More adoration for the Tartan Army? Well, yes, but stick with me a minute.
I wrote for Paid Members just a couple of weeks ago a piece on how we are all being fed false pictures of each other. Not a hit piece on Trump and MAGA, but more of a realisation that the amplification of everything really doesn’t help anyone. I lamented that Republican Chuck (my imaginary North American) and Progressive Stu probably agreed on much, much more than Musk and Zuckerberg lead us to believe.
I published just as the first Scottish football fans reached Boston and surrounding towns.
Within days, my Instagram feed confirmed my thesis.
The Tartan Army
I have some experience of the Tartan Army from my time as a part-owner of a Scottish bar in Prague. I was not therefore surprised to see them having a good time. We are Scots and knew what was coming - and still couldn’t get re-stocks of alcohol as fast as the Army could drink it. One week of the Tartan Army made an appreciable impact on the Czech economy.
Even so, I didn’t predict the ferocious unbridled joy that the Scots unleashed at their first World Cup finals in 28 years. It started on the planes. US cabin crew posted reels of six hour singalongs on aircraft that ran out of booze long before they reached the eastern seaboard.
Residents of small New England towns found AirBNBs draped in the Saltire and the Lion Rampant, with reveille sounded on the pipes at 0630. The clans gathered in central points to follow the pipes and drums to the pubs, the fan zones, the ballpark, the stadium. The Scots laughed, sang, danced and drank. And drank. Within hours, pubs were running dry. One Scots fan was interviewed: “There was nothing left. Just Bud Light.” The Boston Police were braced for impact. City workers were ready for huge clean up operations.
The biggest economy in the world rolled its sleeves up and got booze into Boston. By road, rail and river. The beer kept flowing. The Scottish anthem at the first game was so loud, it was dangerous to hearing.
The Police kept turning up on social media. Playing keepy uppy with fans. Posing for pictures. Laughing, dancing and singing. They were discovering what we know. The Tartan Army polices itself. They are there to party. Not to fight, not to be a nuisance, but to have a great time, win, lose or draw.
Where are the nasty, horrible American cops of social media? These guys were a great laugh. I saw a reel where one found a piper sitting on his patrol motorcycle, and marched over to turn the blue lights on to accompany the song.
News channels picked up the energy pulsing through New England. They found city workers marvelling at the fact that the Scots had cleared up the streets and parks where they had gathered. If they couldn’t find bins, they made neat piles of their rubbish. They found Scots visiting children’s hospitals to make donations. Piping kids into local schools.
New Englanders
One guy went viral, having documented his adoption by the Tartan Army. Once he got used to being woken by the pipes at six thirty, and starting the day with a couple of beers, he was in love with Scotland. (Naturally, they gave him a ticket and took him to the match.)
The Scots marched on Fenway Park to watch the ball game. Baseball players and fans watched in awe as the songs began and never ended.
Instagrammers and tiktokkers streamed live footage of Scots takeovers of the state, singing and dancing all the while. Twinkly-eyed Americans gushed about the surge of energy, fun and joy that suffused the city. They begged the Scots to stay - or maybe they could come back each year?
Boston and Glasgow have started the paperwork to become twin cities. Boston has put in orders for more traffic cones (look it up). Senators, Governors, Mayors are all in on the act. I’ll bet the New England Patriots will be playing a game in Glasgow next year.
Hacking the algorithm
As I write, the Tartan Army is charming Miami, in preparation for their final group match against those footballing minnows, Brazil. (Qualified for every single finals and Champions a record five times.) It turns out that Scotland may qualify for the knockout stages win, lose or draw - and it’s too boring to explain why - but I guarantee you the World Cup and the host cities would love Scotland to stay around, at least for a wee while.
My feed is full of Scots praising Americans. Complimenting their policing, their cities, their food and their hospitality. There are Americans declaring their love for Scotland and all things Scottish. Kilted men high-fiving Moroccan kids after the match (the Moroccans beat Scotland in the second game) and serenading Iraqi fans on the street. In little Havana, Miami, there are Brazilian fans teaching Scots to dance salsa.
Trump is still spouting incoherent nonsense about everything. UK Politics a car crash in slow motion - but neither I nor my algorithm gives a flying fig.
The Norwegians have rowed their way to the knockouts. The Dutch are like bright orange flowers in the wind. All the central and South Americans bounce around with huge smiles on their faces. Anything else is getting pushed off my feed, and I love it.
Revelation
I don’t like football. But the Tartan Army, the other fans and the hosts bonding and partying together is beautiful. FIFA (the organiser) is corrupt. It’s scalping people for tickets (strange for a non-profit, no?). Many businesses are scalping (sorry, “employing dynamic pricing”) and yet fans overcome it. Transits put prices up - so the Scots rented school buses. Hotel prices went through the roof, so the Scots stayed in Rhode Island.
I’m reminded of the phrase “lions led by donkeys”. The Tartan Army has showed us all what’s important. Joy.
Politicians’ job is enable us all to have more joy.
Not division. Not venom. Not conflict.
I have no idea who will win the World Cup, but I know that
I can boogie, but I need a certain song...
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