Can Man Live By Chants Alone?

By Jonny Abrams

There’s a man at one of our locals who is always there when there’s a game on, perched on a stool, on his lonesome.
 
The curious thing is that, no matter which teams are involved, he will at regular intervals break into a thunderous rendition of that time-honoured classic: “WHO ARE YA?? WHO ARE YA??”
 
Which smacks of irony, given that I’m not sure anyone there actually knows who he is.
 
No doubt he is always the first to shout “Waheeeey!” whenever someone drops a glass, or “She fell over! She fell over!” whenever some poor unfortunate stumbles into an unscheduled meeting with the floor.  
 
I liked to speculate that he was merely trying to introduce himself to someone at the next table. Surely he knew the identity of these players and teams, and was aware that they couldn’t hear him? It seems, though, that cold, hard logic is not the strong suit of the habitual chanter.
 
The pantomime-esque exchange of standards – as “Shall we sing a song for you?” begets “You’ve never won f***-all!” – is not the preserve of football stadia. Their presence is in fact all-pervading, awash as our nation’s streets are with “You fat bastard!”, “Get your t*ts out for the lads!” and “You’re going home in a f***ing ambulance!” – and myriad other classics.
 
All of which caused me to wonder: can man live by chants alone? I decided to devote an entire day to communicating exclusively by chanting...and it’s not as hard as you’d think.
 
I awoke in the morning, as one does, and hit the alarm. This of course was my cue to leap out of bed, throw scornful looks at my alarm clock (ok, mobile phone), put my finger to my lips and emit an exaggerated “SSSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHH!!!!”.
 
The ensuing silence spoke volumes and, vindicated, I drank some coffee and headed out to Sport.co.uk Towers.
 
As is customary on London Underground, I joined the yawning throngs in sitting in a zombified state of silence, desperately trying to fix my gaze on an advert, a tube map, anything to avoid one of those uncomfortable snaps of eye contact with a complete stranger.
 
However, whenever my gaze slipped into an inadvertent exchange of glances with an opposite zombie, a tiny yet persistent voice inwardly intoned: “WHO ARE YA?? WHO ARE YA??”. Each time, I shrugged wearily, reasoning that I would probably never know.
 
“The next station is…Bank,” announced the emotionless and detached female voice of our city’s trains and lifts, probably earning its owner yet another 11p royalty payment in the process. My stop. Time to break the oppressive silence.
 
“STAND UP…IF YOU’RE GETTING OFF! STAND UP…IF YOU’RE GETTING OFF! STAND UP…IF YOU’RE GETTING OFF! STAND UP…IF YOU’RE GETTING OFF!” (To the tune of Go West)
 
You’ve never seen so many startled faces disappear behind so many copies of London Metro. Undeterred, I made my merry way to Sport.co.uk Towers, pausing only to direct a befuddled tourist to Amarillo.
 
In I strode, with a purposeful gait, ready to face yet another set of challenges, another bombardment of disgruntled readers, and another cup of coffee. Sport.co.uk editor Nigel Brown was already present and deeply engrossed in the screen of his laptop, but I managed to hail his – and the rest of the office’s – attention by bawling:

“SHALL I WRITE A PIECE FOR YOU? SHAAAALL I WRITE A PIECE FOR YOU? SHALL I WRITE A, SHALL I WRITE A, SHALL I WRITE A PIECE FOR YOU? SHAAAALL…” (To the tune of Bread of Heaven)
 
By now, I was clapping along and gently bouncing, but I was swiftly put in my place by the rest of the Sport.co.uk team, who implored me to “SIT DOWN, SHUT UP! SIT DOWN, SHUT UP!”
 
Nigel tossed me a couple of Top Ten features, like a string of sausages to a rabid and pursuing hound, and this riled me somewhat. I always get given the Top Tens; I felt cheated. Nigel was cheating again, and I was sure to let him know how I felt via the medium of chant: “SAME OLD NIGEL…”
 
Nonetheless, I got stuck into my tasks with the same degree of professionalism – and, dare I say it, class and integrity – that the Sport.co.uk team have no doubt come to expect from me. Until, of course, the first signs of rumbling stomach kicked in, at which I was off like a shot for a nice, leisurely lunch. I was jonesing for a pie.
 
Disaster: no more pies left. Damn my uber-professionalism. But who had eaten them all? I took a deep intake of breath and prepared to holler my salient inquiry, but was stopped in my stride by the chap at the counter: “Can I get you something else, sir?”
 
I pondered for a moment, as I tried to recall the melody of 'Daydream Believer'.
 
“CHICKEN PITTA, PLEASE! WITH SOME CHIPS AND BEANS! AND AN APPLE RIBENA, AND A KINGSIZE CRUNCHIE!”
 
The rest of the working day passed mostly without incident. My throat and lungs were suffering wear and tear, and my brain had been frazzled into submission by the idiocy of it all. Figuring that I’d need later to unwind with a drink, I made a few phonecalls (ok, texts) and assembled some close friends to sink a few at the local.
 
All were in good form and good spirits, in spite of the shoddy lager and mediocre fare served up live on television by Besiktas and Manchester United. At least, I think it was mediocre; my attention was constantly shifting to the Helen of Troy-like beauty sitting in the corner.
 
She was the kind of girl whose very existence can damage a man emotionally; who wafts past on her unreachable plane as if in some beautiful bubble, seizing men’s hearts like a vice without uttering a single word and leaving them reeling as she disappears out of sight and out of their lives.
 
My trance-like state was brought to an abrupt halt by a familiar refrain emanating from behind:
 
“WHO ARE YA?? WHO ARE YA?? WHO ARE YA????”
 
Just as I turned to deliver a brusque instruction for the perpetrator to “SIT DOWN, SHUT UP!”, the girl in the corner stood up from her chair, wafted across the pub, and extended a hand to the lone man on the stool. The moronic, perching parrot himself.
 
“I’m Helen,” she said, with a voice you could line cushions with. “What’s your name?”
 
“YOU’RE FIT, AND YOU KNOW YOU ARE!” replied the parrot man. “YOU’RE FIT, AND YOU KNOW YOU ARE!”
 
At this, she chuckled, whispered something into his ear, and they were out of the front doors and into a taxi before you could say, “F*** me, Zurich just scored two in two minutes against Real!”
 
My disgruntlement at what had just occurred was clearly evident to my so-called friends, who proceeded to stand up and chant, in unison: “YOU’RE GOING HOME WITH A F***ING BATTLEAXE! YOU’RE GOING HOME WITH A F***ING BATTLEAXE!” (Followed, of course, by a round of clapping.)
 
Thoroughly defeated, I trudged out of the pub to a bellowing chorus of “BYE BYE! BYE BYE! BYE BYE! BYE BYYYYYEEEE!!!”
 
I hailed a taxi of my own, and it swerved to my side in accordance. The window rolled down. “Where you going, mate?”
 
A few moments of deep thought elapsed before I stood back, cleared my throat, and let loose one final, mighty roar:

“GOING DOWN, GOING DOWN, GOING DOWN! GOING DOWN, GOING DOWN, GOING DOOOOWWWWN!!! GOING DOWN, GOING DOWN…the road and then left at the lights, please. I’ll direct you from there.”
 
Man cannot live by chants alone.