After boarding from West Worthing at 8.30am, I closed my eyes for a few seconds and was transported back a generation or two to the glory days of the ICF.
Real voices from East London echoed around the front carriage:
“I’m looking forward to a draw today.”
“All he has to do is strengthen the defense.”
‘Are you going to the Bournemouth match?’
‘You still owe me for Old Trafford!’
When I opened my eyes to the sound of the plastic wrapping of an Estrella multi-pack being torn to pieces in almost every match this season, like the Whammers’ backline, I was pleased to note that the dozens of West Ham fans heading into (I wanted to say ‘their spiritual home’, but who am I kidding?) the soulless athletics arena masquerading as a football stadium were all on the wrong side of fifty.
Then I remembered some of my recent encounters with traveling members of the Toon Army, with their age-old stories of beatings, banning orders and the like. Perhaps it would be wise to keep my head down rather than fool around with these prima facie gentlemen. My crazy Christmas sweater and shaving my days-old skull with the No2 clippers could be considered a provocation. . .
Gray hair is no guarantee of respectability. Neither is a shiny bot. As for the crossed sledgehammer tattoo on the neck of a fan who stood up to take off his Harrington jacket, that was definitely a no-no.
With my earworms in the best traditions of an undercover hack, I sensed a general air of resignation among these long-suffering West Ham fans. Dismissal, not demotion.
Kicked out of the Boleyn, denied the unique atmosphere of the Chicken Run, unable to rekindle the glow of illuminated nights now that they were forced to wander into a gentrified former wasteland a few miles east-northeast, these fans were somehow heroic in their dedication to the cause. Almost Olympic.
There is so much wrong with the beautiful game: incompetence from top to bottom, corruption, sterile tactics, disloyalty, pay TV, rentagob experts, the power of money, not talking but swearing like an adolescent wannabe. . . To misquote Julie Andrews, these are some of my least favorite things.
Through it all, however, an unbreakable bond (in this particular case, Billy Bonds) connects thousands of men on match day. No, not just on race day. Almost every day. Those hellish breaks in the club calendar for international matches are a nightmare, causing the addict to lose his fixation.
There is something of the battered wife syndrome in the unequal relationship between those who run football and those who keep it alive. No matter how often and how badly the supporter is abused and mistreated, ignored and vilified, he keeps coming back for more. Those who line their deep pockets by exploiting this eternal devotion should count their lucky stars: whatever they do to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, it is indestructible.
As the Southern Rail service passed through Sussex towards London, more Whammers boarded. Once again I heard the eternal optimist announce to his tolerant traveling companion: “I’m looking forward to a draw today. We just need to strengthen the back.”
Talk about clutching at straws. Or Shaw’s.
Although I was keen to tell him that West Ham would have more chances with Shaw (Martin), Shaw (George Bernard) and Shaw (Fiona) as three centre-backs, I gave a little respect (Erasure, 1988) and stayed schtum.
The laughably named London Stadium, which cost numerous times more than the initial estimate, has shocking transport links. Cars are more or less banned from the area. Stratford is the nearest major tube station, about a mile away. The club’s website warns of apocalyptic delays if you head that way after the final whistle. London buses? We all know you wait hours for it; then three will come at the same time!
Perhaps that explains the thousands of empty seats on display to TV audiences last quarter. Maybe not. . .
Extensive research led me to take the tube from Victoria towards Tottenham and then south east to Hackney Wick on a London Overground service. An afternoon meeting was arranged at a microbrewery with a Spurs fan, a West Ham fan and a football agnostic. What can go wrong?
Well, Southern Fail did their best and moved slower than Max Kilman. We stumbled through Balham, the mythical gateway to the south, according to The Goons. At this rate, my two-hour trip with two transfers would take at least three hours.
At Highbury and Islington station I asked a West Ham fan, who was going to the match with his young son and daughter, if they would win today.
“Don’t doubt it, don’t have much hope… Yet it is the participation that counts. I haven’t done much about that lately!”
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