Bohemian FC is more than a football club

The Aviva Stadium of Dublin, home to both the Irish rugby union and football teams, is not an especially characterful structure. Silver, shiny, and corporate-smooth, it bears the name of a London-based multinational insurance company, and, in general, rubs uneasily against the warm, half-cut cheeriness of Irish football fans in full song. But, earlier this year, on a fine Sunday afternoon of mid-February, the Aviva played host to a spicier occasion than normal. There, for the first time, a League of Ireland football match was to be played in front of a record-breaking number of fans, a testament to the growing popularity of Ireland’s domestic league. This was the opening weekend of a new season, and a Dublin derby, too: Bohemian FC versus Shamrock Rovers.

Before kick off, the atmosphere was boisterous. Good-humoured animosity was sprayed from one set of fans to the other, ratty banners taking the piss out of the opposition were raised, and many colourful flags were waved, including, notably, Palestinian flags wielded by both sets of fans. Flares were lit and chants were roared, and if you closed your eyes tightly enough it was possible to trick yourself into believing you were at a night-time derby in Istanbul, rather than this lazy afternoon in Ireland’s capital.

It was Bohemians – or ​‘Bohs’ as the club is known locally – who surrendered home advantage for the occasion, swapping its north Dublin Dalymount Stadium of Phibsborough for the Aviva, which stands further south. But there was a logic to the move: there is more interest than ever in both the club and the league, and now is the time to capitalise. Dalymount will be soon redeveloped, meaning likely from next season, Bohs will become a roving club without a fixed home, which will inevitably come with both sporting and financial challenges. Playing this fixture at the Aviva – that is, selling more match-day tickets – may serve them well next year, as finances begin to creak without the stability of its home ground to count on.

These are revenue-generating experiments worth playing with as Bohs, of all clubs, are in no position to rely on the protection of a millionaire owner over the coming years of instability. The club is member-owned, and has operated that way since their inception in 1890. One member, one vote: it can seem a quaintly radical way to run a football club in this sporting era of petrostates and private equity. Bohs, of course, isn’t the only fan-owned team in the world, nor even the only one in the League of Ireland. But it does tend to stand out.

Bohemians, true to their very name, are the trendy choice of Irish football team. It hosts half-time raves, produces the most aesthetically pleasing match day posters around, and on occasion, tog out in the bright, bubblegum pink-and-blue of indie-kid darlings Fontaines D.C., who appear on the men’s third kit this season. But vibes alone can drag a club only so far, and much more important to Bohs’ appeal is the work that it does in the surrounding community.

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Dublin, and the country that bears it, is a land of mounting problems. Irish housing costs in 2023 were said to be double the EU average, leaving the country trapped in a long, unending housing crisis which has driven large numbers of people to homelessness and emigration, or, in the case of 69% of 25-year-olds, forced them to live at home with their parents. Public infrastructure is, in many areas, underdeveloped, the healthcare system is among the worst performing in the northern hemisphere, and foods and services are among the most expensive in the EU, second only to Denmark in 2024. The government’s purported efforts to decarbonise have been meek and largely ineffectual, yet the country is as vulnerable as anywhere else to climate breakdown, as a recent, devastating storm laid bare, when record-breaking winds left more than 725,000 homes and businesses without power, with some in rural areas waiting two long weeks to be reconnected. 

For all the craic the country’s tourism board may promise to overseas visitors, nightlife is struggling, with more than 2,000 pubs shutting down across the country over the last 20 years and Dublin’s active nightclubs dwindling from around 100 in the year 2000 to just 23 today. Moods are frayed, and in tune with the rest of Europe, the far-right is agitating. It is within this prickly context that Bohs are stepping forward as more than just a football club. Be that through arranging ambitious, logistically complex social projects at large scale, or, at a simpler level, through offering some precious space within which a community might breathe.

“We’ve lost a lot in Dublin,” Daniel Lambert, Bohs’ chief operating officer, tells me. ​“Social spaces, affordability, nightclubs – so much of that has been taken away. They’re all gone, because that land is being used to maximise income for global capital. But Dalymount is a community-owned space. It allows for social connections, but also the ability to go there for 15 or 20 quid, have a night out, [listen to] music – all these things that don’t really exist elsewhere anymore.”

In contemporary Dublin, providing a space for people to meet is a precious, increasingly rare thing. But Bohs’ work is far more expansive. Take their annual Christmas gift initiative, in which the club, some partners, and a network of volunteers provide a wrapped Christmas present to each child trapped in Ireland’s system of direct provision. Direct provision is, according to Amnesty International, a ​“human rights scandal” designed to provide housing and basic necessities for asylum seekers who have come to Ireland seeking international protection. But in practice, it forces them to live in cramped conditions, with low quality food, and potentially leaves them languishing in the system for years. By providing these children with at least a gift each Christmas, the club offers generosity that the state does not.

Anti-racism is a core tenet of Bohemians’ ethos, with club members running workshops in primary schools about migration, aimed at challenging anti-immigrant sentiments and to promote understanding among kids for those who come to Ireland. ​“I am a firm believer,” says Aibhínn Conway, the club’s head of community, ​“that if you can get into a school, the possibilities are endless. Schools are the focal point of most communities. It’s where everybody comes together.”

Palestine also features prominently in Bohs’ activism – indeed, serving as the club’s chief operating officer is not Lambert’s only job. He’s also the manager of hip-hop group Kneecap, who, over the last few weeks, have found themselves trapped in the middle of one of Britain’s periodic moral outrages, which was sparked by the band’s loud show of support for the Palestinians at Coachella. Lambert has been forced to appear in Irish media, defending his band and pointing out: ​“Children are starving to death, and we’re spending six or seven days talking about Kneecap. We spent less than a day talking about 15 executed medics.”

Lambert has long spoken out in support of Palestine, and his club has been known to do the same. Bohs has previously raised money to help children access sports in the West Bank, while last May it arranged a solidarity match with the Palestinian women’s team, which was played shortly after Israel’s offensive against the city of Rafah began, forcing hundreds of thousands of people to flee their homes. The club’s open support for Palestine is entirely in line with public opinion throughout Ireland – Shamrock Rovers fans, too, were waving Palestine flags at that match in the Aviva – but, within the global footballing ecosystem, Bohs’ advocacy is rare.

“It’s absolutely ludicrous that Israel isn’t isolated and sanctioned by the rest of the world in football,” says Lambert. ​“It’s no surprise that organisations like UEFA and FIFA are doing nothing, but the hypocrisy – the fact Russia’s banned and Israel isn’t – is just outrageous.”

Bohemians, unbridled by the need to generate profits for shareholders, is in a position to take up positions other clubs wouldn’t. In 2021, the club took the unprecedented step of appointing a dedicated climate justice officer. ​“I know it’s weird – a football club doing this” the man himself, Seán McCabe, tells me. ​“But a football club is a manifestation of community. A lot of people working on the climate are trying to instigate new institutions almost to replicate what football is already doing, or what trade unions are already doing, or what the church is already doing. Sometimes we don’t need new institutions. We need to go to the institutions that already exist and meet people where they’re at.”

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McCabe, a man with years of experience working on climate policy, understands that a whiff of elitism is often associated with environmentalism, but he is keen to impress that the club does not make ordinary people’s lives harder in the process. It’s about remaining ​“grounded in the material needs of people” and launching initiatives that serve more than a green agenda alone. The club plans to establish a ​“bike library” and a wider ​“library of things”, where locals will be able to access specific items that are used only on occasion, which are ​“green”, but will also serve people’s immediate, day-to-day needs. Their association with a nearby organic farm means club members can access locally grown fruit and veg for a reasonable price. That, too, is ​“green” but also confronts the cost-of-living crisis. 

Ideas to retrofit club members’ houses to make them more energy efficient while keeping bills down are also being considered. And there is a plan to establish a community climate cooperative, based around principles developed by the Mondragon Corporation in the Basque Country – the world’s biggest co-op and one of Spain’s biggest corporations full stop. About 70,000 people work for Mondragon, which is constituted by a network of autonomous co-ops where all member-workers are entitled to an equal say in how the business operates, as well as a share of the profits generated. The model rather aligns with a member-owned sports club, and, in recognition of that, Bohs have sent delegations to visit Mondragon for inspiration, as they look ahead to the launch of their own climate co-op later this year.

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“We believe our cultural footprint is more important than our carbon footprint,” says McCabe. ​“That’s not to diminish the importance of reducing our own emissions – we are trying to do that. But that’s only a fraction of what we can achieve. The real role football clubs and institutions like ours can play in the climate crisis is to bring the sense of belonging that football culture provides, and to help people see themselves in the future. And, then, to organise and work towards that future.”

Wearing their politics on their rainbow-coloured sleeves is important to Bohs, but that invariably rubs some people up the wrong way. Rival fans and online commentators have decried the club’s pronouncements as ​“virtue signalling”, while their partnerships with big corporations like Guinness, not to mention their decision to host the Shamrock Rovers match in the Aviva, have drawn calls of hypocrisy. If the club was serious about its progressivism, the logic goes, it wouldn’t engage with capitalist enterprises, but, as Lambert suggests, Bohs need to balance their ideals with the realities of functioning as a successful sporting club. ​“Our competitors can outbid us on players,” he says. ​“They can finance more. They can make losses. We can’t.”

Lambert insists that, despite their corporate partners, Bohs have not felt pressured to act any differently, meaning they can undertake their community work freely. There is a message positioned above one of the stands at Dalymount Park, which was once sold to advertisers, but now reads: ​“Love football, hate racism” with a raised fist at its centre. ​“We used to sell that space,” Lambert explains. ​“But now, rather than a company, there’s an anti-racism message that may shape people’s views. It’s not a lecture. It just exists. And, on the side of the pitch now is a large mural with the Palestinian flag and the Irish flag. That’s in the stadium – 4,000 people seeing that every Friday. That might challenge some things that people are hearing in another part of their day or week.”

And it’s these supporters who form the true foundations of the club, and its values. Being fully fan-owned naturally requires the need to serve its members, which in turn means embodying their values, while empowering them to make decisions about how their club is run. As important as results on the pitch are, Bohs can’t just stick to the football.

“The success of the football club,” Lambert says, ​“directly rests on thousands of people willing to become a member, give time, buy shirts, all that stuff. If we’re to be successful, there has to be something that motivates and connects with these people beyond results on the pitch. If we can champion issues that are faced by the people of Dublin or Ireland, or issues that are close to their hearts that may be further afield, like in Palestine, then ultimately that’s connecting with people in a real way.”

That opening match of the season, against Shamrock Rovers in the Aviva, ended with a 1 – 0 victory to Bohs. It had not been a classic. Once the flares before kick-off had dissipated, the game settled into a generally flat, start-of-season spectacle, defined by rust and still-stiff joints. But compared to watching the Premier League on TV, where waxed millionaires with nice hair and stone-carved bellies pass sideways around the back, this League of Ireland match, in which good-but-not-elite athletes twatted the ball long and attacked down the wings, was magical. It was a fun day, underpinned by the warm hum of knowing the home team on the pitch actually speaks to the values of its fans. Win or lose – and the Bohs men’s team, following this game, would indeed go on a run of terrible form – there is more to this thing than three points and making money.

“The club gets hit with [calls to] ​‘focus on the football’, this kind of stuff,” Conway tells me. ​“If you’re somebody who gets their fix out of a result on a Friday night, then happy days. But this club can impact many more people in the community who’ll never step foot into Dalymount on a Friday night. And that can be their three points, you know?”

Tiernan Cannon is an Irish freelance writer. Follow him on X.

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