The Village Idiot has spoken. Celtic may as well not turn up for next season.

When exactly does one season end and another begin?

The answer isn’t straightforward.

A football campaign doesn’t really conclude with the final whistle of the last game. There’s chatter that lingers—unfinished business, unresolved issues, arguments that refuse to fade. Yet, you can’t truly start talking about the new season until a specific moment arrives: the publication of the fixture list.

This list marks the real beginning. That odd spell between the end of one season and the fixture reveal usually lasts about four weeks.

This year, though, it’s dragged unbearably. That was always going to happen in the aftermath of the final. But finally, we’ve made it through. Now, the focus sharpens. The club knows precisely the early challenges it faces, and preparation begins in earnest, still six weeks ahead of kick-off.

In a few weeks, pundits and media personalities will confidently stick their necks on the chopping block. They’ll analyse team shapes, predicted signings, and anticipated departures. Bold and brash, some will prematurely crown new champions or hand out trophies as if they’re candy. This bravado usually surfaces when teams haven’t even finalised their squads. It’s always absurd.

But imagine making predictions right now—before June has ended, on the very day fixtures were published.

Picture how profoundly foolish you’d have to be to predict next season’s champions when squads are incomplete, when managers haven’t held a single pre-season session, when anything—literally anything—can still happen.

Yet there are those who think they’ve already seen enough. People who somehow believe Celtic will lose their grip on the title based on nothing more substantial than blind faith and wishful thinking.

Ladies and gentlemen, step forward Kris Boyd—The Village Idiot par excellence. Boyd regularly picks the Ibrox club to win the league. It’s practically an annual ritual for him. But even by his lamentably low standards, making such a call this early is jaw-droppingly daft.

Not even Hugh Keevins, who has a lifetime of ridiculous takes and no sense of embarrassment left, would be reckless enough to declare the champions in June. Keevins, notorious for prematurely announcing title races as finished by November, still wouldn’t commit to something this ridiculous.

But Boyd? Boyd doesn’t hesitate.

It takes a special kind of foolishness, and he has cornered that market. Here’s a guy openly admitting he doubts the Ibrox managerial appointment and has serious reservations about their current squad—which is weaker now than at the end of last season. Yet still, he confidently proclaims they’ll win the title.

He even had the nerve to state this in front of Chris Sutton, who predictably responded with utter disbelief and his usual scorn. Think of how it must be for him too. A lot of these guys have to work hard to score points on their colleagues. He’s shooting fish in a barrel, year after year. This is especially rich for him.

Sometimes Boyd’s opinions are so spectacularly ludicrous you wonder if he’s trolling us all. Does he genuinely believe the nonsense he spouts? Does Keevins? Does Keith Jackson? It’s doubtful. Yet mainstream outlets—Sky, The Sun, The Record—continue lending credibility to such buffoonery, tarnishing their own reputations along the way.

Frankly, Boyd’s predictions deserve scorn. But from him, it’s just pitiable. How do you despise someone whose grasp of football analysis makes a box of rocks look intellectual? Far better for save the real contempt for those who deserve it most; those who think this joker is worth a pundit’s salary.