The decline of the Great British terrace chant

Whatever became of Britain’s fabled terrace chants? You know the ones, the psalms of community and hymns of adulation with violent verses and catchy choruses. Are they lost to eternity like the piss soaked smells of half time bogs or do they still exist? Judging by today’s monotonous repetitions of Eurodance classics ( see GALA’s freed from desire) I’d be inclined to favour the latter.

The sixties and seventies gave birth to some of our national sports most iconic ditties and battle cries, from the Kopites on Merseyside singing about a fallen war hero ( Poor Scouser Tommy ) to the Geordie hordes bellowing out George Ridley’s classic Tyneside folk ballad ( The Blaydon Races ). These two examples along with many another have thankfully survived the dreaded cull from footballs setlist but where did our creativity and imagination go? Was it the advent of the Premier League and the pricing out of working classes? Was it the rise of social media and with it the almost complete evaporation of originality? Or was it a bigger cultural change within the UK all together?

Emerging from the ashes of rampant football hooliganism and ecstasy fuelled warehouse raves came the Premier League, a flashy marketable rebranding of England’s famous First Division. With grand designs on changing the worldwide footballing landscape, it would attract royalty, oligarchs, foreign superstars and a whole new type of fan. Ticket prices would sky rocket, live games would be shown in pubs and the rioting that had plagued the dilapidated enclosures of the previous two decades would be confined to grimy street corners far from the prying eyes of CCTV.

Now it is of course a great positive that our game tidied up its act, with going to the match a much friendlier experience than it may once have been, but did we perhaps lose that tribal aspect that had driven many a terrace classic when the match going demographic began to change? Groups of young men who had often penned such lyrics were largely driven from the game they loved by rising prices and zealous footballing authorities intent on stamping out bad behaviour. Maybe the football fervent breeding grounds of pit, mill and wharf had nurtured many a fine wordsmith who went on to debut their work on the icy cold open ends of England’s footballing pyramid. Shock horror, the unwashed masses can write.

Present at Wembley to watch my uncle represent Clitheroe in the FA Vase final.

Along with the advent of the Premier League came the ‘Americanisation’ of English Football, ‘entertainment’ featured cheerleaders, kick off times were altered to suit giant broadcasting firms, whilst television pundits tediously discussed tactics at half time. The raw intensity of a voracious home support became muffled by tannoys that throbbed out pre match music and sterile new stadia did little to enhance the dying art of the football chant. The teams were the same, the towns had changed little but something seemed amiss. We’d lost our soul.

Just when you thought things couldn’t get any worse, along came social media. As addictive as a last minute winner and much more readily available, we found ourselves hooked. The obsession with trends and following the crowd created a whole generation of clones. Would be shepherds became members of the flock, their creative juices sucked dry by the influencer influenza. It’s little wonder then that the same fate has befallen emerging terrace anthems. Change the name of said club to that of your own or name drop your favourite striker and guess what you’ve got a ‘new’ song. Couple this with the fact that many a golden oldie has had verses dropped due to the current generations dwindling attention span and we find ourselves in a rut. A Roker recession, a Fratton flop, a Spotland slump.

Here’s to the bad, good old days.