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.
 

The best of a bad lot?

Now the dust has settled on what can only be described as a better-than-expected season, I have to admit that I found it all a little boring. Yes, the quality of football has improved (although that’s not saying much after the past couple of seasons), but there were so few memorable matches – or even exciting moments.

Ask a fan to name their highlight of the season and they will be scratching their head. Securing a lucky point at Anfield? Thumping Portsmouth at Fratton Park? A draw at Stamford Bridge? Ask a fan who doesn’t attend away matches and the choice is even more limited. Hammering Blackburn 4-1? Dominating Hull? Coming back from a goal down to beat Macclesfield – after extra time? For me, the highlight was Carlton Cole winning Goal of the Month in March – something I watched on Match of the Day.

As a West Ham fan, I don’t expect to be challenging for the title. Realistically, with the big four’s resources and the money being spent by Spurs and Man City, seventh place is about the best we can do. So to come ninth is pretty respectable. But I do expect to have given one of our main rivals a ‘bloody nose’ or at the very least attended a couple of end-to-end matches, full of goals and excitement, with the result in doubt till the final whistle – and with an atmosphere to match.

If we take our biggest games of the season – the ones the fans most want to win – as those against Man United, Arsenal, Chelsea Spurs and Liverpool, 2008-09 must go down as one of the worst season in our history. In those 10 matches, we managed no wins and three draws – scoring only a single goal in the process. The results of the five home games make particularly sorry reading: 0-1, 0-1, 0-2, 0-2 and 0-3. Even more depressingly, it wasn’t as if were unlucky in any of them. We hardly created a chance and were easily beaten, which did nothing for the atmosphere.

Extending our results sequence to the matches against the fifth- and six-placed teams, Aston Villa and Everton, provides one draw and another three defeats – and only two goals. We scored at home against only one side that finished above us – Fulham. And taunting John Paintsil and Paul Konchesky hardly ranks alongside baiting Jermain Defoe or Frank Lampard.

Where was a match to rival the thrilling 3-2 win against Arsenal in January 2006, when we became the last side to win at Highbury? Or the 4-3 home win against Spurs in February 1997? What about the ‘obscene’ effort an already relegated side put in against Man Utd in April 1992, when Kenny Brown’s volley denied the Reds the title? Or the 4-1 victory at White Hart Lane in April 1994 (Steve Jones’ finest moment), Paolo di Canio beating the arm-waving Barthez in an FA Cup tie at Old Trafford in January 2001 or Leroy Rosenior’s late header to secure an FA Cup victory in Highbury in January 1989?

To put such a mundane season into perspective, I have had to look up most of our early-season results. And there it all was, in black and white. Six defeats in seven home games before Christmas. Going out of the cups after insipid performances at Championship strugglers Watford and soon-to-be-relegated Middlesbrough. Only scoring more than once twice in our last 17 games.

I know that I am in the minority – and perhaps I’ve got masochistic tendencies – but give me a relegation dogfight any day. Even an unsuccessful one.

Lout of order

It has taken me a couple of weeks to write this post because I am struggling to come to terms with how I am feeling. But there is no point in denying it any longer: I am embarrassed to be a West Ham fan.

This realisation was brought home to me in the aftermath of our home defeat by Chelsea a couple of weeks ago. The following day, the back-page headlines in most of the papers were dominated by Hammers fans’ abuse of Frank Lampard and John Terry. Variously described as ‘spiteful’, the reports focused on our ‘unacceptable’ taunting of the England pair, accompanied by pictures of fans’ faces contorted with rage. The Mail on Sunday asserted: ‘West Ham fans have developed a reputation for being among the most vile in the country.' In The Sun, the on-field action took up only the final fifth of the match report, with the article featuring such opinions as ‘even by the vile and hateful standards set by West Ham “fans”, the abuse meted out to Terry and Lampard was a disgrace’. The following day, PFA chief executive Gordon Taylor asserted that West Ham fans had ‘overstepped the mark’.

For those of you living on the moon, the fans were vilified for continually chanting ‘John Terry, your mum’s a thief’ and, at Lampard, ‘you let your children down’, in reference to a heated on-air debate the player had partaken in the previous morning with a radio DJ who had called him ‘scum’ for leaving his fiancé and children. According to The Sun, there were also chants about Lampard’s mother – although if it’s a subject below even the retard who sits behind me (see ‘Show Racists the Red Card’, 9/12/08), I am sceptical about such claims.

Personally, I don’t have a huge problem with the taunts about Terry’s mum. They are true. She made a conscious decision not to pay for the goods and was caught red-handed. It could be argued that it is irrelevant, but I still think it qualifies as terrace banter. The Lampard situation was obviously seized upon because of the fans’ antipathy towards him, as he has taken every opportunity to slate the club since he left. But do you think he wanted to walk out on his daughters? To bring the subject up, in a week that also marked the first anniversary of his mother’s death, was unacceptable.

There were numerous other ill-informed chants. So ‘Chelsea ain’t got no history’? Well, what about winning the first division title in 1955? At that point in West Ham’s history, our sole ‘achievement’ had been appearing in the first FA Cup final at Wembley – we lost, of course. Then, apparently, Joe Cole is ‘queer’? Does his stunning fiancé Carly Zucker know? And, according to the boss-eyed, overweight, pasty-faced, knuckle-dragging retard behind me, Frank Lampard is ‘fat and ugly’? Well, I train five days a week in the gym, but would still do anything for a physique like his.

Things have changed so much since I started attending matches in 1986. In those days – and it is worth bearing in mind that this was a time when football was it its lowest ebb, with hooliganism at its peak and the tragedies of Heysel and Bradford still fresh in the mind – West Ham fans were renowned for their humour. Many a dull game was livened up by a wisecrack from the crowd. Swearing was reserved for match-changing incidents or horrific tackles – not simply a misplaced pass, as is the case these days. Energies used to be channelled towards supporting the team, rather than abusing the opposition. But now, it is as if spending £45 on a ticket gives 'fans' the right to indulge in the kind of intimidatory behaviour that would get them arrested if carried out away from the confines of a football stadium. Do the idiots in the stand think that winding players up puts them off their game? On the contrary, it inspires them to play better.

At least I’m not the only one who is becoming fed up with the way Irons fans are being – deservedly – portrayed in the national media. A couple of days later, the Express featured a letter from a West Ham supporter expressing exactly the same sentiments, who after attending matches at the Boleyn Ground for 30 years, now wondered whether he wanted to be part of such a hate-filled environment. I know where he is coming from. After having missed only about 25 home games since March 1986, I very much doubt that I will be renewing my season ticket.

Loyalty slouchers

The only loyalty displayed by footballers these days is when it suits themselves. The astronomical wages and signing-on fees that they earn mean players no longer have to depend on a testimonial match to see them though the first few years of their retirement. They can kiss the badge on their shirt as often as they like, but as soon as they get a better offer, they’ll be out of E13 as quickly as their Porsches will carry them.

The fact that we will never again see a Billy Bonds, Trevor Brooking or Steve Potts at the Boleyn Ground was brought starkly into focus by two players during last month’s transfer window.

Craig Bellamy reportedly stormed out of the training ground, insisting that was going in strike until he was allowed to join either Spurs or Manchester City. With Scott Duxbury refusing to do business with Spurs, the Welshman was soon on his way to Manchester for £14m.

Paid handsomely for missing most of his first season with injury, you might think that he feels that he owes West Ham something, after starting only 22 games and scoring nine goals. He might have been of the opinion that Spurs or Man City offered him a greater chance of honours, but would he even get into their sides? His transfer may be big news at the City of Manchester Stadium right now, but if the richest club in the world starts splashing out on the likes of Kaka, the petulant striker will find it difficult to secure a place on the subs’ bench.

Bellamy claimed that he was never going to strike. But he has been a troublemaker throughout his career and is hated at almost every club at which he has ever played (and he has had eight by the age of 29). Apart from several bust-ups in pubs and clubs (which, to be fair, are par for the course for many footballers), Bellamy’s crime sheet is long and varied: he threw a chair at Newcastle’s first-team coach; called his manager Graeme Souness a liar; sent abusive text messages to Alan Shearer; publicly criticised his manager at Liverpool, Rafa Benitez; and attacked team-mate John Arne Riise with a golf club during a ‘team bonding’ session in Portugal. To make a profit of £6.5m in 18 months on an injury-prone player who has clearly got ‘issues’ looks like good business to me.

On the other hand, Luis Boa Morte turned down a move to Hull after the clubs had agreed terms, insisting that he hadn’t asked for a transfer and wanted to see out the remaining 18 months of his contract. Perhaps there is some loyalty still in the game?

Or could it be that a player who has never been first-choice at the Boleyn Ground and who is derided every time he takes the field, simply wasn’t prepared to accept the huge pay cut that Hull were asking him to take? In my opinion, taking into account his wages, reputation (26 caps for Portugal) and £5m transfer fee, is the worst player I have seen in the claret and blue. A fresh start at a club with lower expectations (he excelled as a big fish in a small pond at Fulham) would have been in both parties’ interests.

The great irony is that Bellamy was abused for wanting to quit West Ham, while Boa Morte was jeered for refusing to leave. When it comes to loyalty, nowadays it is only the fans who are even on nodding terms with the concept.

Show racists the red card

Amid another torpid display last night, I had the most unpleasant experience in my 23 years as a regular at the Boleyn Ground.

IBM (Idiot Behind Me) was at his obnoxious worst. He was twice as loud as usual and his level of aggression had to be witnessed to be believed. Every other word was a swear word and pure hatred poured from every pore of his gross body.

He had been using the word ‘yid’ incessantly from the first minute, although there were many others doing the same. Although the Spurs fans use this as a nickname for themselves, he is irrefutably using it as a racial slur. But I can put up with this.

However, when the Tottenham fans started singing ‘Spurs are on their way to Wembley’ and he twice changed the final word to ‘Auschwitz’ – and he was the only person in the entire stand who did it – I couldn’t help but turn round and glare.

‘What the f**k are you looking at?’ he spat in my direction. I somehow resisted the temptation to say ‘a fat, ugly, ignorant racist’.
‘I find that hugely offensive,’ I replied.
‘It’s what they call themselves, you ****,’ he screamed.
‘You referring to the ethnic cleansing of millions of innocent people is what I have an issue with.’
‘It’s different with Spurs. It’s what they call themselves, you ****.’
‘I’m not talking about the word “yid”. I’m talking about your glorification of Auschwitz.’
‘It’s what they call themselves, you ****.’
'Well don’t be surprised if you get reported to a steward.’

I gave up as he ranted on for another 30 seconds. I was absolutely fuming. IBM soon turned his attention back to abusing our players, the Spurs players, the Tottenham fans and the referee and linesmen.

About 10 minutes later, someone used the word ‘yid’ and the ignorant imbecile was off again. ‘Don’t use that word cos that **** down there don’t like it.’
I turned round. ‘It’s not “yid”. It’s Auschwitz I have problems with.’
‘It’s what they call themselves, you ****, use your ****ing brain.’
He repeated this about 10 times. I was probably smirking by the end of his diatribe, as a ‘man’ with an IQ that is probably in single figures (and patently lower than his weight in stones) told me to use my brain. He finished only when the bloke next to me (the only person around me that I regard as a friend) told him to ‘leave it out’. I only wish he told the ignorant slob why he was wrong.

‘He’s always looking at me,’ he concluded. I have certainly looked at him before, despite it being a physically repulsive experience, usually when he’s calling Frank Lampard Junior a ‘fat, ugly, useless ****.’ If IBM knew what irony was, he’d probably laugh himself.

There were no further incidents. I didn’t dare look round again (he’s definitely the sort of person who would hit you from behind). Although his ignorant and vile rantings continued throughout the 90 minutes (and probably throughout his life), he never referred to Auschwitz again.

What disappointed me was everyone else’s reaction. No one said a word, while the stewards completely ignored the incident. The scumbag attends matches with his son (who sits next to me), father (who is a decent chap) and about three friends. The fact that not one of them spoke up on his behalf suggests that they knew he was in the wrong. But there are a lot of decent fans around me (some of them even read The Guardian) – and none one of them got involved.

Although I am hardly living in fear, I will now have to watch my back every time I go to West Ham. I sit at games on my own (my friends are in another stand), while he’s got six people with him. I’ve never had a fight in my life, but I so wanted to give him a slap last night. It’s the only language that such ignorant people understand. I could tear the overweight slob apart – but fighting is the answer to nothing, and would only lead to me being banned from the stadium.

My other option is to complain to the club. There are warnings in the matchday programme every week that racism will lead to a ban from the ground. But if I make a complaint, it will be my word against his and that of his friends. No one would back me up. So he would still be going to the games – and I would be a marked man for having ‘snitched’.

The only certainty is that this is going to flare up again. All I can do for now is rechristen him ‘IFRUMBM’ (work it out for yourself) .

And now, the end is near

Without wishing to put a dampener on our first victory of the year outside London, there was a remarkable quote from vice-chairman Asgeir Fridgeirsson in Friday’s Sun.

‘West Ham is well funded for the remainder of the year and I am convinced the club will go on,’ he asserted.

Now I know that the Icelandic banking crash, recession and lack of a sponsorship deal are having an impact on the club’s finances, but is there anyone who thinks that our position is so precarious that we might go out of business in the next five weeks.

Or is our plight more serious than is being let on?

Always the Run

My first game at West Ham was a 2-1 win against Spurs on Easter Monday 1986. Tony Cottee and Frank McAvennie scored for us, with Ossie Ardiles replying for Spurs. Everything about the day was enthralling – and not because I was 15 years of age and the only previous matches I had attended had been at Brisbane Road.

I could wax lyrical all day about the passion of the crowd and the derby-day atmosphere. But what really excited me was the area of the ground in which I was standing – the East Stand lower tier. The view was incredible (I read somewhere that it was the steepest terrace ever built in the UK, although I don’t know whether this is true) and you were so close to the pitch that you could make out the players’ expressions. There was also a self-assuredness about its patrons, as if they felt superior to those in other areas of the ground. I knew that this was somewhere that I wanted to be.

And apart from a handful of games in the North Bank, two games in the West Stand/Dr Martens Stand, half a season in the South Bank (a rite of passage as a 16-year-old) and one match in the Bobby Moore Stand (and that was for a beam-back from Maine Road), I have been a fixture in the Chicken Run for the past 22 years.

I used to stand on the same crack in the concrete, about 20 yards from the South Bank touchline, three steps from the back. A large group of men used to stand next to us. They were real characters, always ready with a wisecrack. Fat Les (who inspired a column in my fanzine, The Water In Majorca), Paul, the Dennis Waterman lookalike, the short one with the squeaky voice. If the game was rubbish (and with the likes of Tommy McQueen, David Kelly and Allen McKnight in the side, it generally was) the atmosphere and humour took centre stage. But one by one, the characters stopped going, to be replaced by racist and humourless meatheads.

On the sad day that they put seats in the Run, I managed to secure one only a few yards from where I had stood so often. But it was never the same. The atmosphere was lost, the characters gone. Then they raised the pitch and moved it 30 feet away from us. It was as if everything was being done to detract from the unique experience of watching football in the Chicken Run.

I’m still there, in row E. I’m now in my 21st year as a season-ticket holder. But it’s not the same. Consequently, when I recently had the opportunity to watch the game from somewhere else in the ground, for only the second time in a decade, I jumped at the chance.

Unfortunately, rather than the luxury of an executive box, I was going to be watching the Portsmouth match from the front corner of the upper tier of the Bobby Moore Stand. The experience started well enough. I had twice as much leg-room as I usually did, and with an aisle on one side and the disabled enclosure behind me, I was certainly not short of space.

But as the match kicked off, I soon realised what a different kind of experience I had ahead of me. Perhaps it was the distance from the action, but the supporters were so quiet. I didn’t expect any singing or chanting, but there was hardly any talking or even comments. I am used to continual abuse of the referee, criticism and howls of derision at every misplaced pass, and constant abuse of the opposition. Don’t get me wrong, I hate several of the men that sit behind me, who shower me in spittle for 90 minutes as they spew forth their hatred.

But football is a passionate game – and sitting in the Bobby Moore Stand made me feel as if I were at the theatre. We were consumers rather than fans. Roy Keane’s comments about the ‘prawn sandwich’ brigade came to mind a I looked wistfully at the decrepit East Stand.

As a modern stand, at least the facilities would be suitably luxurious. But the concourse was more crowded than that of a stand built in 1968, while only an in-house channel was available on the TVs, rather than Jeff Stelling and his Soccer Saturday acolytes, as could be enjoyed in the Chicken Run.

My brother had a season ticket at Highbury for 15 years, but has now given up, after only a season at the Emirates Stadium. He said it was no longer the game he fell in love with – and from my sanitised experience last weekend, I can see his point. If that’s the future of football, you can keep it. I can’t wait to get back to the vitriolic inhabitants of the Chicken Run – at least they care about what they are watching.