no scotland, no party!
A lifetime of memories, mischief and matchdays
with the fans who follow Scotland everywhere
Bob Shields
No-one knows the exact origins of the ‘Tartan Army’, and maybe that’s not a bad thing. Having your roots clouded by myth and mystery and shrouded in lore and legend hasn’t done the Loch Ness Monster any harm!
One soccer sleuth claimed he had sourced it to a 1960’s edition of the London Evening Standard which described how “London had been invaded by a tartan army of kilted Scots”.
But hey, the Tartan Army doesn’t really care how it began, and many can’t remember where they’ve been. For the Tartan Army’s foot soldiers, it’s all about where they’re going.
And this summer, it’s Boston, Massachusetts, Miami, Florida, and then hopefully marching victoriously onwards to the FIFA World Cup final in New York, New York… and football immortality!
I use the word ‘hopefully’ quite deliberately. Regular armies are said to march on their stomachs. The Tartan Army eats, breathes and sleeps on hope!
When I trooped dejectedly out of Saint-Etienne’s Stade Geoffroy-Guichard on 23rd June 1998, it was the end of our World Cup dream. All that was left were the happy memories, and the hope we’d be back at another World Cup soon.
The hoping ended on a gloriously memorable night at Hampden Park on 25th November last year. Scotland back on football’s greatest stage was suddenly a sensational reality!
When our lads finally kick off against Haiti in Boston on 13th June – sorry, I mean 2am on Sunday 14th June – it will end a 28-year wait.
No matter how big you think the concept of the Tartan Army is, it’s an awful lot bigger than that!
It’s not just about the Scottish football fans making the trip to Boston and Miami, or even the fans glued to their telly screens at home. You don’t have to be a football fan, or even a Scot.
Wanting Scotland to succeed – at anything – obviously helps. The hairs on the back of your neck, standing to attention, at the sound of the bagpipes is a bonus.
But then there’s that old saying that it’s not about the ‘winning’ but the ‘taking part’. And that’s the difference. No nation in the world takes part like the Tartan Army. And if you want to ‘take part’ with them, your Tartan Army recruitment is already complete.
“No Scotland – no party!” is their current chant. I’ve had the pleasure of partying with them since the Tartan Army marched through Malaga and beat New Zealand 5 – 2 in the Costa Del Sol sunshine of Espana ’82.
But for my first Scotland match experience, I can go back to May 1965 when Spain came to Glasgow. My dad took me, not so much as to see the team, but to see my hero, Denis Law, in the flesh!
He was still my hero – though he had long retired – when I attended the France ’98 World Cup, in charge of the Daily Record’s Tartan Army Mobile HQ, an open-topped single decker bus!
I was wearing a T-shirt with Denis Law’s face on the front when we made an overnight stop at a town called Macon. We were enjoying some beers in a pavement café when a local lad pointed to me and asked, “Denis Law – Manchester United?”
“Oui,” I said, and pointed to the shirt. However, a few minutes later he was back with pen and paper asking for my autograph!
“He thinks you’re Denis Law!” grinned my colleagues. “Go on, don’t spoil the wee lad’s night, just sign it for him,” they said. Well, I did say beers had been taken. So I signed.
Next up was another wee lad… then another. I foolishly signed for them as well. Then their fathers started taking pictures of me.
The final straw was when a young lady with a tape recorder and a microphone appeared, wanting an interview with Monsieur Law for local radio. Sacre bleu!
I don’t know where my excuse came from, but I somehow explained I was on an exclusive BBC radio contract and wasn’t allowed to give interviews to other broadcasters.
It worked, but I knew I had to escape! I ran off down the street and found another little café. I walked through the door only for a man at the bar to shout, “Regarde! Il ya Denis Law, le footballeur!”
I fled back to my hotel room and hid for the rest of the evening.
On my return, it made a great subject for my newspaper column!
“I used to dream of being Denis Law, but when I was Denis Law, it turned into a nightmare!”
Over the years, joining the Tartan Army Expeditionary Force has taken me all over Europe – Amsterdam, Reykjavik, Seville, Bordeaux, Paris, Kiev, Riga, Brussels, Copenhagen, Dublin and Frankfurt to name just a few.
Every city brings its own wee memory. On the trip to the Faroe Islands, we took a TRAIN to Aberdeen, a TAXI to the airport, a PLANE to the capital Torshavn, a BUS to our hotel, a FISHING BOAT (courtesy of Mull Tartan Navy!) to a jetty near the stadium, and finally… a DUSTBIN LORRY gave us lift up the steep hill to the entrance!
On many trips, we tried to have some kind of ‘cultural’ experience on the morning of match day – a chocolate maker in Belgium or a cheese producer in Holland. In Oslo, someone arranged a four-hour trip around the neighbouring fjords in a three-masted schooner. Lovely. We arrived on board… and the first alarm bells should have gone off when someone said, “welcome our Christian friends from Scotland”.
It was only when we asked where the bar was that we learned the alarming truth. The ship was a floating charity owned by a Norwegian Christian Fellowship… and there was no alcohol on board.
We had barely minutes to take stock of our situation and reach a decision. That decision was a unanimous “abandon ship!”
We disembarked in short order, just it time to see the gangplank withdrawn and the ropes cast-off. As the ship slowly turned, one of our foot soldiers stared back at us from the stern.
“What’s happening?” he shouted.
“There’s no booze on board! We’ll see you in four hours,” we replied.
I won’t repeat the words he bellowed back at us… but they weren’t very Christian!
I’m sure similar tales of Tartan Army exuberance will emerge from World Cup ’26. Sadly, I have no plans to be part of them.
The World Cup finals I attended in Spain and France were much easier to plan – and a lot easier to pay for! Trains or buses from match to match, city to city, cost just a few Euros and took just a few hours.
This summer, the match venues range from Mexico City to Toronto. The Tartan Army already face a trek from Boston to Miami, and qualification could take them almost anywhere after that.
One supporter I know has booked all his flights, all his hotels and bought tickets for all three of Scotland’s opening games. He’s now £14,000 poorer and has still to buy a burger or a beer!
In 1982, a ticket for the World Cup final – yes, the final! – was £4.15, the equivalent of about £20 today. A ticket for the final in New York this year will be at least £6,000 – if you can even get one!
No, I’ll be watching all the 2026 action from the comfort of my couch or perched on my favourite bar stool at the Twa Dugs.
Then again… Scotland reach the next stage for the first time… they get drawn against Mexico… the Tartan Army are heading for the magnificent Azteca Stadium in Mexico City… probably a once in a lifetime experience…
Er… how many Pesos to the Pound do you get these days?
