Aidan Connor explores the atmosphere at Celtic Park and how it has changed in recent times. Has modern football curated a culture that has converted Celtic fans from participants to mere spectators?
The atmosphere at Celtic Park has undeniably changed, from the raw, unrelenting roar of the Jungle in the 1980s, to something far more filtered and digitised today. Smartphones and social media have turned fans from participants to observers, with many more concerned with capturing a moment for online validation than fully experiencing it in real time. What was once spontaneous chanting, waves, and seas of green passion has given way to a culture of recording and posting, with fans using the stadium as a backdrop for their own social media productions rather than as a theatre of collective emotion. Even modern light displays, which have progressed from candles to camera flashes, demonstrate this reliance on technology. My father recalls seeing fans use lighters to achieve the same effect, a fire hazard that is now prohibited but a clear symbol of hands-on, community support. The Green Brigade’s early mass camera flash protests began as political gestures against stewards and authorities, while commemorative displays for the Lisbon Lions’ 50th anniversary demonstrated the potential for visual spectacle but even these moments, as stunning as they are, are increasingly being shared online rather than in the stands. In short, the Jungle’s raw energy has given way to a digital glow, with participation mediated through screens and the roar becoming quieter, fragmented, and increasingly filtered by technology.
If the Jungle used to be a living beast, snarling, spitting, and swallowing European opponents whole, nights like Celtic vs Braga indicate that the creature is now half-sedated. Celtic Park once marketed itself as a fortress, packed to the rafters and trembling from the sheer force of 60,000 voices. On match day 2 of the Europa League, reality was drastically different. 46,232 fans went through the turnstiles, leaving nearly 14,000 seats empty for a European night. You can dismiss banners and talk over chants, but you cannot spin empty plastic. Silence is one thing, but absence is louder. This was not a planned walkout or a protest in progress. The so-called “Sound of Silence” demonstration was postponed after the board agreed to meet with the Celtic Fans Collective, however simply postponing a protest did not restore faith. Fans didn’t bother showing up. They withdrew their presence, not their voices. And when Celtic faltered – a Kasper Schmeichel error, an incorrectly disallowed goal, and the usual VAR-induced confusion – the crowd sank into apathy.
The old Celtic roar, once an uncontrollable reflex, now appears planned, negotiated, or, worse, withheld out of spite. Even Joe Hart, now behind the microphone, called it what it was – players avoiding responsibility and a fan base unsure whether to rage or sulk. The board, meanwhile, was photographed in the directors’ box laughing on their phones, which was perhaps fitting given that the stand around them was half-lit by screens rather than music. Celtic Park now feels like a theatre, with everyone waiting for someone else to start the chorus. The protests have been paused, but what if the atmosphere has not returned? Because Braga won’t remember banners or statements; they’ll remember walking into Glasgow’s East End and wondering, ‘Is this it?’
There’s a strange irony to Celtic’s atmosphere debate: if you go back far enough, we were once too loud, too wild, and too packed. Old photos show 100,000-strong crowds packed onto terracing like a human landslide, swaying and roaring without choreography, disco lights, or staged “moments”. Now? The last significant “atmosphere upgrade” was literally installed by electricians. The famous 2019 “disco lights”, spun as a state-of-the-art revolution, are already six years old, but they are still used as a substitute for soul. We once had the Jungle, which was spontaneous, feral, and unpredictable. We now have LED mood lighting and pre-match light shows that feel more like a DJ warmup than a call to arms. Maybe that’s the cost of success. Trebles became annual, titles became expected, and expectation breeds entitlement. The support that once roared at hope now only roars at certain victory. When it isn’t delivered? Silence – or worse – apathy. Brendan Rodgers is aware of it. His recent plea was almost desperate, support the team, not the boardroom noise. He understands that tactics alone do not win European ties at Celtic Park, the atmosphere does. Barcelona’s legends were shaken not by shape or press but by the sound of belief pulsing through the stands. But what happens if that belief becomes conditional? When do fans stop participating and instead become spectators? Since when is Celtic Park treated as a concert venue, with lights doing the work? If we want to claim the “best atmosphere in world football”, it may be time to stop outsourcing passion to lighting rigs.
The atmosphere in FIFA 26 arguably feels more like “Celtic Park” than Celtic Park in 2025. EA Sports still programmes the crowd to roar like it’s Barcelona 2012 every time the ball is thrown in, despite the fact that you’re more likely to hear someone moaning about how McGregor isn’t a CDM or Scales is an Aberdeen-level centre-back. Brendan Rodgers recently addressed the issue, stating that players come here expecting the famous wall of noise they’ve seen on YouTube, only to discover that when things turn toxic, it can be a difficult place to be. Before halftime, the same crowd that claims to be Europe’s best begins to boo. We love to share Messi and Xavi quotes about Celtic Park being a “spiritual experience”, but we ignore the empty seats against Livingston and the groans when we aren’t three up after 20 minutes. Maybe that is the real issue, we have become entitled. We still believe we are the Jungle, but too often we are simply spectators waiting to be entertained rather than fans attempting to influence a game. If the atmosphere in a video game feels more authentic than the one in real life, perhaps it’s time to stop blaming “modern football” and instead blame ourselves. That is the central contradiction of it all. We expect world-class performances from the players while too often providing Championship-level support from the stands.
The old photos of 100,000 people packed into Celtic Park like sardines, balancing on crush barriers, were impressive for more than just the sheer number. They were impressive because each of those individuals believed they were a part of the outcome. There was no “Day-tripper Section”. Nobody left early to “beat the traffic”. No one treated Paradise like a theatre where applause had to be earned. Nowadays, it appears that half of the crowd expects Celtic to win but does not necessarily want to help them do so.
Nights like the 3-0 derby in February 2022 demonstrate beyond doubt that the old Celtic Park still exists, albeit hidden beneath layers of comfort and complacency. For one night, the environment became hostile again. The Rangers players appeared terrified, the crowd was agitated, and you could almost feel the goals being pushed in by sheer volume. The atmosphere was more than just noise; it was violence – sonic pressure on the opposition. But why does it take a title decider to bring it back? Why can’t Motherwell at home muster even half that energy? That’s where the Green Brigade’s constant prodding, sometimes clumsily worded, often divisive, begins to make unsettling sense. Older fans object to being told how to support their team, which is understandable given that no one who lived through the 1990s wants to be lectured by supporters born after Seville. However, when the tone is removed, a painful truth emerges: far too many Celtic fans have learnt to consume rather than participate in the game. The atmosphere is only activated when we are angry or pursuing a goal. When we are winning? Silence. When we are expected to win? Entitlement. Celtic Park is still capable of being the greatest cauldron in football, but only when forced to operate in survival mode.
Supporters who grew up in the 1990s did more than just watch Celtic, they lived through Celtic. There were seasons when finishing fourth was considered optimistic, when Fergus McCann literally saved the club from extinction, when Hampden felt like an exile, and when the Jungle was demolished and replaced with plastic seats. Fans stood in crumbling terraces to watch Rafael Scheidt and Wayne Biggins as Rangers won title after title. And yet, ask anyone who was there, the noise never stopped. If anything, the more hopeless the football became, the more resolute the fans became. There was no hint of “entertain me”. It was stubborn loyalty, bordering on madness at times, with a full stadium cheering on a team. That irrational, unwavering support created a culture stronger than any modern branding slogan. Compare that to today, where Champions League nights still produce the animalistic, inhuman roar but only when UEFA branding and anthem theatrics are activated. The raw, organic chaos of the jungle has been replaced with event-based adrenaline. Modern fans, including myself, did not have to protest outside the main stand to save the club, support Celts for Change, or hold out hope during six-year trophy droughts. We were given dominance, and we now treat the atmosphere like a tap that we turn on when necessary. What’s with the irony? The generation that had every reason to walk away shouted the loudest, while those who have seen relentless success have learnt to sit quietly.
A leader’s presence can electrify a stadium and elevate a team beyond what seems possible on paper. Billy McNeill in the early ’80s and Ange Postecoglou in the modern era exemplify this rare combination of leadership, vision, and charisma. McNeill’s calm authority guided a young Celtic side through Europe’s giants, while the Jungle roared with every tackle, pass, and goal, feeding the players with energy and belief. The fans were not mere spectators, they were an integral part of the performance, their passion amplified by McNeill’s leadership and the team’s courage. Fast forward to today, and Postecoglou brought a different but equally magnetic energy, his intensity and clear vision transformed Celtic Park into a cauldron of belief, where every chant, cheer, and collective roar strengthens the players’ resolve on the pitch. Moments like when he screamed at the side of the pitch for Celtic, “For f*ck’s sake, stop passing it back,” exemplify how the fans feel. These managers show that leadership extends beyond tactics or training drills, it is about creating an atmosphere where fans and players are united in purpose, where the stadium itself becomes a force that can intimidate opponents and inspire greatness. Through their guidance, a team’s potential is magnified, but for the electric, almost tangible energy that fills the stands, a reminder that the right leader can turn a crowd into a wave of believers.
My dad tells me stories of how the jungle at Celtic Park truly came alive at 3 o’clock on match days, a time when the city itself seemed to pause, and the fans began their pilgrimage to the stadium. Those early afternoons were sacred. Pints in hand, scarves draped, voices warming up with chants and songs that would crescendo in unison. By the time the teams stepped onto the pitch, the crowd felt like a living, breathing organism. The communal energy of tens of thousands of green-and-white bodies instills a sense of belonging and unity. For the players, stepping onto the pitch and facing that wall of sound was both a challenge and a gift, a reminder that every pass, tackle, and goal was magnified by the devotion of those behind them. But if that kind of communion once came naturally, born from ritual, sacrifice, and instinct, what does it take to summon it now? Can a support that once roared out of duty and defiance rediscover that voice in an age of entitlement and distraction? And if the thunder of the jungle is no longer guaranteed, the real question might be even harder to answer: do we still believe we are part of the result, or are we content to simply watch it happen?
