Tartan Army

It's 8:30 in the morning. Lauren and I arrive in Glasgow Airport for our flight home to Boston last Friday.

And the place is crawling with guys in kilts.

Contrary to what you might think, this is unusual.

In fact, there are so many kilt-wearers that those of us in regular street clothes are in the minority by far.

Whole packs of kilted Scots are in the pubs drinking pints. They have towels with Scottish flags on them tucked into their ample belts. It's 8:30 and raining and they are well on their way to something.

The guys are sporting the working man kilt look. Their kilts are fully decked out with the belt and the sporran. But on their feet they wear heavy work boots and heavy socks. And on top they wear soccer shirts and track jackets. Some wear elaborate caps loaded with metal badges from around the world.

A couple of guys walk by, poking me in the eye with the 3 foot long feathers stuck in their caps.

Of course we have to ask. Guys! What is UP with the kilts?

And that's when they tell us that they are the Tartan Army.

The Tartan Army is a band of roving football (that's soccer to us) fans who travel regularly to watch the Scotland National Football Team, both in Scotland and abroad. Today the first leg of their journey was our flight to Dublin, after which Lauren and I would go to Boston and they would go to Amsterdam for the big match.

Here they are in action:


We chatted it up throughout the security check. One guy proudly piped up that everywhere in the world the English are hated when they arrive en masse for soccer matches. But the Scots? "They love us. We have fun. We drink a wee bit. And we cheer the team." Somehow I don't think it's that simple. But we laughed and Lauren took blurry pix of them with her new iPhone.

The army was mostly guys, but a few girls were there.

Some really caught attention in their mini kilts.

When one very pretty mini kilt girl went up the escalator, a crowd of kilted men gathered at the bottom to see what they might see.

From the looks on their faces, they were pleased.

As I sat waiting for the plane, all of the jolly he-men around me swearing, drinking fooking pints, swapping stories and telling fooking lies, I noticed one girl had her manicured nails painted perfectly with tartan.

And that's when I looked up and got the answer to the question, "What do they wear under those kilts?"

The guy with the 3-foot feather cap who had poked me in the eye? He came in and sat down across from me. His legs manfully spread akimbo. And let me tell you, he was most certainly letting it all hang out.

Forget about morning coffee.

There's nothing like a major kilt siting to wake you right, the fook, UP.


While we're at it, here's more fun with kilts:

What's up your kilt?