Some cities teach you how to win. Others teach you how to endure. Glasgow does both, mercilessly. It is a place where memory is long, where voices carry history, and where the past leans heavily on the present. Here, expectation is not a burden whispered about in private; it is shouted from the stands, carved into stone, and handed down without apology.
For generations, this rivalry has thrived on more than results. It is sustained by defiance, by identity, by the unspoken understanding that excuses do not survive the night. Those who last learn quickly that responsibility is not optional. Those who do not are consumed by the echo.
That echo returned with force after the latest Old Firm collision, not only in celebration from one half of the city, but in the fallout that followed. And this time, the noise did not stay where it belonged.
In the aftermath of Rangers’ emphatic derby triumph, Wilfried Nancy chose an unexpected line of explanation. Instead of confronting tactical collapse, defensive chaos, or a team that visibly wilted, the Celtic manager pointed toward the stands. Toward the chant. Toward the relentless surge of sound pouring from the Rangers end that had Ibrox trembling and Europe watching.
It was a comment that detonated instantly.
Rangers supporters had done what they have always done on the biggest stage — turned collective voice into a weapon. The chant rose early, gathered momentum, and by the second half had become unavoidable. It was not simply heard; it was felt. Players responded to it. The game bent around it. Celtic cracked beneath it.
Nancy’s suggestion that the atmosphere tipped the balance landed badly. To many, it sounded like deflection dressed as analysis. In a rivalry defined by hostility, to single out noise as the decisive factor was interpreted as an admission of unpreparedness.
“You don’t manage in Glasgow if you fear the sound of it,” one former Old Firm regular said bluntly.
The reaction was savage. Critics accused Nancy of hiding from accountability, of outsourcing failure to the very essence of the fixture. In their eyes, this was not leadership under pressure but avoidance — a manager unwilling to own a defeat that followed a familiar pattern.
Rangers fans, meanwhile, embraced the moment with ruthless delight. The chant that had already rattled Celtic on the pitch now carried an added sting. It had entered the post-match narrative. It had been acknowledged. And in doing so, it had claimed a victory of its own.
“If a chant breaks your team, the problem isn’t the chant,” another pundit observed. “It’s the manager who didn’t prepare them for it.”
What has intensified the fury is the contrast with history. This fixture has humbled giants and forged legends. Managers before have walked into far harsher atmospheres and emerged with authority intact. They spoke of responsibility, not interference. Of standards, not distractions.
By shifting focus outward, Nancy has placed himself under a harsher spotlight. The defeat is no longer just a bad result. It has become a referendum on his suitability for a job that tolerates no fragility — emotional or tactical.
For Celtic supporters, patience is thinning. For Rangers fans, the noise grows louder. The chant continues to travel, replayed, shared, and celebrated as both soundtrack and symbol.
In Glasgow, the roar never apologizes. It challenges. It demands. And it remembers who stood firm — and who chose to blame the echo instead of answering it.
