What Glasgow’s Football Rivalry Says About Scotland’s Political Divide
On any given match day, Glasgow divides into two fierce factions. In the East, Parkhead is awash with green and white, Irish tricolours and Palestinian flags rising in a panorama of solidarity and resistance. Across the Clyde, Ibrox glows in red, white, and blue – a sea of Union Jacks and royal portraits. Here, politics is not confined to parliament or polling stations. It’s sung, marched, and draped from tenement windows.
For many, Celtic and Rangers are more than football clubs; they are rival national myths. Celtic was formally constituted in 1887 to relieve the poverty of Glasgow’s Irish catholic poor – the East End community ostracised in a city that saw itself as inherently Protestant. While Rangers, established fifteen years earlier in 1872, came to embody a Protestant civic identity which was loyal to the monarchy and deferential to the state. When the clubs first faced each other in 1888, Celtic’s inaugural match, the pitch became an arena where class, religion, and identity collided.
In the decades following the establishment of both clubs, Scotland has largely secularised. Religion has not disappeared, but its function has changed. As the 2014 Scottish Social Attitudes Survey reported, 44% of Scots say they don’t belong to any religion, while only 33% consider themselves non-religious. Strikingly, nearly a quarter of those who claim no religion still identify as Protestant, Catholic, or Christian. Therefore, faith has become less about worship than inheritance, a marker of social belonging and history rather than belief. To say politics merely replaced religion would be reductive; politics has always been embedded in this rivalry. What has changed is the mode of expression. Where difference was once primarily articulated through sectarian faith, it is now staged through competing political identities. The battle over faith has become a battle over the Union, and everything it stands to represent.
Celtic’s political character has evolved into one of leftist, anti-establishment solidarity: its supporters often align with pro-independence, republican, and broadly socialist politics. The waving of Palestinian flags at Parkhead is not incidental, it speaks to a tradition of supporting the oppressed, rooted in the club’s Irish Catholic origins and historical experience of oppression. This has extended to opposition of the monarchy, critiques of British militarism, and sympathy for global liberation movements.
Rangers, by contrast, represent continuity – an unapologetic loyalty to Britain, the Union, and the Crown. Its support is steeped in civic conservatism, valorising duty, discipline, and national unity. Commemorations of military service and prominence of loyalist imagery signal a belief in the moral coherence of the United Kingdom. Around the club lingers the cultural influence of the Orange Order, whose marches through the city blur the line between religious ritual and political assertion. If Celtic’s politics gesture towards resistance, Rangers invoke preservation – the defence of a social hierarchy cemented by tradition.
These expressions are not deterministic, supporting one club does not dictate one’s political convictions, but they reflect how collective identity has migrated from religion to politics, from faith to flag. In Glasgow, “who do you support?” is not a casual question. It is a cultural shorthand – a way of locating someone’s background, loyalties, and often their political outlook. In a city where formal political participation has long lagged behind the national average, football serves as a parallel form of political expression – a site where identity and ideology are performed rather than voted upon. Ibrox and Parkhead serve as surrogate parliaments, their chants as a declaration of belonging.
Though neither Celtic or Rangers compete among Europe’s financial or sporting elites, both command an atmosphere that few clubs on the continent can rival. On matchdays, the energy inside Celtic Park and Ibrox is electric. A spectacle that has drawn admiration from players like Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, and Gary Neville alike, struck by the passion that defines Glasgow’s footballing culture. When these teams come together, it’s regarded as being unlike anything else in football. This only intensifies when the clubs come head to head, making the match less like a game and more like a public reckoning. The Old Firm is not merely a fixture, and to call it a rivalry almost understates its gravity – for what is at stake is not simply victory, but a vision of what and who Glasgow is.
Even those who may have never watched a match are rarely untouched. The club you ‘support’ – even in name only – tells a story of your upbringing, your family, and your place within the city. The tension is felt when your side loses, or the quiet satisfaction when the other stumbles.
In 2022, as Rangers faced Eintracht Frankfurt in Seville at the Europa League Final, my family were there, draped in blue and living the occasion with the devotion they have always brought to football. I watched from home, detached in theory but far from it feeling. I’ve never been religious, nor would I call myself a football fan – the only matches I watch are the Old Firm games. They carry an energy which feels hard to ignore, and I’d be lying if I denied the satisfaction that comes with a Rangers victory. When they lost 5-4 on penalties at the Europa League final, it felt heavier than expected. It was a reminder that these loyalties are not chosen; they are inherited, felt instinctively, and bound up in family and place. Supporting a club becomes less about sport itself and more about standing with the identity of those around you and the community which sustains it.
The Old Firm rivalry endures as it speaks to questions Scotland has yet to resolve: where its loyalties lie, and what its future entails. Even as religion fades, the struggle over identity, nationhood, and belonging endures. Two flags, one city and a question that remains as charged as ever: who are you with?
Photo Credits: Getty Images
Two Flags, One City
What Glasgow’s Football Rivalry Says About Scotland’s Political Divide
On any given match day, Glasgow divides into two fierce factions. In the East, Parkhead is awash with green and white, Irish tricolours and Palestinian flags rising in a panorama of solidarity and resistance. Across the Clyde, Ibrox glows in red, white, and blue – a sea of Union Jacks and royal portraits. Here, politics is not confined to parliament or polling stations. It’s sung, marched, and draped from tenement windows.
For many, Celtic and Rangers are more than football clubs; they are rival national myths. Celtic was formally constituted in 1887 to relieve the poverty of Glasgow’s Irish catholic poor – the East End community ostracised in a city that saw itself as inherently Protestant. While Rangers, established fifteen years earlier in 1872, came to embody a Protestant civic identity which was loyal to the monarchy and deferential to the state. When the clubs first faced each other in 1888, Celtic’s inaugural match, the pitch became an arena where class, religion, and identity collided.
In the decades following the establishment of both clubs, Scotland has largely secularised. Religion has not disappeared, but its function has changed. As the 2014 Scottish Social Attitudes Survey reported, 44% of Scots say they don’t belong to any religion, while only 33% consider themselves non-religious. Strikingly, nearly a quarter of those who claim no religion still identify as Protestant, Catholic, or Christian. Therefore, faith has become less about worship than inheritance, a marker of social belonging and history rather than belief. To say politics merely replaced religion would be reductive; politics has always been embedded in this rivalry. What has changed is the mode of expression. Where difference was once primarily articulated through sectarian faith, it is now staged through competing political identities. The battle over faith has become a battle over the Union, and everything it stands to represent.
Celtic’s political character has evolved into one of leftist, anti-establishment solidarity: its supporters often align with pro-independence, republican, and broadly socialist politics. The waving of Palestinian flags at Parkhead is not incidental, it speaks to a tradition of supporting the oppressed, rooted in the club’s Irish Catholic origins and historical experience of oppression. This has extended to opposition of the monarchy, critiques of British militarism, and sympathy for global liberation movements.
Rangers, by contrast, represent continuity – an unapologetic loyalty to Britain, the Union, and the Crown. Its support is steeped in civic conservatism, valorising duty, discipline, and national unity. Commemorations of military service and prominence of loyalist imagery signal a belief in the moral coherence of the United Kingdom. Around the club lingers the cultural influence of the Orange Order, whose marches through the city blur the line between religious ritual and political assertion. If Celtic’s politics gesture towards resistance, Rangers invoke preservation – the defence of a social hierarchy cemented by tradition.
These expressions are not deterministic, supporting one club does not dictate one’s political convictions, but they reflect how collective identity has migrated from religion to politics, from faith to flag. In Glasgow, “who do you support?” is not a casual question. It is a cultural shorthand – a way of locating someone’s background, loyalties, and often their political outlook. In a city where formal political participation has long lagged behind the national average, football serves as a parallel form of political expression – a site where identity and ideology are performed rather than voted upon. Ibrox and Parkhead serve as surrogate parliaments, their chants as a declaration of belonging.
Though neither Celtic or Rangers compete among Europe’s financial or sporting elites, both command an atmosphere that few clubs on the continent can rival. On matchdays, the energy inside Celtic Park and Ibrox is electric. A spectacle that has drawn admiration from players like Lionel Messi, Cristiano Ronaldo, and Gary Neville alike, struck by the passion that defines Glasgow’s footballing culture. When these teams come together, it’s regarded as being unlike anything else in football. This only intensifies when the clubs come head to head, making the match less like a game and more like a public reckoning. The Old Firm is not merely a fixture, and to call it a rivalry almost understates its gravity – for what is at stake is not simply victory, but a vision of what and who Glasgow is.
Even those who may have never watched a match are rarely untouched. The club you ‘support’ – even in name only – tells a story of your upbringing, your family, and your place within the city. The tension is felt when your side loses, or the quiet satisfaction when the other stumbles.
In 2022, as Rangers faced Eintracht Frankfurt in Seville at the Europa League Final, my family were there, draped in blue and living the occasion with the devotion they have always brought to football. I watched from home, detached in theory but far from it feeling. I’ve never been religious, nor would I call myself a football fan – the only matches I watch are the Old Firm games. They carry an energy which feels hard to ignore, and I’d be lying if I denied the satisfaction that comes with a Rangers victory. When they lost 5-4 on penalties at the Europa League final, it felt heavier than expected. It was a reminder that these loyalties are not chosen; they are inherited, felt instinctively, and bound up in family and place. Supporting a club becomes less about sport itself and more about standing with the identity of those around you and the community which sustains it.
The Old Firm rivalry endures as it speaks to questions Scotland has yet to resolve: where its loyalties lie, and what its future entails. Even as religion fades, the struggle over identity, nationhood, and belonging endures. Two flags, one city and a question that remains as charged as ever: who are you with?
Photo Credits: Getty Images
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