Satellite Rain & Schadenfreude: How Celtic vs Hibs Became the World’s Favourite Distraction
The Old Firm’s Little Brother Throws a Tantrum: Celtic vs Hibernian as Global Metaphor
By “Wee Davie” McAllister, International Correspondent-at-Large
Somewhere above Edinburgh’s slate rooftops, a satellite the size of a Fiat Panda beams 1080p images of Celtic versus Hibernian to a Mumbai sports bar, a Perth (Australia) betting shop, and a silent dorm room in Reykjavík where a freshman is failing Statistics because he stayed up to watch two Scottish teams argue over a ball like divorced parents splitting custody.
This, dear reader, is what passes for planetary resonance in 2024: a derby that, on paper, matters only to the green-and-white half of Glasgow and the green-and-white half of Edinburgh, yet somehow becomes a Rorschach test for humanity’s broader malaise.
Let us zoom out. While Gaza smoulders and TikTok debates whether a cucumber qualifies as a personality, 59,000 Scots are singing in the rain about events that happened in 1888. Celtic—market cap roughly that of a mid-tier crypto rug-pull—arrives on a forty-game domestic unbeaten streak. Hibs, meanwhile, trail the league like a hungover grad student trailing a seminar, but arrive armed with the defiant amnesia that keeps lesser clubs alive: the belief that just because you’re bad doesn’t mean you can’t ruin someone else’s day.
The world tunes in for the same reason it rubbernecks at multicar pile-ups: schadenfreude is the last universal language. In São Paulo, a Flamengo ultras’ group live-tweets in Portuguese about “the beautiful violence of Presbyterian rain football.” A San Francisco AI engineer trains a model to predict corner-kick outcomes using Celtic’s historical xG data—then watches in horror as Hibs’ 19-year-old left-back scores a thirty-yard thunderbolt that breaks the algorithm and his MacBook’s cooling fan.
Geopolitically, the fixture is a gentle reminder that the British Isles remain the only region capable of weaponizing weather. A horizontal sleet that would close airports in Munich is here rebranded “character-building.” The same precipitation that once drove Highlanders to emigrate now drives global streaming subscriptions. Somewhere in a Kyiv bomb shelter, a teenager streams the match on 4G, grateful for a ninety-minute ceasefire courtesy of Sky Sports’ paywall.
Economically, the game is a masterclass in late-capitalist absurdity. Celtic’s Japanese forward earns in a week what Hibs’ entire youth academy costs in a year. Yet the Edinburgh side flogs NFTs of past Scottish Cup glories to fans in Seoul who think Easter Road is a festival. Meanwhile, cryptocurrency hucksters sponsor the corner flags, presumably so every set piece doubles as a liquidity event.
Culturally, the fixture is less a contest than a séance. Both sets of fans sing about Michael Collins and Bobby Sands—dead men who, one suspects, would have preferred not to be drafted into posthumous midfield roles. The global commentary section becomes a UN General Assembly of sarcasm: Americans asking why the clock counts up, Germans complaining about the lack of beer in the stands, Nigerians politely inquiring if “Hibs” is short for “hibernate,” which, frankly, feels accurate by the 75th minute.
On the pitch, the inevitable occurs: Celtic monopolize the ball like a tech giant, Hibs counter like a ransomware pop-up. The deadlock breaks when a Hibs striker—last seen working in his uncle’s chippy—bundles home a rebound. Celtic equalise via a VAR-assisted penalty so soft it could be marketed as toilet paper. The final whistle arrives like a tax deadline: nobody’s happy, but at least the dread is over.
In the mixed zone, a Celtic midfielder speaks fluent corporate: “We go again, big picture, process.” A Hibs defender, eyes still spinning, offers a masterclass in nihilism: “Football’s just grief with commercial breaks.”
And there it is. From Edinburgh to everywhere, the universal takeaway: no matter the flag, the currency, or the streaming platform, we all pay good money to watch twenty-two people fail to outrun their own insignificance—then argue about it online until the next distraction drops.
The satellite blinks, uploads the highlights, and moves on to a Turkish basketball game. Somewhere in Jakarta, a notification pings: “Celtic 1-1 Hibs.” A trader sighs, closes the app, and opens another war.
