The end of an era?

I seem to have caused quite a stir in the Boleyn Ground’s corridors of power. The anger that had been welling up inside me since my confrontation with the vile racist IBM in December (see 9/12/08) needed an escape valve, so as well as blogging on the subject, I sent a letter to the club’s chief executive, Scott Duxbury, and pitched an article at When Saturday Comes.

The magazine jumped at the idea and asked me to write a piece for its website the same day. But as I had other commitments, they commissioned me to write a one-page feature for the magazine.

Whether it was the fact that I had warned the powers that be at West Ham that one of only two national football magazines would be publishing an article based on my damning letter, but I received a call from someone at the club.

As I didn’t really have anything else to say on the subject, I never rang him back. A few days later, after When Saturday Comes had hit the streets (see July issue, p35), he called again and left another message.

I rang the man – stadium manager Ron Pearce – back the following day. I was impressed by his determination to talk to me, until he admitted that he had lost my original letter and only remembered my name when a friend asked whether he read the article in When Saturday Comes.

I warmed to Ron, who was determined to address the problem. He had obviously done his research into the fan in question and my background, and was adamant that he didn’t want me to relinquish my season ticket. He asked whether I wanted the racist banned, but as the idiot clearly has nothing else in his life, I thought that this wasn’t a good idea. He would know straight away that I was behind it, and in the unlikely event that any of his friends can read, he could easily track me down. We settled on placing a couple of plain-clothes police offers around IBM next season to 'observe'.

Ron and I reminisced about the ‘good old days’. He was clearly a passionate and long-standing fan, and although not as jaded as me, he could clearly understand where I was coming from. He offered to move me to a better seat, but I rejected this suggestion. Part of the reason I still go to games is because I have been standing or sitting on the same piece of concrete for more than 20 years – far longer than the ignoramus behind me (far longer, in fact, than Nick Hornby ever did). The view may not be as good as it used to be, but for sentimental reasons, I am not sure that I can move. Plus, it would be admitting defeat.

I was told that if I changed my mind, I should post my application direct to Ron, who would sort me out with the best possible seat.

But with 12 hours to go until I head to Asia for eight weeks (ironically, I have timed my return to coincide with the first game of the season), I’m still ambivalent about forking out £800 for nine months of average football and foul-mouthed abuse from yobs with IQs lower than their shoe size.