The Most Worthy Grand Mistress of the Ladies Orange Association of Scotland has invited me to their annual Church Parade and Service and I feel it would be churlish of me not to accept. Sadly, I’m unable to join the Orange ladies for breakfast beforehand as I’ll be attending Holy Mass. “Tell the ladies, I’ll be saying a Hail Mary for them that their big day goes well and I’ll pop along a bit later to see them off on their walk to the church,” I tell David Walters, executive officer of the Orange Orders in Scotland.

And so, Mass over, sacraments partaken of and blessed by Holy Water, I head for Blythswood Square to watch the Orange ladies gather and their bands assemble before they all set off through the city centre towards the Evangelical Church.

I’ve been a witness to these parades for most of my adult life. As a Catholic growing up in the west of Scotland, they held a cautious fascination for me: part fear, part excitement. Right now though, I’m experiencing something else; something I’d never previously have thought it possible to feel about this gathering: empathy, affection and … bloody hell: is there a bat-squeak of emotion here too?

Watching an Orange parade swing past you is always something to behold; being present as this one rises on Holland Street, just below the square is something else entirely. It’s not quite stumbling upon the source of the Nile, but for someone like me, it still feels rather – how can I put this – hallowed.

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I’ve chosen to wear a blue suit for the occasion and I’m standing just a little back from the throng as it begins to swell. A wee phalanx of ladies, all smart and pleased in their orange dresses and white jackets passes by. One of them, seeing me spark up a cigarette, asks for a light. “You’ve got a good day for it,” I venture. “Thank God,” she says, “I can’t afford to have another hat ruined by the rain.”

Another thought: I’ve been on many political marches and protests, but this is probably the most authentically working-class gathering I’ve ever seen. If you know, you know. The clothing, the snatched conversations about the Rangers and their present perils; the hand movements, the way a cigarette is held; the shapes, the sizes, the absolute imperviousness to what anyone else might think of them.

There’s no belligerence here though; no hostility or threat. They’re drawn mainly from the most economically-deprived neighbourhoods: Springburn, Possilpark, Townhead, Birdgeton, Dalmarnock, Calton, Toryglen, Gorbals.

On social media posts in the days following this parade, a slew of unvarnished misogyny will accompany pictures of it, much of it from those who like to channel progressiveness and inclusion. The word ‘hatefest’ will feature from people actively engaging in ‘hate’ towards these women.

It will come from a middle-class, political elite who actively pursue a cultural agenda of ‘no-debate’ which cancels dissidents; hounds them out of their jobs; publicly humiliates them and encourages their colleagues and family to disown them. It’s from the Stasi playbook.

They’ll tell the Orangemen that they don’t belong in modern, progressive, enlightened Scotland and to get back to the 19th century. This is ironic, because the attitudes and methods of the culture warriors are firmly rooted in the witch trials of the 16th century.

The Ladies Orange Association of Scotland walk through the streets of Glasgow city centre last month (Image: Robert Perry) Last year, these same people had sought to destroy the political career of........

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