973/FCS

Dispatch: a series dedicated to immersive storytelling, where our photographers and writers journey to chosen places, combining evocative imagery with long-form editorials to uncover and share unique football cultures.

NO SCOTLAND, NO PARTY

WORDS Hijab Shah
PHOTOGRAPHY Paul Stringer

July 14 2026

SCOTLAND — Scotland’s foray into this year’s World Cup may have been fleeting, but left an indelible mark inside and outside the country. From the moment Kenny McLean scored the screamer from Scotland’s own half against Denmark that sent Scotland to its first World Cup in 28 years, Steve Clarke’s men have captured the imagination of an entire nation.

Having a front-row seat to the outpouring of collective joy in Scotland these past few weeks has been an absolute privilege.

The Tartan Army’s exploits in the United States have had social media algorithms in a chokehold over the past month, and the stories being shared by the exhausted, partied-out fans, leaving behind a trail of Tennent’s and traffic cones and slowly making their way back from across the pond are sure to become stuff of legend. The scenes at home have been equally exuberant, as the entire country galvanized behind its football team after nearly three decades of waiting for the moment the Flower of Scotland would be sung at the World Cup again. As soon as the giant Saltire flats started appearing in the office space I share with my fellow doctoral students, I could feel the anticipation building.

A week or so before the tournament kicked off, the bus stops around town were updated with Pepsi adverts featuring life-size figures of Scott McTominay, John McGinn, and Scotland captain Andy Robertson. Blue and white bunting started adorning all the pubs along my walk to the library, and on cars and vans driving through town.

Days before Scotland’s first group-stage match against Haiti, my bus driver proudly donned his old (and slightly tight) kit from the 1998 World Cup. A mural to Scott McTominay appeared overnight on Princes Street in Edinburgh, complementing a slick Adidas advert entreating folks to “Choose Scotland.” Around the same time, but in hilarious contrast, an Irn Bru-themed mural of John McGinn doing his trademark “goggles” celebration came up in his hometown of Clydebank, followed shortly by a rather slapstick advert featuring the aforementioned drink and footballer, Britain’s Got Talent alumna Susan Boyle, and numerous self-deprecating Scottish stereotypes. More and more people began to don football shirts, prominent amongst them the new salmon-coloured away kit that seemed to be flying off the shelves.

On matchdays, absolutely everyone was radiating joy and pride in being Scottish and seeing their team represented at the World Cup – even folks who may not normally follow football.

I watched the first match against Haiti on my own in a local pub in St Andrews frequented by elderly locals, the second match against Morocco at Glasgow’s OVO Hydro Arena with my photographer friend Paul, and the third match with two Pakistani mates at a student-heavy pub in Dundee. In all three instances, the venues were packed, the fans were giddy with excitement, and the cheering and support did not stop – even in the games Scotland were losing – for the entire 90 minutes.

The togetherness and sense of community throughout Scotland during those Group Stage weeks was magical to witness: from the stylish friends celebrating a birthday at the Rose Reilly (a pub named after Scotland’s first professional female footballer and the only Scot to win a World Cup, albeit in Italian colours due to the Scottish FA banning her and others from playing in 1972), to the gent at Church on the Hill developing an app connecting Tartan Army fans across the world; from the young group of boys scrambling to hide their liquor bottles before being photographed outside Glasgow Green, to the same group of lads cheering and high-fiving me and Paul when they recognised us at the front of the crowd at the OVO Hydro; from my neighbours watching the matches on an inflatable projector screen in their backyard and bursting into chants of “No Scotland, No Party!” at passersby, to the inebriated but concerned table of pensioners at the New Inn panicking on my behalf when they heard I couldn’t have a half-time stovie (a traditional but slightly dodgy-looking Scottish stew), and clamoured the bewildered kitchen staff until they produced a pork-free alternative; and from all of O’Marley’s celebrating Vinicius Junior’s disallowed goal as if it were a Lyndon Dykes screamer, to the mournful, slurred rendition of Loch Lomond sung by group of drunk but very sweet lads as they exited the pub after the final whistle.

The Scotland football team brought the whole country together, for a short but glorious time, in a way I have never really seen happen elsewhere. Scots always sing their national anthem with gusto, but I’ve never heard Flower of Scotland brought to life as I did the three separate times I witnessed it this World Cup. As the team returns back to Scottish shores, I hope they see the joy and hope they brought to their country, and I hope it is a balm to their disappointment, so they can pick themselves up and rally again for the next big tournament. Because, as the world now knows, if there’s no Scotland, there truly is no party. —

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