ON Saturday, as the massed ranks of the British establishment gathered in London to celebrate 1,000 years of wealth, privilege and power, in Glasgow a craggier ceremonial was taking place.

Yet, it was no less courtly for that, moving gaily through the city with its own cultural solemnities and rituals.

This was the All Under One Banner (AUOB) March for Independence, of which there have been several over the last few years. Perhaps though, none have been more important than this one.

After an apocalyptic two months of unremitting despair for the independence movement how many of its rank and file activists would be moved to sacrifice an entire Saturday afternoon under leaden skies for a cause that’s been grievously damaged by the conduct of its own professional elites?

Judging by the numbers, there’s plenty of life yet in the Yes movement. The organisers claimed 20,000 participants while the police suggested considerably fewer.

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My own estimate, based on the rudiments of attending many political protest marches, was around 15,000. It took fully 25 minutes for the column to clear Kelvingrove Park and two hours or so to reach Glasgow Green.

Predictably, the familiar social media supplicants of Unionism sought to denigrate the event and the numbers. Yet, neither the Conservatives nor their camp followers in Scottish Labour could ever hope to command such a force.

Travelling in to join the march through Glasgow’s north-westerly neighbourhoods – Lambhill, Possilpark, Maryhill - you’re struck by how few Union flags there are. That’s few as in none.

And then, on Firhill Street below Partick Thistle’s floodlights, a saltire appears, borne defiantly by a young woman. On another day she might have kept it unfurled until reaching the waiting throng on Kelvin Way. But not on this day of days when the rest of the UK is channelling their tribal loyalties through flags and banners.     

At Kelvin Way, as the marchers mustered, the Socialist Workers were there too, because, well … they always are. You’ve got to love these men and women. No event bearing any kind of anti-establishment timbre escapes their attention.

The Herald: AUOB march in GlasgowAUOB march in Glasgow (Image: Gordon Terris)

A chap with a loud-hailer is setting out their eternal manifesto, seeking improvements “for the people of Scotland, through measures like a decent housing service; education system and free public transport for everybody of all ages instead of public funds being squandered on a free ride for a parasite king in a golden carriage. The monarchy represents all that’s rotten, unequal and elitist about capitalist Britain. Come to the table. Sign the petition.” He’s doing a brisk trade.

A couple of blokes are jouking around handing out leaflets. They’re wearing yellow paper crowns with ‘abolish the monarchy’ printed in higgledy lettering. You realise that many of these people are living their best lives at gatherings like this. For some, it’s the simple delight of getting together with their own after the Covid years and the recent implosion of the SNP hierarchy.

They fervently want to revive the spirit of 2014 and the first referendum on independence when they felt they were making history. In Edinburgh, an anti-monarchy rally is taking place on Calton Hill. It’s been organised mainly by those who for whom independence is little more than a business opportunity and who have drawn deeply on the rewards that have come with it.

They should have been in Glasgow to remind themselves what real commitment and hard graft for a cause looks like and feels like. Over the years they have come to revile these marchers: they’re too untutored in the favoured lexicon of SNP authoritarianism; too unpredictable and uncouth in their political ways; too eager in their demands for independence; too quick to demand answers to difficult questions.

As the marchers begin to move down on to Gibson Street and Woodlands Road there are shouts and cheers. A man dressed in a kilt and Glengarry hat is urging them on from the side of the road like a football supporter seconds before kick-off. “Gaun yirsels. Come on. Lift yourselves up for God’s sake.”

And then the chants start: “Not my king” and “off with his head” which is greeted by laughter. A bagpiper strikes up “I’m Gonna Be” by the Proclaimers: Everyone joins in: “And I would walk 500 miles …”

The banners, many of pre-2014 vintage, indicate nationwide fervour: Yes Larkhall; Yes Ullapool; Yes Rutherglen; Yes Elgin. There are babies in pushchairs and dogs. Lots of dogs. And this is reassuring. Because if there are no dogs and no weans on a march like this then there’s no authenticity. 

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In previous years, the chaotic and lively sartorial arrangements of tartan have drawn scorn and derision from the opponents of independence. But the clown-show festival of bad fashion and pantomime millinery on parade at Westminster Abbey yesterday renders all future criticism of tartanry obsolete. 

As I count out the tail end of the procession, an older man – lean and wizened in his kilt and Scotland football top - rushes by and then stops to address me. “Ye cannae beat a bit of chaos and rebellion on coronation day, can ye big man?”

And as the last of the marchers bears right towards the city centre, Runrig’s ‘Loch Lomond’ can be heard and you realise how refreshing it is to hear it when you’re not howling with the bevvy at the end of a wedding.

On Glasgow Green the stalls and pavilions you last saw during that heady period between 2013 and 2017 are all channelling an old passion. The speakers, led by Joanna Cherry, Ash Regan and Alex Salmond are in position but as they take the stage the heavens open. The crowds are deluged by one of those bad-tempered Glasgow showers which seem to chuck it down with an intensity rooted in defiance at being permitted only a few minutes show-time. 

The Herald: A seller on Glasgow GreenA seller on Glasgow Green (Image: Gordon Terris)

Beside me, a couple are reflecting on their day. “They said the movement was dead, but this has cheered me up.”

“Aye, but the press will find something to be negative about.” I keep my head down and put away my note-book.

Robin McAlpine, the driving force of Common Weal, the Yes movement’s only functioning think-tank, is here. His unit often publishes research which the professional SNP find inconvenient and we exchange gossip about the daily revelations pertaining to the police investigation into the party’s finances.

In the course of half an hour I have several other conversations. They all follow a similar pattern. “What’s the latest? Did you know anything about all this? Do you think we can recover?” They’re all united by a common sense of betrayal. “While we were marching and organising and knocking on doors; that shower on Calton Hill were all filling their boots.”

Very few are willing to provide their names. The cult that lately gathered around Nicola Sturgeon may be in retreat but the culture of fear and suspicion they engendered within the party has left its mark.

The official SNP is noticeable only by its near-absence. Only Ms Cherry and Ms Regan are here following a very late call-off by Kate Forbes, citing flu. There is no party stall and none of the ranks of advisors and researchers in their shiny suits and North Face bags are anywhere to be seen.

Under Nicola Sturgeon this Matalan Army with their platinum card access to the SNP’s executive suites had swollen into a £2m-a-year junior enterprise. Mixing with the grass-roots activists is clearly not what they were signing up for.

No-one here is questioning why Humza Yousaf felt he had to attend the coronation of King Charles, but there’s resentment that he didn’t send a representative to Glasgow. Soon, it became evident that more SNP politicians had chosen to be seen mixing with the aristocratic elites of the United Kingdom than be with those who paved the way for their gilded lifestyles. 

On stage, the speakers are preaching defiance and proclaiming unity. They’re all encouraged that so many people have elected to be here. The band has fashioned Sweet Home Chicago into Sweet Home Glasgow and making a decent job of it.

Down on the green, beside the tents, I’m kicking a yellow and black sponge football with my two-year-old godson, Francis whose mum has chosen this to be his debut in Yes activism. The mood around us is cheery. But few believe independence will happen much before the wee fella reaches adulthood.