Writer: Alan Brady
Alan Brady’s Two Tribes is a rowdy, gallus, and unapologetically crude snapshot of 1983 Glasgow. If Sunshine on Leith is the polished, melodic soul of Edinburgh, then Two Tribes is its gritty, Glasgow, East End cousin—all sharp elbows, football fever, and family friction.
It is 1983 in Glasgow’s East End, and Archie McCann is facing a crisis of faith, family, and football. His two daughters, Tricia and Kathleen, are set for a double wedding scheduled, disastrously, for the same afternoon as the Celtic vs Rangers League Cup Final. With two future sons-in-law on opposite sides of the city’s footballing divide and his wife Rita busy with CND protests, Archie is left to navigate a minefield of tribal loyalties. As the countdown to kick-off begins, the question remains: which “tribe” will come out on top?
The play thrives on its 1980s nostalgia. In a world of Teletext, the script finds irony in characters marvelling at the “blistering speed” of the technology, convinced it will never be surpassed. This era-specific humour extends to the subplots, including a nod to the accidental discovery of a certain blood pressure medication that would eventually change the world—the future Viagra.
The characters feel instantly recognisable, moving with an energy that frequently evokes the best moments of Still Game. While the plot is a chaotic juggle of weddings and footballing rivalries, the heart of the show remains the McCann family. Initially appearing as a somewhat surreal “spooky neighbour,” Maggie becomes the production’s emotional heartbeat in the second act. It is revealed that, having never married or had children of her own, she views the McCann daughters as her own kin. When Rita asks her daughters to include Maggie in a wedding dress fitting, the play hits a genuinely heartfelt note. It is a moment that resonates with anyone familiar with the “unofficial auntie”—the neighbour who becomes family by sheer presence and love.
Technically, the production faces the challenge of Kirkintilloch Town Hall’s acoustics. Without microphones, the venue can be a difficult space for sound, yet the ensemble deals with this admirably. The cast’s projection is strong, ensuring the quick-fire Glasgow wit isn’t swallowed by the hall’s architecture.
The production succeeds because it has a total command of its genre. By prioritising the rhythm of Glasgow wit and the warmth of local nostalgia over unnecessary spectacle, it delivers exactly what it promises. It is a boisterous evening that knows exactly who its audience is—a tribe that values a good laugh and a bit of “gallus” spirit above all else.
Reviewed on 21 February 2026 | Image: Contributed
