All good things come to an end

Sunday August 23 should have been a very strange day for me. It was the first West Ham home match since March 1986 that I hadn’t even considered attending.

I missed most Saturday matches between my first game, on Easter Monday 1986, and August 1988 because I was still at school (I went to a public school and had lessons on a Saturday). But I always thought about going. I bought my first a season ticket in 1989-90 – the year I went to university (I even chose my university, Southampton, because of its proximity to London). During my three years away, I missed only two home matches – the first weekend I was down there (a 3-2 victory over West Brom) and an evening Zenith Data Systems Cup tie (a 5-2 victory over Plymouth). Bearing in mind that West Ham were a very strong cup side at the time (we reached a semi-final in each of my three years at university) and were playing many extra matches, my record was impressive (I also went to 60% of our away games).

In the subsequent 16 seasons, I probably missed 12 home matches. On every occasion I was out of the country, with the exception of one match when I had the flu (a 4-3 win over Sheffield Wednesday, which was on TV) and a couple of games on Boxing Day (my mum frowned upon football taking priority over a family Christmas). Things changed slightly last season, when I missed two of our final five home matches – once to watch the Grand National on TV and the other time because a friend had invited me on an all-expenses-paid trip to Ascot.

My passion for West Ham (and football in general) has waned considerably over the past few seasons, for a variety of reasons: the lack of atmosphere at the stadium; the obscene amount of money in the game; cheating, money-grabbing players who move on as soon as they get a better offer; ridiculous ticket prices; and the offensive thugs who populate the Boleyn Ground (see 9/12/08).

It was a combination of these factors, plus the luxury of being able to do what I want on a Saturday, rather than turning down the chance of a weekend away because ‘we’re playing Bolton at home’, that ultimately led to my decision not to renew my season ticket. I must admit that on my way to Heathrow airport on June 20, I wrote to the stadium manager asking for a free season ticket (see 19/06), to make up for the stress caused by my row with the foul-mouthed racist sitting behind me. But he never replied.

So on August 21, I took the opportunity afforded by my new-found freedom to join my family for the final few days of their caravan holiday in Norfolk. The extent of my indifference was summed up by the fact that although the game – one of the highlights of our season, against Spurs – was being shown on TV, rather than find a pub in which to watch it, I spent the afternoon in a Great Yarmouth amusement arcade and taking my nephew and niece swimming. I clearly wasn’t the only one who has had enough, as the game didn't attract a capacity crowd; our first match of the season and against one of our biggest rivals would usually have sold out weeks in advance.

The next day, the message boards were dominated by posts about sections of West Ham fans (and large sections, from what I gather) singing ‘you should have died with your brother’ to ex-West Ham player Jermain Defoe, whose half-brother died in April after being assaulted in the street. As I pictured the West Ham fans, their faces contorted with rage, and I thought about the enjoyment of my niece and nephew as they splashed around the swimming pool, I knew that I had made the right decision to move on.

Fantasy football

Despite having relinquished my season ticket, I was tempted out of retirement for the cup-tie against Millwall a couple of weeks ago. I have been to half a dozen matches against our biggest rivals over the past 20 years and almost without exception, they have been experiences that I will never forget. On my first visit to the Old Den, in December 1988, I turned off the Old Kent Road up towards the ground, only to find police on horseback charging fans. I just started running, along with everyone else. Even though I never wore colours, I decided not to hang around outside. Inside the ground, the atmosphere was pure hatred. I have never experienced intimidation like it since. Perhaps it was the impetuosity of youth, but I still headed back there twice in the next four years (all the matches kicked off at Sunday lunchtimes).

Like most Irons fans who had experienced a West Ham v Millwall derby, I was really looking forward to this match. I attended with a close female friend, who has also just given up her season ticket. We arrived at Upton Park station at about 18.25 and walked down Green Street. According to the papers, we should have found ourselves in the middle of a riot. Instead, all we saw were 100 or so Burberry-clad, teenage West Ham fans drinking in a caged area next to the Queens pub, while singing (falsetto mainly) how much they hated Millwall. We actually shared a joke about their average age and how Millwall fans would be quaking in their boots.

After a quick visit to the ticket office, we headed to the Central pub on the Barking Road. Again, there were many boisterous Irons fans about. It was evident that a lot of them had been drinking all afternoon. Like the lads outside the Queens, these were the all mouth and no trousers brigade, who could probably recite every line from the Green Street movies, but who would run a mile if a single member of the Bushwhackers of F-Troop appeared.

We walked back to the Boleyn Ground at about 19.15. If anything, the atmosphere was less charged than for comparable derby games. When we play Spurs or Chelsea, there are always large groups of men hanging around Green Street, seemingly looking for trouble. But on this occasion, there was nobody. According to reports, there was plenty of action taking place outside Upton Park station, although there was no buzz that a riot was going on 300 yards up the street.

So we headed to our seats at the northern end of the Dr Martens Stand. It was only when we got into the ground that we saw our first Millwall fans. Now it's not for me to comment on what happened outside the ground because I didn't see anything. But there was clearly plenty of trouble. In my opinion, the worst trouble of the night occurred outside the stadium during the game, when the police had moved inside the stadium. The hardcore hooligans (and there are still many 'supporting' both sides) are too savvy to cause trouble in the ground, where their every move is recorded on CCTV.

Inside the stadium, the atmosphere was electric. It was a combination of hatred for the opposition and a more passionate support for the team than had been witnessed for years. The first incident happened in the Millwall end, when there was a scuffle with stewards down the front. When Millwall took the lead, their fans started goading the West Ham fans below us in the lower tier of the Dr Martens Stand.

News started to spread concerning the stabbing of a West Ham fan in Priory Road. This acted as a catalyst for more hatred to rain down on the away supporters. My friend received a call from her brother, advising us to get out of the ground as soon as possible, because Sky Sports was reporting that a riot was going on outside.

As the second half progressed, the atmosphere died down considerably. The people inside the stadium ultimately wanted West Ham to win a football match, and the team's insipid performance against lower-league opposition was embarrassing. However, with 15 minutes to go, a penalty appeal was turned down in front of our stand. With passions running high, there was a surge from the back of the stand, which caused a domino effect and people to spill over the advertising hoardings. The police immediately steamed over and started flailing their truncheons about. This exacerbated the problem, with every wannabe hooligan rushing over for a piece of the action. I saw only one man throw a punch, yet the police waded in as if a full-scale riot was taking place. It was an incredible case of over-reaction.

Of course, this cranked up the atmosphere. A man jumped out of the end of the Chicken Run nearest the away fans and ran in to attack them. He was soon pulled away by the police. Then with three minutes to go, Junior Stanislas ghosted in at the far post to score the equaliser. It had to be in front of the area where the earlier incident had taken place - and right in front of the Millwall fans. There was delirium all round the ground and a couple of hundred fans ran on to the pitch. But these weren't hooligans seeking to confront the Millwall fans. They were overexuberant drunks who had reacted to a match-defining moment during the most highly charged atmosphere the Boleyn Ground has witnessed for 20 years. Their motives were exemplified by their actions: posing for pictures, congratulating the players and dancing silly jigs. To a man, they were too scared to even venture into Millwall's half of the pitch, let alone goad their supporters.

The two subsequent pitch invasions, after the second and third goals were more pre-meditated, but involved fewer people. It was more a case of teenagers wanting to see themselves on TV or in the papers. The Millwall fans, meanwhile, began to rip up seats and throw them on to the pitch.

After the match, we made our way swiftly to the Green Gate pub. But as there was no evidence of the reported riot, and there were no buses about, we walked two miles through Plaistow to Stratford station. Again, we saw nothing that wouldn't have been unusual at a West Ham v Wigan fixture.

With the media's thirst for football hooliganism stories so infrequently sated these days, it was obvious that what had happened was going to make front-page news. And I can't deny that it was the worst trouble I had seen inside a stadium in my 23 years as a regular at the Boleyn Ground (with the possible exception of the ICF steaming into the Chelsea end in April 1986 – my fifth-ever game). But it was only the worst trouble because I had never seen truncheons wielded inside the ground, nor had I ever witnessed seats thrown on to the pitch. Yet the police hadn't needed to behave in such a heavy-handed way. And the seats were thrown on by Millwall fans.

As a journalist, the media coverage fascinated me. I bought all of the nationals the next day and the misreporting in all of them was shocking. I am not going to comment on what went on outside the ground. But most of what I read bore no relation to what I had seen. It was simply sensationalist reporting. According to The Sun: 'About 15 minutes from time, a large number of West Ham fans sitting close to the visiting contingent attempted to break the security cordon to get to their rival supporters.' This is a description of the penalty incident, when a surge from the back of the stand resulted in fans at the front being pushed into the stewards and police, only to be indiscriminately battered. Then after West Ham equalised, our best-selling paper reported: 'Stewards and riot police used shields and batons and battled heroically to keep rival fans apart as the game stopped for five minutes.'None of the beer-bellied West Ham fans had any desire to go near the Millwall end, no shield were in evidence, and the only time that batons were deployed had been 10 minutes earlier.

The Mirror's reports were almost identical, while The Independent even talked about the pitch invasions after 'each of Millwall's subsequent two goals' (obviously a night off for the subs). And for some reason, not one paper mentioned the ripped-up seats. It may not have been on the scale of the Luton riot of 1985, but such incidents still merited coverage.

But pride of place must go to Sky. Phil Thompson was watching the match on a monitor and castigated Stanislas for goading the Millwall fans and running to the area where the police had earlier been wielding their batons, after he had scored. The truth was that a 19-year-old lad scored a crucial equaliser in the biggest game of his career. He ran past the Millwall fans without looking at them, to reach the nearest set of West Ham fans – who happened to be in the aforementioned area.

Even Thompson's idiocy was surpassed, though, by a live report from outside the Boleyn Ground at 08.00 the following morning. The reporter must have been disappointed that the riot had finally died down (it was only 14 hours since it had apparently started). As there were no bodies lying prostrate on the ground nor any burning buildings, he obviously had to fill his airtime with something else. So as the camera panned in on him, he produced two bricks, ‘from a wall that the hooligans had knocked down to use as weapons’. He then bent down to pick up an iron bar – another weapon. But the best was yet to come, when he produced an uprooted tree. I couldn't help but laugh as I imagined some of east and south London's hardest men battering each other with two-foot saplings.

What went on outside the stadium that night was horrific and has no place in society, let alone football. As for what went on inside the stadium, like the majority of people at the match, I enjoyed myself more than I had at any football match for almost 20 years. It was intimidating and passionate and reminded me of why I fell in love with the game in the mid-1980s. As I thought about Sky's sanitised version of this once-great sport that I had been consuming for the past 10 years, I realised that giving up my season ticket had been one of the best decisions I had ever made. Let's hope we get Leeds or Chelsea in the next round.