On Tour with the Tartan Army — Part One

For much of its modern history, Scotland has had limited opportunity to speak with an independent voice on the world stage. We have no separate embassies, no seat at the United Nations, and little direct control over many aspects of our national life.

There is, however, one notable exception.

Football.

For generations, football has been Scotland’s most visible expression of nationhood. The Scottish Football Association operates independently, free from external interference, and the national team represents Scotland alone. In this small but powerful space, Scotland stands as itself.

Like many Scottish children, my earliest memories of football were improvised and joyful. Games took place in streets, parks and playgrounds, using battered tennis balls or crushed cans of Irn-Bru. Goals were marked by wheelie bins, jumpers or half-bricks. And almost without exception, we were playing “England”.

No one ever wanted to be England — the greatest pleasure was winning against them. And in our youthful imagination, we often did.

Football’s deep roots in Scottish life go back centuries. In medieval times, it was reportedly banned on several occasions by the King of Scots, largely because it caused disruption, injury, and distracted young men from more “serious” pursuits. Even then, it seems, football mattered.

By my early secondary school years, I was watching major international matches with growing awareness. The annual fixture against England carried an intensity unlike anything else. The passion surrounding these games is difficult to explain to those who haven’t experienced it.

One famous match at Wembley saw an extraordinary travelling support. English players later spoke of how isolated they felt, as the stadium seemed awash with Scotland fans. Tens of thousands had made the journey south, filling not only the ground but much of London itself.

Out of this travelling support grew what we now know as the Tartan Army — not a formal organisation, but a collective identity. While not a charity in itself, Scotland supporters later established the Tartan Army Children’s Charity (TACC), a registered Scottish charity founded to support disadvantaged children both at home and in countries Scotland visits. It reflects something important about the culture of Scottish support: competitive on the pitch, generous and good-natured off it.

This spirit has been evident at tournaments across Europe. At Euro 2024 in Germany, Scottish fans became a story in their own right. Cities welcomed them warmly, and German police even issued public statements praising their behaviour and hospitality.

Scotland’s tournament history has its share of heartbreak. In the 1974 World Cup, the team remained unbeaten but failed to progress due to goal difference. Four years later came Argentina 1978. England failed to qualify, but Scotland arrived with high expectations under Ally MacLeod — so much so that the supporters became known as “Ally’s Tartan Army.”

I remember the open-top bus parade from Hampden Park before departure, as if the tournament had already been won. The optimism was infectious.

On the pitch, results again fell short of expectations. Scotland famously defeated the Netherlands — finalists that year — but failed to overcome Iran and Peru, and once more exited at the group stage.

Yet what followed was remarkable. Rather than disappointment defining the experience, friendships were formed. Many supporters stayed on, travelled further, and built lasting connections with local people. Scottish fans became warmly regarded in Argentina, remembered for their openness and good humour.

Stories from those journeys became legendary. My favourite involves two supporters who cycled from Scotland to Argentina, travelling through North and Central America before reaching Córdoba in time for the opening match.

For many years, I followed the national team from home. That changed in the early 1990s when I made my first proper trip with the Tartan Army. Two friends and I boarded the specially laid-on Football Express from Edinburgh Waverley to Glasgow.

The train itself was unforgettable. Every window was open, scarves and flags hanging out, songs echoing along the platforms. By the time we boarded, it was standing room only. It was barely mid-morning, yet the singing was already in full voice.

As the train rolled through the central belt, it felt like Scotland itself was on the move. When the train briefly stopped outside Falkirk on a warm May day, conditions became uncomfortable — hot, crowded, and heavy with the scent of beer and enthusiasm. But spirits never dipped.

Arriving in Glasgow, supporters flooded the streets. Tens of thousands made the long walk to Hampden together. Along the way, the singing ebbed and flowed, sometimes punctuated by sirens or police activity elsewhere. We kept walking, focused on the game, leaving any tension behind.

Inside the stadium, packed terraces rose behind the goals. As kick-off approached and both teams emerged together, the noise became overwhelming — a wall of sound, pride and anticipation.

At that time, the official pre-match anthem was God Save the Queen. It never resonated with Scottish supporters, and the crowd response often reflected that disconnect. Over time, supporters began singing “Flower of Scotland” instead — first quietly, then confidently, until it became the natural anthem of the stands.

Long before it was officially adopted, the people had chosen it. Today, it is sung with dignity and unity: one verse with the music, one without. It remains one of the most powerful moments in Scottish sport.

And it reminds us of something enduring — that identity, when expressed positively and collectively, has a way of finding its voice.