Why I won’t be jumping at the chants of rugby lot
RIGHT, let’s get the preliminaries out of the way quickly. While I don’t intend on going through all the reasons why I’ve never been a rugby fan, I must admit to having a particular dislike for the Six Nations Championship.
This is largely due to the fact that, every year around this time, people who know as much about the sport as I do suddenly become experts. But we will return to that subject some other time. My main preoccupation at the moment is specifically related to Ireland’s next home game in the tournament being against the Welsh team.
Now I will openly admit to having slightly ambivalent feelings about Wales, even though anyone I’ve ever met from there has been perfectly pleasant. My reasons for this are twofold in that I have less than fond memories of (a) hellish journeys on the Holyhead ferry and (b) having to sit through excruciatingly unfunny performances by comedian Max Boyce on the telly when I was a kid.
Besides, although I am sure it has many fine attributes, Wales always struck me as the sort of place you passed through on the way to somewhere more interesting.
A bit like a very large airport terminal, perhaps, or a country-sized version of Foxrock.
Still, it goes without saying that Wales has brought much to the world in terms of its distinguished progeny. Off the top of my head I can think of Dylan Thomas, Richard Burton, Ryan Giggs, world snooker champions Ray Reardon and Terry Griffiths, Rob Brydon, former glamour model Sian Adey-Jones and, of course, possibly even St Patrick.
But it is probably in the area of music that it has made the greatest contribution. From Tom Jones and Shirley Bassey to Charlotte Church and Manic Street Preachers, there is no mistaking the country’s impressive pedigree. I’d even happily listen to some of their male voice choirs.
The problem is, though, that everyone from Wales – or at least all the rugby fans – seems to think they can all sing as well. Which, as anyone in the vicinity of The Stadium Formerly Known As Lansdowne Road next Saturday week will discover, isn’t always the case.
Even the boys from the valleys without a note in their heads will be exercising their vocal cords at full throttle. Whatever about the state of the playing surface, the pitch certainly won’t be perfect up in the stands.
Mind you, I don’t suppose we are any better in this country anymore. Those of us old enough to remember the tradition of the pub sing-song will recall that a basic requirement for anyone joining in was that they could at least hold a tune. But it increasingly seems that every social situation can easily turn into a mass chorus performed by everyone assembled, regardless of whether they are tonedeaf or not.
It is the choice of material that really gets to me, though. Call me an unsentimental old cynic, but I genuinely cannot fathom how or why The Fields Of Athenry – a thoroughly depressing dirge about the Famine and the forced transportation of the narrator to an Australian penal colony – became so popular with sports fans. For years now, though, it has been an unofficial anthem among supporters of the Ireland soccer team, the Ireland and Munster rugby sides, Glasgow Celtic FC and countless others.
Even more puzzling is how the infernal Olé refrain ever caught on.
According to most accounts, it was first sung by Republic of Ireland fans during the World Cup in Italy in 1990. Other versions suggest it dates from the European Championships two years earlier. But given that it is a Spanish chant, and that we didn’t even play Spain in either of those tournaments, I’m still at a loss to explain it.
Of course, it is now virtually impossible to avoid hearing it at any sporting event where there are Irish people in attendance. There is also ample anecdotal evidence of groups of people breaking into an impromptu rendition of it in pubs, at gigs and even on the last bus home.
Worse than that, there was a particularly cringe-making scene on last Friday’s Late Late Show. It was bad enough having to watch a grown man propose to his girlfriend on live television. But it was several times more embarrassing when the lady in question accepted and the audience responded with a rousing chorus of – yes, you’ve guessed it – Olé, Olé, Olé.
Frankly, I didn’t know where to look. I suppose it is only a matter of time before we start hearing it at First Holy Communions, funerals, and perhaps the conclusion of trials in the Courts of Justice as well.