Yesterday Celtic reminded Scottish football; “A lion is still a lion.”

“Rise like lions after slumber …”

The words make the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

There are moments in football that feel bigger than football itself.

Days when the air crackles before a ball is even kicked. Days when you can feel something ancient stirring beneath the concrete and steel of Paradise. On 10 May 2026, Celtic did not merely beat the Ibrox club. No.

Celtic rose like lions after a long slumber and reminded Scotland exactly who rules this land.

This is what our critics should not have allowed themselves to forget. The lion may lie in the shade for a time, or bask out in the hot sun, and seem lazy and slow when you watch him pad around his rocky outcrop. He may even seem lethargic or weak.

But by God, a lion is still a lion.

And only the daft buggers who come up against Celtic or whose job it is to talk about Scottish football seem to forget that.

I felt it before kick-off. My Ginger Witch instincts were screaming at me all week.

There was electricity in the wind over Glasgow. There was fire in the green and white scarves dancing through the streets. There was something hungry inside Celtic Park itself, something old and powerful waking beneath the stands. Paradise was alive.

And when Celtic Park is alive, there is nowhere on earth like it.

The atmosphere was not just brilliant.

It was magical. Thunderous. Holy.

The roar from the stands rolled over the pitch like waves smashing against cliffs.

Every chant carried history with it. Every scream carried defiance. I could almost feel the ghosts of Lisbon standing shoulder to shoulder with us, watching our Bhoys tear through the pretenders in blue. Celtic Park became a kingdom yesterday.

The kingdom of the lions. Those lions want their throne back.

Poor Danny Rohl.

The Ibrox manager walked into Paradise thinking tactics and neat little plans might save him. But there are some storms no manager can survive. There are some forces bigger than systems and formations.

Yesterday, he ran straight into one. And what a roar it was.

It reminded me of that Christopher Walken speech about the lion, the one from Poolhall Junkies. Honestly; that is Celtic. That has always been Celtic.

“You got this lion. He’s the king of the jungle…”

That is us. For a while, people start talking too much. They mistake patience for weakness. They see the lion lying under the tree and think he has forgotten who he is. They start getting brave. The little jackals nip at him. They bark. The hyenas laugh. They creep closer and closer, louder and louder, thinking the king is finished.

That is exactly what happens every time people begin writing Celtic off.

The noise starts. “Celtic are vulnerable.” “The gap is closing.” “Ibrox are coming.” We hear it all. Every single year. The barking grows louder. The delusion gets bolder. They mistake our calm for fear. They mistake our silence for surrender.

But then comes the day the lion rises.

God help everyone when he does.

Because yesterday, Celtic rose with fury in their eyes and hunger in their hearts. They ran like the wind and destroyed everything in their path. Every tackle thundered. Every attack felt inevitable. Every green and white shirt moved with purpose and fire.

This was not just football. This was domination. This was power.

This was Celtic reminding the entire country that the throne still belongs to the kings of Scotland. The Ibrox club could not cope with the noise. They could not cope with the movement. They could not cope with the sheer force pouring out of Celtic Park from stands to pitch. They looked rattled. Broken. Overwhelmed.

Like men trapped in the middle of a storm they never saw coming.

And our supporters? My God. The Celtic support yesterday sounded like an army of lions.

I could feel and hear the swell of Paradise shaking through my laptop. The songs were relentless. The passion was endless. Celtic fans do not merely watch football matches. We live them with every nerve in our body. We pour ourselves into them emotionally. Yesterday, every single supporter inside that stadium became part of the destruction. I wish I had been there. But for 90 minutes I felt like I was.

That is why Celtic are different. This club is not built on money, arrogance or empty boasts. Celtic is built on soul. On identity. On pride passed through generations. That is why the roar from Celtic Park hits differently.

It comes from history itself. And I knew this was coming.

I could sense it all week long. That strange feeling in my chest. That pull in the air. My instincts told me the lion was getting restless. They told me the king was about to stand up and remind the scavengers exactly whose kingdom this is. Because every once in a while, the lion has to show the jackals who he is.

Yesterday, Celtic did exactly that.

They did not edge past them. They did not survive them. They hammered them. Smashed them. Tore through them mercilessly while Paradise roared with delight.

Somewhere deep inside the noise, chaos and beauty of it all, you could feel the truth settling over Glasgow once again. Celtic is inevitable.

When this club finds its fire, nothing can stand in its path. Not pressure. Not noise. Not rivals trying to claw their way back into relevance. Celtic carry something bigger than football inside them. Something emotional. Something almost spiritual. A club woven into the heartbeat of people who refuse to stop believing.

Yesterday, the Lions feasted. The green and white flags flew proudly over Glasgow as the tears flowed on the other side of the city. Let them cry. Let them rage. Let the hyenas bark into the darkness. The king has awakened again.

And now he reaches for a fifth title in a row.

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