Yesterday, the Celtic boss revealed his claws and ripped his rival to shreds.

Yesterday I wrote about the Ibrox manager’s comments on Celtic’s European performance and his criticism of Luke McCowan, who had simply pointed out something backed up by years of league tables: when Celtic are on their game, no club in Scotland lives with us.

I knew Martin O’Neill would be asked about those remarks.

I knew he would handle it well.

But he didn’t just handle it well.

He handled it superbly because he didn’t casually dismiss the comments.

No, instead he treated them with utter contempt and, in doing so, he didn’t just defend his player. He went on the offensive.

At one point he questioned the Ibrox manager’s professionalism by suggesting he sounded more like a fan than a manager.

That is a brutal thing for one boss to say about another.

It implies emotion over judgement and a lack of detachment.

It implies a failure to behave like a professional.

That was a staggering response. And it was exactly what a Celtic manager should be delivering at a moment like this.

O’Neill could have played it diplomatically. He could have laughed it off. He could have diffused the situation and stripped the remarks of their impact.

Instead, he chose a far more effective route.

He dismantled them.

And what made it especially impressive was the context.

For weeks now, O’Neill has played the genial veteran in front of the media. He has joked, teased, deflected and leaned into the image of the older man enjoying the twilight of a long career. At times it has been charming. At others, mildly frustrating.

But that persona has always been a mask.

Because the real Martin O’Neill is forensic, ruthless and extremely sharp. He doesn’t miss details. He doesn’t suffer fools.

Yesterday, the mask came off. It didn’t slip. He just removed it.

There was nothing hesitant or foggy about his response. He parsed the comments carefully, then worked through them point by point, starting with a defence of his player and ending with a broader dismantling of the entire line of criticism.

He even delivered a remark that many may have missed, but which carried a very deliberate edge.

“I’m glad he’s really interested in the make-up of my team. He obviously hasn’t been in Glasgow that long, has he? Hopefully when he’s been around for the next three or four years he’ll know about it.”

That word, hopefully, was doing a lot of work.

Because history tells us Ibrox managers rarely last that long. O’Neill wasn’t expressing optimism. He was reminding everyone, politely but pointedly, how this story usually ends.

Then came the line that would have made editors sit up, when he turned to the only encounter between these men we’ve had this season.

You know, the one Martin O’Neill won.

“We did beat them and I don’t think I mentioned the make-up of his team at the time. He didn’t say it in a jocular fashion, did he? He’s speaking like a fan, isn’t he?”

He didn’t need to elaborate.

Everyone in that room knew exactly what he meant.

Accusing an opposing manager of speaking like a supporter rather than a professional is as sharp as it gets. It questions his judgement, his composure and his suitability for the role.

In truth, it was brutal. But, more importantly, it was necessary.

Because, ultimately, moments like this matter.

There’s a famous story from the 1967 European Cup Final. Inter Milan boss Helenio Herrera tried to take a small psychological advantage by sitting in the home dugout. Jock Stein walked over and told him to move.

And he moved.

These moments seem small. They’re not. They’re signals.

They establish tone. They show who is comfortable, who is confident and who is prepared to stand their ground.

That’s what O’Neill did here.

He didn’t just respond. He set the tone, and he didn’t just slap back.

Martin O’Neill punched, hard, and kept punching.

This was psychological warfare.

It was a message to the opposing manager, to the opposing club and to the wider media: we’re not intimidated, we’re not on the defensive and we’re perfectly happy to turn this into what Logan Roy would have called a knife fight in the mud.

And there’s another layer to it.

If the Ibrox boss responds publicly before the game, then O’Neill’s comments have already done their job. They’ll be sitting in his head and taking up space, consuming attention that should be focused elsewhere.

That’s how mind games work.

Because I can guarantee this much.

Martin O’Neill won’t be thinking about any of that now. He’ll be thinking about the game.

This wasn’t noise. It wasn’t emotion. This was calculated.

It was the opening salvo.

And Celtic, in this particular battle, drew first blood.

Masterful, Martin. That was masterful.

That was, if I might be permitted a little ironical joke, “old school.”