All these ‘fun’ bands are falling flat. Let us enjoy sport
The drama of the main event is enough. There is no need for distractions from sidelines, argues James Corrigan
The silence cannot come soon enough. Fans can just revel in the peace
That band, that flaming band. Sitting at home on Wednesday night watching England playing Switzerland and once more being exposed to that incessant din was to hear the lament for the death of crowd spontaneity, for the strangling of unprompted enjoyment.
Cannot the Football Association ban “The Band”, cannot the FA, at the very least, shove a Mitre Impel down their tuba? Or do we have to wait until those embarrassing dads get as bored as we are and go off to find another pursuit which they believe to be both patriotic and hilarious, such as Morris dancing?
Whichever and whatever, the dawning of the silence will not come soon enough. When the noise stops – as the fun undoubtedly did long, long ago – England fans might very well just stand there and, instead of raising their collective voice in enforced jollity, simply revel in the peace and appreciate not having to listen to the 157th rendition of Atomic Kittens’ Whole Again.
To be fair, the band are not alone in insisting on trying to rise above the blessedly organic aura of such tribal settings and to leave their “aren’t we great?” mark.
The Barmy Army have no equal when it comes to hijacking sporting atmospheres. What started as a few lads and lasses in the mid-nineties barking out gallowshumour chants concerning the hopelessness of their team has mushroomed into a never-ending wail of commercialism.
The Army actually employ staff to produce their merchandise, to sell their trips, to market their fame. Of course, it was bound to happen, just as “The Band” were an inevitable decline and, alas, just as the “Guardians of the Ryder Cup” have been an inexorable deterioration.
As we look forward to a biennial clash which promises to rival any before, some of us are finding the excitement tinged by the realisation that somewhere in the Home Counties, grown men in blue-and-gold costumes are meeting to compose their excruciating ditties about Tommy Fleetwood’s hair and Thomas Bjorn’s eyebrows.
And so they will march on Le Golf National in Paris, with their lines prepared, their front-row seats in the first-tee grandstand confirmed, and so they will completely take over and ruin what, in fact, they are attempting to create. They were not there at the K Club in 2006 or Celtic Manor in 2010 and they were plainly not needed. No jackasses required. Those matches enjoyed by far the best atmospheres the match has ever witnessed. The Guardians were born out of the Miracle of Medinah in 2012 and multiplied for Gleneagles.
Apparently, the Ryder Cup officials have been in touch asking them to shorten their refrains, simplify their shanties and encourage others to join in, and we can only pray they comply.
Or, maybe they can wake up on the Friday and say: “To hell with it lads, let’s dress normally today, let’s not try to stand out from the crowd, but merely be a part of it.
“This doesn’t have to be about us, we can enjoy watching the sport and responding to what we see with cheers and, perhaps, boos, and, who knows, maybe we can pipe up when an original idea springs to mind and maybe the rest will sing along, too? And for goodness sake, put away that trumpet.”