The Agony and the Ecstacy

It's Monday morning and my voice is getting back to normal.  My heart rate has (probably) just slowed to the correct rate.  But even so, there's a kernel of joy in my stomach as every , oh, couple of seconds or so, I think 'We are Premier League'.

What a season, what a day.  

Even the Champions League result was a no-lose for West Ham.  Chelsea lose and we can continue to enjoy EB&LJT having missed that  penalty in Moscow and Fat Frank never winning t' Big Cup. Chelsea win and 'Appy Arry's blue and white army miss out on Champions league football.  So the anointment as England Manager fails to materialise, and Spurs fade and die. And, although Chelsea won, how sad is EB&LJT to change into full kit and  shinpads to take part in the celebrations for the result of a match he didn't play in?  Because, lest we forget, he deliberately kneed a Barcelona player in the back of the leg and was sent off.

But, despite the acres of press coverage, that's a side show compared to winning the Championship Play-off Final at Wem-ber-ley.  I finished the day in, I am sure, a greater state of exhaustion that the players.  I also manage to sustain an injury (although, fortunately, I was able to finish the match!) with an enormously swollen and painful knee that meant on Sunday morning I could hardly walk.  That necessitated The Controller taking the dogs for their morning walk, to their surprise.  Her sympathy for my plight was tainted by her forcefully expressed view (not that any of her views ever expressed in any other way) that it was self-inflicted and caused by association with West Ham.  This made it, therefore, evidently less eligible for sympathy as there has been a massive run on West Ham related sympathy in recent years and there is as much left on deposit as there are Euros in Greek banks.  

However, my painkiller of choice is promotion.

But what a way to get it.  In discussing the game with The Controller in advance (in the brief window of disdainful attention she was prepared to devote) I had expressed a wish for two early West Ham goals followed by another just before half time so that the second half could be one of rapturous pleasure.  The Controller professional storyteller instincts for a compelling narrative prompted her to construct a version where West Ham took the lead, only to concede a goal just before half-time and then score the winner at the end of a tense and very close second half.  Even that was a concession as the only real spark of excitement she had shown was when discovering that there was the prospect of penalties if the match was undecided at the end of extra time. But oh to have such foresight! 

So, in the aftermath, what to make of the season?

Well, BFS promoted we’d be promoted and he was as good as his word.  He was given a great deal of stick at times by some supporters because of their perceptions of his style of play.  Now, of course, all is forgiven and I can be a little smug because I never joined in (although some of the play was somewhat agricultural – but, hey, it got us back from 3 goals down against Birmingham).

The Pornographers gave a very strong impression of knowing what they were doing as owners (finally).  After their disastrous appointment of Avram Grant (and even more disastrous decision to stick with him having cocked up a ham-fisted attempt to replace him with Martin O’Neill at Christmas), they got a proper appointment.  They followed that up with some measured spending in August and January – especially the signing of Kevin Nolan to be skipper.  They even – noticeably – shook up the marketing side with new products and merchandise for every occasion.  I still have a sneaky belief that they hoped for the play-offs as a chance to sell more stuff.  They even had a bash at selling the fragrant Karren Brady’s autobiography. The one subtitled ‘ambition, grit and a great pair of (wait for it …..) heels’.  Ho ho, nudge, nudge.  According to Lord Sugar, an inspiration to women everywhere.  Yeah right.  How I turned my start selling advertising for pornography into a career highlight of sneering at wannabes on TV.

So now the future is bright with the rosy glow of Premiership football seen from miles away in the Olympic Stadium.  As long, of course, as we manage to stay up long enough.

As I was saying .....

As members of my family, among others, have pointed out more than several times, my posting has gone into abeyance.  The reasons have been various.  Partly it was resistance to being programmed to post.  But only partly.  It was also something to do with the difficulty of summoning up enough bile when West Ham were doing (relatively) well.  The usual football supporter's superstition that one's own actions can effect the results (except for improving them, obviously).  However, when the Ides of March came and went with West Ham (predictably) throwing away automatic promotion, I had more than enough material to get back into the groove.  But still not enough impetus.  Then there was the added focus of my impending retirement.  In my usual fashion, I denied that this could possibly construed as a big deal.  This was, of course despite (because of?) everybody asking me how I felt about it, what plans did I have and so on.  

But of course, it is a big deal and now it's (almost) done - I'm still on the payroll until the end of July but my successor is in post and I have leave to spend my time gardening, walking dogs, irritating the Controller and anything else I'm good at (but none at the scale of irritating the Controller).

So it's time to resume blogging as a chap needs an occupation.

So where are we?  Wem-ber-ley, that's where, and the season ticket family (distinguished from the non-season ticket family by obsessiveness off the scale) is all going.

And I certainly wished to be playing Blackpool rather than Birmingham.  Putting aside the sage advice to be careful what you wish for, The Pornographers have a lousy record against their former side (even though they rarely play), whereas we beat Blackpool 8-1 on aggregate in the league.  Which means zilch except as a comfort blanket.

It could even be Julien Faubert's last game for us as his contract ends.  Perhaps he could manage a Tommy Repka style fuck-up in his last appearance?  Whatever, the possibility of his appearance is a suitable antidote to over-confidence, but, what the hell, I THINK WE'RE GOING TO WIN.

Retirement surely does funny things to one's mental state.... 

Fatherly Love: West Ham 1 - 0 Barnsley; 17 December

Last week my wife had an old VHS tape converted to DVD.  Like many people, we had spent time intermittently over a long period videoing family gatherings as my son Jack was growing up.  By the nature of my jobs, I had access to a video camera and Christmases, Easters, Birthdays and other occasions were taped until they weren't.  We watched Jack go from two to ten, while Joel went from seven to teenage fifteen, Becky from ten to leaving school eighteen and Jessica from a humpy thirteen year old to an adult.  We also saw The Controller's father (the only person I've ever known her to be afraid of) and my father, both of whom are now dead, and, of course, as these things are, viewing it was joy and sadness mixed.  As well as a reminder of the way we were.  Towards the end of the tape, there's a section at West Ham of the gates to Upton Park after the death of Bobby Moore, with my dad, Joel and Jack.  The first game Jack ever saw was the home game against Wolves the Saturday after Booby Moore died which was extremely emotional (and, of course, was his misleading reference point for what it was like to see live games.  He must have thought all games began with a wreath laying ceremony in the centre of the pitch!)

Whenever I see my children, I'm immensely proud of them and their achievements.  Even more, I like the people they've become (and believe me, for some of them - they know who they are - that was definitely not a foregone conclusion) and I enjoy spending time in their company.  For some of them, that is often at Upton Park, as it was on Saturday as West Ham looked to stop a third wheel falling off after losing at home to Burnley after leading 1-0 and away to Reading, having two players sent off in the process.  If our manager had been 'Appy 'Arry we'd have heard the 'bare bones' cliché trotted out as with two players suspended and six players injured, Abdouleye Faye got injured in the warm up and was also unavailable.

It didn't look promising with Faubert the faux-fullback, McCartney moved to central defence and a 17 year old making his first appearance ever at fullback just after signing his first professional contract.  We were also pressed into playing Carew, Cole and Piquionne who are usually used to replace each other.

And we didn't look very secure for much of the game, but Papa Bouba Diop was immense (as he is physically) in midfield - and how the sponsors made Kevin Nolan man of the match rather than him when he even scored as goal for the first time in years I cannot fathom - and the debutant fullback played good.

He is one Danny Potts, son of the West Ham legend Steve Potts (denied his 400th league appearance by the ratfaced Roeder).  More to the point, he recovered from leukaemia two years ago to do well enough as youth player to get his professional contract and yesterday to make his début.  He played really well, and I bet his dad is as proud of him as I am of my kids. 

Lost November?

My last post was 29 October. While in no way would I accept allegations of superstition, it's much harder to hold forth when things are going well.  Except, of course, to exult, gloat, celebrate, revel or rejoice with unseemly glee.  With the almost inevitable, karmic consequences of the laws of hubris.  So from the dull point at home to Bristol City, through the away victories at Hull and Coventry (oh, how those cities are redolent of the championship doldrums!), to the comfortable dispatch of Derby and the gritty away conquest of Middlesbrough, I was moored in silence.

But the (this season at least) atypical, careless loss at home to Burnley, has set my bile free.

I see that BFS has said it was 'one of those days'.  Well, I hope it was not one of those days, as I think we should have no more of them.  While BFS saw a team that dominated and was unlucky to lose, I saw a team complacent that it would win.  Of course, that was fuelled by a first half of easy superiority that did not translate into goals.  

And, by the way, why does a misplaced pass from Carlton Goal get greeted with groans, while missing an open goal by Kevin Nolan gets him applauded all around the ground for the way he lay prone in theatrical despair having missed said barn door?  Julien Faubert should take lessons from him - his sponsor's man of the match award for the last home game led to a catalogue of errors in this.

Of course, I tried to console myself with the thought that it was the third game in a week and tiredness was inevitable, and that we have a cushion on the third placed team, and that with Southampton losing we hadn't lost any ground.  But tiredness didn't seem to affect Burnley in the same way, the seat is more comfortable with a cushion that we now don't have, and although we didn't lose any ground, we lost the chance to give a full-throated rendition of 'We are top of the league (say, we are top of the league)', which, let's face it, we don't get very often.

So, reasons not to like Burnley bursting our bubble:

1.   Alastair Campbell.  Enough said.

2.   Connor was absent for his own birthday party.  Why? It's not his birthday until Wednesday and he could have had a party on Sunday.

3.   Jessica was absent for Connor's birthday party.  As well as the other whys above, why not leave the party duties to her Man U supporting partner?

4.   Uriel came on Jessica's ticket.  So Connor and Jessica cannot miss any more games (which will be difficult for almost-seven-years-old Connor for evening games) and Uriel can't come again because he puts the bock on it.

5.   There should be no doubt as to who is the premier claret and blue team.  Not Villa, not Scunthorpe and definitely not Burnley.
 So now on to Reading and Barnsley.  The pulse races. So let's hope there's a bit more determination next time.
 

Foxes run to ground: West Ham 3 -2 Leicester; 29 October

First, an apology.  In recent (and, indeed, not so recent) posts, I have appeared to express the opinion that, if Julien Faubert had a very large banjo firmly held in both hands, with a bovine arse tethered straight in front of him, he would be unable to hit it.  I have also expressed the view that, faced with barn door of the dimensions that would enable said barn door to be the opening of a barn within which could comfortably be parked a fleet of Boeing 787 planes, he could contrive to hoof any football over or around said door.  However, I now realise this is an unfair calumny on his goal-scoring prowess following his second ever goal for West Ham today after 23 minutes.  Admittedly, when presented with an equally good opportunity later in the match he reverted to his Wall-Eyed Dick persona, but those prayers before kick-off were today answered (his, not mine.  I don't bother the non-existant deity with supplications way beyond the miraculous.  Faubert not conceding a penalty is hope enough).  Allahu Akbar, as they don't chant on the terraces.

I spent the game honing my commentating skills for Connor, although it's much harder than it appears.  I can do alright until there's the chance of a goal, when I forget to speak through concentrating on the game, until I get prodded by Connor to resume explanations.  Mind you, much of Mr James Linington's decisions as referee were impossible to explain so I just went with the flow and abused him like the rest of the home support.  

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Still, as you can see above, it didn't detract from our enjoyment, and my son Joel even managed to partake of the entertainment despite a massive hangover.

Let's hope there are no  hangovers on Tuesday night.  The Controller is cautioning against my burgeoning optimism.  Having spent recent years complaining about my bitter negativity, you'd think she'd be happy.  But I guess she can see the bigger the upswing, the further the downswing.

But bugger that, October's over and we're still second, so why not allow a smidgeon of hope?  After all, we not only won today, we actually played some good football, and if we let two goals in, the tension only made the end even more enjoyable.  


It's always like that if you win (as far as I can remember).

Going South: Southampton 1 - 0 West Ham; 18 October; Brighton 0 - 1 West Ham; 24 October.

Two excursions to the south coast produced a mirror image in results.  The first I followed via text updates from Sky and Joel.  This was supplemented by Hannah (his significant other) complaining about West Ham ruining her Monday evening as well as Saturdays and Sundays and asking plaintively why it was so difficult to score.  She obviously needs to watch Julien Faubert more.  

The second was anchored in front of the telly in the downstairs room, with The Controller descending from her lofty television-watching eyrie (where she'll watch anything but West Ham and a subtitled foreign film), to check once in a while on score and mood.

It was the classic scattered family communion.  Jessica was watching at her home in Walthamstow where her partner Joe was no doubt still curled into a sobbing ball in the corner following the Manchester Derby game the previous day.  I mean we've had some pastings at Old Trafford, but it's not our ground and we're not a multi-million pound team that was in the Champions League final last year.  Or next year or any year, Pornographers please note for the bullshit-ometer.  So she probably couldn't be too celebratory as misery loves company.  Jack was watching in a pub in Brighton, rather than on the terraces in Brighton, having failed to, ahem, source a ticket.  And given the local sensibilities, he also probably had to keep the enjoyment reasonably constrained.  Joel was, I assume, using my SkyGo log in to feed his obsession (and not ruin Hannah's Tuesday evening as well) in Wapping.

Whereas I was in Brentwood environs, accompanied by two Golden Retrievers who respond well to enjoyment and slink away at the abuse that unfailingly appears at moments of tension (like Julien Faubert missing another cow's arse with his super-sized banjo).

But there was relatively little to get excited about.  We scored and never looked like conceding even when the ref gave 8 minutes added time working on the theory that if we always concede in 90 plus minutes, that was long enough for us not only to let in one goal, but more likely two.  But we didn't and the dogs could happily wag their tails in appreciation of the result, if not the play.

But who cares, what we need is promotion and winning will get us that if we keep it up.  And 0-1 away from home will do nicely, thank you very much.  As The Controller sagely commented, 'Good result'.

Now, about that home form .... 

Into the Groove: West Ham 4 - 0 Blackpool

In the week leading up to the game the news, as far as West Ham are concerned, was that the Olympic Stadium deal was off.  My moment of joy that I was to be spared needing to take binoculars to see future games in White Elephant Running Track Stadium with distant seating around it was rapidly dashed, however, when it became clear that West Ham is still likely to bid to be tenants, and still most likely to be successful.  Apparently we'll be 'anchor tenants' which is not cockney rhyming slang, but a phrase to indicate we won't even be exclusive occupiers.  So we'll no doubt sell Upton Park for another supermarket and move into rented accommodation, as they recommend for those who can't pay their mortgages.  Still it'll be a legacy like that nice former Tory MP Lord Coe promised (I always preferred watching the Steves Ovett and Cram, anyway) - or just something you inherit that you're stuck with, and that you paid for anyway.  At least when Terence (sack the board, sack the board, sack the board) Brown came up with a whizzo scheme whereby we gave him lots of money to build a stadium and in return he gave us the right to spend even more money going to watch matches in it, everybody saw through it - even Danny Baker and he's a Millwall supporter. This way, it's built with our taxes, we're lumbered with it and we have to pay to be miles away from matches in it.  Mind you, for some of West Ham's matches, the further away the better.  

But not this one.

My mother lives, as she has always done, in rented accommodation.  Her recent accommodation, though, is extra-care sheltered accommodation.  On Friday I had to be there while a social worker did a care assessment.  This included making an assessment of her mental state by asking her questions.  As she has Alzheimer's, from which only Ernest Saunders has ever recovered (after being diagnosed while serving a gaol sentence for fraud and therefore released, only for a miracle to happen), this is done simply to illustrate how she can't care for herself and is therefore entitled.  Her short term memory has been gone for a few years, but now her longer term memory is also in decline and she is unable to remember my father to whom she was married for more than fifty years.  I was thinking about him leading up to this week's match, because today would have been his 91st birthday and, after his death, his ashes were scattered at Upton Park.  Will his ashes also become 'anchor tenant' at White Elephant Stadium Next to Westfield Shopping Centre?  Thought not.  But now my mum can't remember him and I only ever think of him infrequently, nearly 14 years after his death.  


But he was responsible for taking me to West Ham as a 7 year old.  And he once took me to Arsenal as a kid because Stanley Matthews was playing in his last season, and he wanted me to be able to say I'd seen the greatest English footballer.  Obviously this was before Bobby Moore, so now I can say I saw both although, rather like my mum, I can't remember anything of Stanley Matthews playing at Arsenal.


So yesterday was a birthday treat for my old dad, even though he wasn't there (except as ashes in the pitch), but two of his grandchildren and his great-grandson were able to enjoy a sunny autumn day and a comfortable win that lifts us to second in the table.  With Carlton Cole not playing there was a vacancy for the chosen boo boy of the numpties behind us, but not even Kevin Nolan could measure up in a four-nil home win.  And even with Andy D'Urso performing to his habitual level of incompetence we couldn't let a goal in in five minutes added time at the end.


So now it's off to the South Coast for Southampton and Brighton.  You can tell that, just as the sunny weather is due to end, something's bound to go wrong.  Promotion can't be that simple, can it?  This is West Ham.