It’s the kind of headline that etches itself into football folklore, the kind that transcends the pages of a newspaper and burrows deep into the psyche of a fanbase. For Celtic, “Super Caley Go Ballistic, Celtic Are Atrocious” became the defining epitaph of John Barnes’ short-lived reign, a brutal summation of a team in freefall, with a Mary Poppins theme. For Rangers, the latest twist in this cyclical tragedy is nothing short of poetic.
On almost the 25th anniversary of that infamous February night at Celtic Park, Rangers became the latest giants to stumble into the abyss, outthought and outfought by a Queen’s Park side with more ambition than fear. The 1-0 Scottish Cup defeat at Ibrox wasn’t just humiliating—it was damning. A club that once prided itself on winning trophies now finds itself in familiar territory: soul-searching, scapegoating, and staring down the barrel of an inquest they would rather avoid.
And as if scripted by fate, The Sun dusted off its most iconic headline, tweaking it ever so slightly for the modern era: “Super Callum Goes Ballistic, Rangers Are Atrocious.” Callum, in this case, being Queen’s Park manager Callum Davidson—a man who, just a few years ago, masterminded a cup double with St Johnstone while Rangers were at their peak during the pandemic. His tactical nous, his ability to organise a side with discipline and belief, was in stark contrast to Rangers’ shapeless, leaderless display.
Much like Celtic in 2000, Rangers’ problems run deeper than just one bad result. This is a club staggering under the weight of its own expectations, trudging through a season where performances rarely match the rhetoric. Philippe Clement arrived as the man to steady the ship, but after a night like this, questions about his long-term suitability will inevitably creep in. His side looked devoid of creativity, energy, and—most damningly—fight. Even a dubious last-minute penalty couldn’t spare them.
For Celtic fans, watching their greatest rivals endure a night of ignominy on such a fitting anniversary must have felt like the footballing gods scripting their finest work. They remember the pain of Inverness in 2000, the embarrassment, the anger, the reckoning that followed. But they also remember what came next: the arrival of Martin O’Neill, the transformation into a juggernaut, the seismic shift in Scottish football’s balance of power.
For Rangers, the lesson from history is clear. Moments like these are either catalysts for change or symptoms of deeper decay. The headline may be just a line of ink on a page, but its weight could shape what happens next at Ibrox.
