Del boy says ‘the time for talking is over’ at Ibrox – some statement from a man whose entire career amounts to one trophy and a whole lot of talk. It’s all over for Celtic now, right enough…

Derek McInnes has finally spoken.

And in true Del boy fashion, the very first thing he wanted us all to know is that he’s done with talking.

Gow Figya…

The man sits down at his own unveiling, in front of a room packed with cameras and microphones, and tells the assembled press pack that the time for talking at Ibrox is over.

At a press conference.

You genuinely could not make this up.

According to Andy Newport in the Daily Record, Del boy’s first act as Ibrox manager was to make it clear that the time for talking is over, and that only action will suffice.

Powerful stuff!!

Or it would be, if it was coming from a man with a trophy cabinet to back it up.

This is a man who ‘lifts the lid’ on 2017 – then tells us he doesn’t want to talk about 2017.

Because that’s the other thing.

The headline tells us Del boy ‘lifts the lid’ on turning this very job down nine years ago.

The very first line then tells us he “wasn’t in the mood to talk about what almost happened nine years ago”.

So which is it, Derek??

Are you lifting the lid, or are you keeping it firmly shut??

Make your mind up.

For those who need a reminder, McInnes was lined up for this gig back in 2017.

He was ready to walk out of Aberdeen and stroll straight into the Ibrox dugout.

Until he had a wee chat with then chairman Dave King, got cold feet, and bolted for the door.

He said no.

To the job he now tells us he’s been dreaming about.

“I feel as though I was ready for it back then, but it was just a different set of circumstances.”

A different set of circumstances.

Aye.

Back then the club still had a chairman talking about war chests and a fanbase that expected to win things.

Now it’s run by an American who’s burned through managers like a man feeding a bonfire, it’s just finished third, and the bar is so low you’d trip over it walking out the tunnel.

So I can see why it appeals to him this time around.

It’s the perfect level for him.

Del boy ‘feared his chance had gone’. Mate, your chance came in 2017, and you bottled it.

Asked on Ibrox TV if he feared the chance had passed him by, the big man came out with this gem:

“Possibly, yeah. It’s natural to think that. I am fortunate to be asked again, there’s no two ways about it.”

Fortunate to be asked again.

He’s not wrong there.

Because let’s have a wee look at the glittering CV that earned him this second bite of the cherry.

One major trophy.

The 2014 League Cup, won on penalties, against Inverness Caledonian Thistle.

After that?

Zilch. Zero. Nada.

A glass ceiling at Aberdeen.

A glass ceiling at Tynecastle.

And a man who, only last month, led a title race from August all the way to the 87th minute of the final day.

And then Heartsed it.

That’s your action-not-words man, peepul.

That’s the doer.

‘The Ibrox faithful have suffered’, says Del boy. And his cure for the suffering is… himself.

Then we got the soundbite the peepul absolutely lapped up.

Heart & Hand had it up in lights:

“I am well aware of the responsibility which comes with this position. Rangers fans have suffered for a long time, we need to get the team winning.”

– Heart & Hand Podcast (@ibroxrocks) June 24, 2026

The Ibrox faithful have suffered.

Hold on.

Suffered??

For a long time??

You finished third, Derek.

Behind us, and behind Hearts, who you’ve just walked out on.

That’s not suffering.

That’s your natural habitat.

And the great remedy for all this terrible suffering is a 54-year-old make-weight who said no the first time, has won one cup in twelve years, and folds like a cheap deckchair the second the heat is turned up?

Right.

Get the open-top bus on standby.

Jesus wept.

He won’t talk about ‘philosophies’. Probably wise, given he doesn’t have one.

In fairness to Del boy, he did say one thing I can actually get on board with.

“The job here is just to win. I’m not going to talk about philosophies.”

I know. Astonishingly, I actually agree with him.

No grand vision.

No dress-down PowerPoint nonsense like Russell Martin last summer.

Just the navy suit, the club tie, the brown brogues, and a promise to win.

Which I might add, he forgot to don yesterday…

Everybody seemed to notice he had black brogues.

He’s even binned the all-black undertaker’s ensemble, exactly like I told you he would.

But not the black brogues.

Apparently.

Welcome to the club blazer, Derek.

The trouble is, “just win” is a lovely wee soundbite.

It’s also the exact thing Beale said.

And Clement and Martin.

And Röhl.

Four fancy soundbites.

Four P45s.

Not a single title between them.

Make no mistake – Del boy will be collecting the fifth.

And then he goes and writes his own P45, without even noticing.

This is my favourite bit.

I shit you not.

Because buried in amongst all the tough talk, Del boy went and predicted his own downfall, in black and white.

“I know if we don’t win trophies, there’ll be somebody else sitting here before too long.”

There’ll be somebody else sitting here before too long.

His words.

Not mine.

He’s the eighth manager in nine years, and he’s already pricing up the ninth.

Are we serious??

Even he knows how this story ends.

He knows that the minute the wheels come off – and they will – he goes the same way as all the others.

Onto the pile.

Right next to Beale, Clement, Martin, and Röhl.

So spare us the action talk, Del boy. Show us.

Here’s the bottom line.

The time for talking is over, he says.

So let’s see the action.

Let’s see the man with one trophy in twelve years march into Scotland’s pressure cooker and actually deliver something.

Let’s see the bottle-merchant who s**t the bed on the 87th minute of the final day hold his nerve when February comes around and the title’s on the line.

Oh yeah, let’s see it.

Because talk, we’ve well established, is the one thing Del boy can do.

All talk, and no action.

It’s the doing he’s never quite managed.

And come the business end of the season, when the pressure’s back on and the cracks start to show, we already know exactly what happens next.

He’ll fold.

He always folds.

So by all means, Del boy, less talk, more action.

We’re all ears.

We just won’t be holding our breath.

While St. Martin the Hunskelper quietly gets on with the winning over on our side of the city.

It’s all over for Celtic now, right enough…

Because here’s the reality, peepul.

You’ve just appointed a man who bottled the job the first time, spent twelve years winning precisely nothing, and then stood on a Gorgie touchline and watched a six-point lead evaporate in the final fortnight.

And he’s going to stop Celtic?

Give me a f*****g break.

Derek McInnes.

One major trophy. 2014.

But he’s staunch as f***, isn’t he?

And that’s all that matters at Ibrox at the end of the day.

Whoopdedoo.

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