The Celtic Apocalypse has been rescheduled again.

Regular readers may remember that about a month ago, maybe a little longer, I wrote a piece in which I compared a section of the Scottish sports media and the Ibrox fan base to one of those apocalypse cults who all move to the middle of Montana to await the end of the world.

Then the big day comes and nothing happens.

So, they go through all the old texts again, recalculate everything and realise they were eighteen months out. Or five years out. The date gets changed, the clock is reset and everybody settles down to wait for the end of civilisation all over again.

Maybe at some point they try to go home and rebuild their lives while they wait. For the most part, though, I imagine them stuck out there in the middle of Montana, howling at the moon and wondering why everyone else refuses to take them seriously.

I cannot even remember the exact context in which I wrote that analogy.

I know it had something to do with cult-like behaviour and the never-ending belief that your particular view of the world will eventually be vindicated, even when every piece of evidence keeps telling you otherwise.

But I thought of it again the other day when I read one of Scotland’s senior sports journalists predicting that the Ibrox club would win the league and effectively staking his reputation on it because he was so certain.

I am not going to name him. Everyone knows who he is anyway, and I am not going to give him any more credit than that.

I read it, shrugged and did not give a shit.

Then I saw his name popping up again yesterday because of some of the stuff he has been saying on that radio show where he occasionally appears to condescend to the people listening. Again, I did not really give a shit.

That is sort of where I am with this guy, and with people like him, now. They do not have any hold on my time, my attention or my brain.

People will say, “But here you are writing about it.” Except I am not really writing about the prediction, because the prediction has no predictive value.

Almost everything this guy believes about Celtic appears to be wrong.

Almost everything he says about us ends up looking ridiculous sooner or later. He may get the occasional thing right, but you could blindfold someone, hand them a set of darts and eventually they would hit the board.

What interests me is what these people actually are. They are apocalypse prophets who are forever postponing the apocalypse.

They base their predictions on tea leaves, signs in the sky and judgements they appear to have made under the influence of very powerful stuff. There is very little thought behind any of it, very little imagination and often very little logic.

Yet I am sure some of them believe it.

Because if they do not believe it and they are saying it anyway, surely there used to be a word for that?

Surely journalism used to frown quite seriously on people with an audience deliberately telling that audience things they themselves did not believe?

But either way, eventually you stop taking the prophets seriously.

There is always an explanation for why the prediction did not come true. There is always a reason they got that particular one wrong.

But next time they will get it right, and woe betide all of us.

Next time the world really will end.

If you are a Celtic supporter, you have been hearing variations of that tune for most of the last five years while Celtic have kept winning titles.

Yes, last season was closer than we would have liked. Yes, this season has given us genuine cause for concern. Nobody looking honestly at Celtic right now could deny that we have serious problems.

But we are still two points clear in the league.

It is also worth remembering how football turns on the smallest moments. If Liam Scales moves half a second differently, Austin Trusty’s goal at Celtic Park stands. Celtic take the lead instead of conceding the opener and perhaps the entire game changes.

Suddenly the league table looks completely different. Suddenly the narrative looks completely different. Nobody is hailing Derek McInnes as some swaggering conqueror who has cracked the code.

Fine margins. Small things. Little moments.

That is football.

Which is why making absolute predictions before October has even properly begun strikes me as completely mad.

One of the stories I loved growing up was The Boy Who Cried Wolf. Fabulous little parable. It always gave me a weird chill when the wolf finally appeared and the boy cried and cried for help, but nobody came.

In my favourite versions, the wolf ate the little boy.

You can probably tell that I have a slightly dark turn of mind.

But the point remains.

After a while, you lose credibility, except among the true believers. Everyone else stops listening. They hear the cry somewhere in the distance and think, “Oh, it is him again.”

That is where I am with these people now.

They may well turn out to be right this season. Celtic is a mess. We have got ourselves into one hell of a state, and there are perfectly legitimate reasons to be worried.

But the certainty is ridiculous.

The arrogance involved in effectively putting your reputation on the line as if that somehow makes the prediction more credible is even stranger, because some of these people barely have reputations left to risk.

Some should have packed it in years ago. They are cranks.

And like the apocalypse prophet who constantly predicts the apocalypse which never arrives, they do not suddenly become Nostradamus if a meteor eventually hits Earth. They do not deserve extra followers because the floodwaters rise and New York disappears beneath the Atlantic in a storm season.

Those things would be unrelated phenomena, and not evidence of whatever genius these people believe they possess.

It is probably a good thing they work in journalism, because they would have no future in risk management. If you listened to them, you would have five insurance policies on your front door while allowing the one covering the roof to lapse.

For years we have been told an Ibrox revival was imminent. Sometimes we were told it was already happening and that only Celtic supporters were too blind or arrogant to recognise it.

Then that club would go on to embarrass itself in ways Celtic’s board could barely imagine, far less achieve, which is quite an accomplishment in itself.

Now the same story is being told again.

I was not listening before and I am not listening now. The problem is not necessarily the message. Celtic is a mess. I know that myself.

The problem is the messenger.

The warning that Celtic are in trouble loses much of its power when it comes from people who never believe Celtic are anything else.

One day the wolf will come. That is the thing. But not because they predicted it. Sometimes wolves just do.

Sometimes football clubs have bad seasons. Sometimes they get themselves into inexplicable situations. Sometimes their rivals are finally organised enough to take advantage of their mistakes.

If that happens to Celtic, these people will no doubt celebrate as though years of failed predictions have suddenly been vindicated.

They will not have been. The apocalypse does not become a brilliant prediction simply because, after enough postponed dates, something eventually goes wrong.

That is not analysis. It is guesswork.

And some of these people have been getting two plus two wrong for so long that even when they finally arrive at four, nobody should be particularly impressed.

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