On Tour With The Tartan Army – Part 2

On Tour With The Tartan Army – Part 2

By this stage I was beginning to make real progress as an athlete, so life had to become a bit more disciplined. No alcohol, no late nights. I was determined, focused, and quietly stubborn in the best Scottish way.

That meant I spent much of the 1980s watching the World Cups from home — Spain in 1982, Mexico in 1986, and Italy in 1990. Italy was a special one for me: I knew the country well and had even picked up the language after studying Italian at night school.

As always, Scotland delivered the full emotional rollercoaster. We would turn up and beat highly ranked giants, then promptly stumble against teams we should have beaten. Perhaps forgetting, just occasionally, that we’re technically minnows ourselves. But we never see it that way. Scotland play brilliantly against the best… and sometimes play a bit pish against everyone else.

By the mid-90s I was building a strong group of athletes in Edinburgh who were making their own noise on the international stage. I had begun coaching Fiona Macaulay, and in 1998 the next World Cup rolled around — in my favourite place of all: France.

That same year Fiona and I were invited to Brussels to deliver a weekend hurdles coaching course for teachers at the International School of Brussels. Staff were flying in from all over the world, hosted by Fiona’s brother Kenny. The course was based near Waterloo and finished with a magnificent Belgian breakfast at Place d’Or in the centre of Brussels — a perfect ending to a memorable weekend.

That’s when Kenny casually let slip that he was heading to the World Cup opening game. Scotland were in it. The opening match. Against Brazil.

Three billion people watching worldwide. Paris. The Tartan Army.

There was absolutely no chance I was missing that.

So a plan was hatched. Myself, Kenny, and his Belgian friend would meet up — all three of us in full kilt, armed with scarves, flags, and the usual Scottish confidence. The contrast with Brussels commuters heading off to work, many bound for the European Parliament, was something else. We looked like we’d landed from a different planet.

We boarded the high-speed train to Paris Gare du Nord — yes, tiny Belgium has high-speed trains too. And then I did something I’d never done before, or since: Kenny handed me a tin of beer and we cracked it open at 8am. Desperate times.

Rolling into Gare du Nord was unforgettable. The sound hit you first — Scottish folk songs echoing through the station. Locals looked baffled at first, then amused, then delighted once they realised what the Tartan Army were all about. Friendly, noisy, and harmlessly joyful.

Outside the station: Scots everywhere.

Word spread that everyone was heading towards a large square — part intersection, part open-air celebration. We wandered through Paris, soaking up the wide boulevards, corner cafés, old buildings, and the smell of coffee and fresh food drifting through the air.

When we arrived, it was something else entirely. Three massive cafés on three corners of the square, all absolutely packed with the Tartan Army. Music, singing, pipers, drummers — one group had even gone full Elvis theme. We grabbed a table, ordered a “wee” beer (which turned out to be anything but) and shared an enormous ham baguette.

Traffic carried on around the square as normal, but arms waved, shouts of “bonjour!” flew back and forth, and smiles were everywhere. Turns out the bit of French we all learned in our final year of primary school does come in handy after all.

Fans from every nation passed through, and the routine became simple: clap, cheer, wave, shake hands. Then Paris’ finest arrived — two gendarmes, clearly sent to keep a polite eye on proceedings.

The moment the Tartan Army spotted them, hospitality mode was activated.

A couple of lads greeted them in French, chatted away, and you could almost see the thought crossing the officers’ faces: We’re being paid for this?

Then came the moment of brilliance. One fan asked if they’d swap hats. The Scot handed over his Tam o’ Shanter. The gendarme handed over his very French kepi.

Deal done.

The square erupted. A Scottish fan in a French police hat. A French gendarme in a tartan Tam. Hugs, handshakes, cheers. The officers wandered off smiling, deeper into the square, where — I swear — people were offering them beers.

For that morning at least, a corner of Paris became Scotland.

And it was absolutely magnificent.