Some institutions are not sustained by wins alone. They are protected by restraint, by an unwritten code passed quietly from generation to generation. The greatest clubs understand that power without discipline curdles, that influence without responsibility invites decay. Tradition, when neglected, does not fade gently—it fractures loudly.
There are nights when that fracture becomes visible. When noise overwhelms meaning. When behaviour speaks louder than heritage. In those moments, history does not applaud; it interrogates. And when an outsider dares to question what a giant believes is untouchable, the reaction is rarely calm—it is visceral, defensive, and furious.
That is the emotional fault line David Martindale detonated after Celtic’s chaotic 4–2 victory over Livingston. What should have been remembered as a relentless attacking display, a night of early goals and overwhelming pressure, instead spiralled into something far uglier. Not because of the scoreline—but because of what echoed from the stands.
Martindale did not choose his words carefully. He chose them to wound.
Visibly irritated, unfiltered, and unapologetic, the Livingston manager aimed directly at sections of the Celtic support, accusing them of disgracing the club’s name and eroding the respect it has spent decades building.
“WTF was that chant? Honestly, I’ve never heard anything like it in football.”
The remark alone was incendiary. But he was only getting started.
“If this continues, no club in this country will ever respect Celtic again.”
For many Celtic fans, that sentence landed as outright provocation—an unforgivable overreach from a manager whose side had just conceded four goals. Yet Martindale doubled down, framing the issue not as heat-of-the-moment noise, but as a symptom of cultural decline.
He argued that something fundamental has been lost at Celtic, and not just tactically.
“Celtic lost something huge when Brendan Rodgers left,” he said.
“And I’m not just talking about football.”
That comment struck deep. It reframed the discussion from one about chants to one about identity. About leadership. About standards once assumed to be immovable.
Martindale went further, questioning the atmosphere surrounding the club and pointing indirectly at current management.
“I don’t know what Wilfried Nancy is teaching the fans,” he continued,
“because right now there’s no respect. Not for opponents. Not for the occasion. Not for the game itself.”
The accusation was brutal: that Celtic’s famed culture of class and tradition is slipping into something careless, something entitled. For a club that prides itself on moral standing as much as dominance, it was a charge designed to enrage.
Inside the Livingston camp, the mood was described as boiling. Staff members reportedly echoed the manager’s frustration, calling the chants “unnecessary” and “damaging,” while players felt the match had crossed a line rarely seen in domestic competition.
Online, the reaction exploded. Celtic supporters accused Martindale of deflecting embarrassment, hiding behind moral outrage after his defence collapsed inside 40 minutes. Others were incensed by what they saw as a deliberate attempt to lecture a historic club from a position of inferiority.
Neutral observers were split. Some agreed that fan behaviour reflects leadership and that no institution is immune from scrutiny. Others warned that Martindale had crossed into dangerous territory, inflaming tensions for relevance and attention.
Yet the damage was already done.
What lingered was not the goals, not the result, but the language—sharp, accusatory, and deliberately humiliating. Words designed not to calm, but to provoke. Not to correct, but to confront.
Celtic left with three points.
But they also left with a challenge thrown squarely at their identity.
And whether fans dismiss it as bitterness or confront it as criticism, one thing is undeniable: this was not just a rant—it was an accusation that refuses to disappear.
