and Neil Mochan in the line-up, the authors had endless scope for superlatives.

The chapter devoted to the match report itself is entitled ''Sheer Bliss!''

It is a celebration of how Celtic skill overcame traditional Rangers' ''power play.'' I suspect ''Rangers' power play'' is Jesuitical shorthand for the Huns' usual attempts to kick opponents off the park.

I use the word Huns advisedly. The authors say that they have kept in such words as Tims and Huns because ''to exclude such an authentic voice would diminish a presentation in which the authors have striven to incorporate a wealth of fresh material''. The fans' memories help to paint a picture of what it was like to be a Tim in the 1950s. One supporter recalls that to be a Celtic supporter was to be engulfed in hymns about St Patrick and Erin's green valleys and to be smothered in shamrocks. ''I was 15 years of age before I realised I was Scottish and not Irish,'' he says.

Other testimony bears witness to what a cheapskate club Celtic were in those days.

Peter Sweeney, a Gorbals man, tells of a sight-seeing trip around Celtic Park. There were holes in the carpet in the trophy room, he says, ''and you could have written your name in the dust.''

The Coronation Cup was lying on the floor, ''a sorry sight, tarnished and still bearing the green and white ribbons from the day it was won, but they were faded and wrinkled.''

The same fate does not await the Coca-Cola Cup or any other bits of silverware that might find its way this season to the new, improved Paradise.

The newspapers of the time made pleasant reading for the Tims. ''Gers were lucky not to lose ten,'' said the Sunday Mail. ''Rangers dinned down to ignominy,'' The Scotsman said eloquently.

It was ignominy also at the BBC who had cameras at the game but managed to lose all of the action in the second half, when most of the action happened and six of the eight goals were scored. The Parkhead paranoia machine went into overdrive.

Chief suspect was BBC Scotland sports supremo Peter Thomson. The reality was that a technician in London had left a lens cap on a piece of telerecording equipment. One of the more unusual illustrations in the book is a photograph of this piece of equipment. A case of, ''We name the guilty machine.''