The football terrace chant, as it was then, was the last repository of true folk music. It's amazing how quickly snippets of topical import would make their way into the baying derogatory chorus, but it was usually inflammatory insults aimed at the opposing fans and indeed the town they lived in. One ghetto having a go at another. Take this favourite anti-Liverpool chant of mine, the classic 'Kop Twats', to the tune of 'Top Cat':
Kop Twats,
You thieving bastards,
Kop Twats,
You thieving bastards,
We all know you sign on the dole,
And you live in a fucking shit 'ole.
It was all about how they were worse off than us - an accusation that could equally be levelled at ourselves. As well as everything else, days out at Old Trafford were an invaluable introduction to the delights of crowd-poisoning.