Bill Nicholson, Glenn Hoddle, John White, Ossie Ardiles, Ricky Villa, Steve Perryman, Lord Sugar, Gary Lineker, Paul Gascoigne, Gareth Bale, 'Arry Redknapp - your boys took a hell of a beating is what I hoped to be writing but it was not to be.
I watched today in (mostly) a state of calm acceptance. Que sera, sera; zen inscrutability was my principle. I delivered, except when Carlton was through on goal and passed to Gomes in the first half, and in injury time when O'Neill gave the ball back instead of heading for the corner flag. I admit to inner glee when Judas Defoe missed several times from inside the six yard box, but it remained inner-ish.
I managed this because I was watching in Norfolk, which is not unheard of, but not usual. The match was on at lunchtime and I even had lunch at halftime. And completed The Guardian Quick Crossword. With The Controller, who found my behaviour acceptable (also unusual when watching a football match when I care about the result). I also kept calm because the mobile phone signal is awful and I wasn't, therefore, spurred (pun intended) to feverish text exchanges with my sons and daughter who were also watching in London and Brighton. My dogs even behaved strangely. They, too, like The Controller, are unhappy at the vitriol directed (mostly) at errant West Ham players, or (occasionally) the referee (yes, you, Mike Jones aka Wanker), and in passing dirty northern or north London bastards of the opposition. But today Dave the Dog took himself out to lie in the garden in the sunshine on his own, while Charlie the Dog expressed his concern by sitting by me with two paws raised on my arm and only the occasional approving glance at Super Scott breaking up yet another Spurs attack on the telly.
So calm did I manage to be that The Controller decided that she would watch the last twenty minutes or so in my company. Apart from from an occasional expression of concern over some mild tackle, she was mostly entirely well-behaved, and even managed a not-altogether-convincing claim for a penalty for us when Dawson climbed above Carlton for a header in their box. The referee wasn't listening, though.
So we're now out of the bottom three again, by a single goal scored more than Wolves. Above us there are four teams on a single point more than us and it's all to play for.
I'd like to be able to maintain my state of acceptance for the rest of the season, but the next home game's against Man U, so probably not.
Saturday 19 March 2011
Sunday 13 March 2011
The Law of Averages? Stoke 2 - 1 West Ham; 13 March FA Cup Quarter Final
The law of averages is a lay term used to express a belief that outcomes of a random event will "even out" within a small sample. Or so says Wikipedia. It's a West Ham supporter's term used to express a belief that, having beaten Stoke twice, and drawn once this season, having the incentive of a semi-final at Wembley, having already lost a two-goal lead to get to a Wembley final, and having been on a good run of form, we were bound to lose this one.
So now, in common with Arsenal, we shall be concentrating on the league. Also in common with Arsenal, we shall win f*ck all this year. Again.
Dear old Avram seems to have lost his midas touch for cup finals. Chelsea to the European Champions League Final, Portsmouth to the FA Cup, now West Ham fail in both the Fizzy-pop and the FA Cup. Perhaps he'll also lose his relegation record, but I think he'll keep that one going (my son says in the papers it says how much he wants to stay at Upton Park. So do I, but I think we're going to the Olympic Stadium and we can leave him behind).
Stoke are now in a semi-final with Bolton to find out who lose the final to one Manchester team or other. Not a game I'll be watching. Not sour grapes, but I wouldn't want to watch Stoke more than four times in a season. Actually, not more than once and that's a stretch.
Today's game was typical of them - power and determination, well-organised and not much football, even though Etherington and Pennant, to name two, can play. But, predictably, West Ham couldn't stand up against it.
The referee was awful fairly equally. Our goal was a handball, however much I will say it was controlled by Piquionne on his shoulder. The ref gave a non-existant penalty at the start of the second half obviously to even things up, but Rob Green saved magnificently. So the ref later gave a soft free-kick for Carlton avoiding a ball in the face, and then somehow saw Tomkins being wrestled to the ground in the Stoke area by Walters as a free kick for Stoke. After Upson hit the bar with a header it was obvious we weren't going to get anything.
So we could watch the waste of space that is Robbie Keane, misplacing passes and gesticulating at team mates as if it were their fault that he's crap. We could marvel at Upson's inability to pass to a teammate over any distance more than five yards (and sometimes not even then). We could count the number of times that Bridge gave the wide man time to have a cup of tea, read the paper and then cross the ball before he got anywhere near to close (and all, as I repeatedly told the telly, for ninety grand a week).
On the other hand, we could see Rob Green being, well, brilliant again. We could see Scotty Parker (the E-on Man of the Match, as if that's worth claiming) easily the best player on display. And we could see that just maybe, it could be a blessing in disguise not to have any more cup games.
Just as long as we remember to win the league games.
I'm still bitter we lost. But The Controller won't need to vacate the premises because she can't stand the vitriol, abuse, foul language and naked despair on show when we play on the telly.
Well, not till next week when I shall be watching in Norfolk while she, no doubt, shops in Holt, and even the dogs keep well away.
So now, in common with Arsenal, we shall be concentrating on the league. Also in common with Arsenal, we shall win f*ck all this year. Again.
Dear old Avram seems to have lost his midas touch for cup finals. Chelsea to the European Champions League Final, Portsmouth to the FA Cup, now West Ham fail in both the Fizzy-pop and the FA Cup. Perhaps he'll also lose his relegation record, but I think he'll keep that one going (my son says in the papers it says how much he wants to stay at Upton Park. So do I, but I think we're going to the Olympic Stadium and we can leave him behind).
Stoke are now in a semi-final with Bolton to find out who lose the final to one Manchester team or other. Not a game I'll be watching. Not sour grapes, but I wouldn't want to watch Stoke more than four times in a season. Actually, not more than once and that's a stretch.
Today's game was typical of them - power and determination, well-organised and not much football, even though Etherington and Pennant, to name two, can play. But, predictably, West Ham couldn't stand up against it.
The referee was awful fairly equally. Our goal was a handball, however much I will say it was controlled by Piquionne on his shoulder. The ref gave a non-existant penalty at the start of the second half obviously to even things up, but Rob Green saved magnificently. So the ref later gave a soft free-kick for Carlton avoiding a ball in the face, and then somehow saw Tomkins being wrestled to the ground in the Stoke area by Walters as a free kick for Stoke. After Upson hit the bar with a header it was obvious we weren't going to get anything.
So we could watch the waste of space that is Robbie Keane, misplacing passes and gesticulating at team mates as if it were their fault that he's crap. We could marvel at Upson's inability to pass to a teammate over any distance more than five yards (and sometimes not even then). We could count the number of times that Bridge gave the wide man time to have a cup of tea, read the paper and then cross the ball before he got anywhere near to close (and all, as I repeatedly told the telly, for ninety grand a week).
On the other hand, we could see Rob Green being, well, brilliant again. We could see Scotty Parker (the E-on Man of the Match, as if that's worth claiming) easily the best player on display. And we could see that just maybe, it could be a blessing in disguise not to have any more cup games.
Just as long as we remember to win the league games.
I'm still bitter we lost. But The Controller won't need to vacate the premises because she can't stand the vitriol, abuse, foul language and naked despair on show when we play on the telly.
Well, not till next week when I shall be watching in Norfolk while she, no doubt, shops in Holt, and even the dogs keep well away.
Wednesday 9 March 2011
Midweek Fixtures
Apart from the joys(?) of scuffling in the Fizzypop cup, midweek games are reserved for those glamorous European fixtures that West Ham haven't had since the long-ago glory days (if you omit the single tie against the pink-shirted Palermo which we lost with both Mascherano and Tevez in the side a few years ago).
So occasionally I am seduced by a Young Boys of Berne or aim for a Zenit on my front-room settee.
The Controller is banished to the back-room after the second most redundant question: "Is there football on?" (the first most redundant question being, of course, "Will that be the full English breakfast, sir?") With dispassion and no hope or despair for the outcome, I can take an aesthetic pleasure in a match, rather than partisan joy or vitriol.
But it's not the same. Football demands grand passion, and you only get that when you're committed to the outcome for one team. The players for my team can be heroes for all time in my recollection. As well as Moore, Hurst and the other one who went to outer darkness at Shite Hart Lane, there are earlier loves. Phil Woosnam was my Physics teacher in my first year at Grammar School before he became a full-time pro with West Ham. Later Brooking and Devonshire were utter delight (and I've forgotten how many people thought Sir Trev lazy. They're probably now having a go at Carlton).
And there were plenty of late career cameos such as Liam Brady to prompt thoughts of 'what if?'
Players could also be eternal, damned villains, even if (especially if?) they played for us. No-one can hold a candle to Paul Ince, of course, but Fat Frank and Jermain Defoe come close. Defoe was the focus of one of the most pithy, abusive chants I've ever heard that has since been repeated for other players but somehow not as tellingly as the first time I heard it from 20,000 plus voices: Jermain Defoe, he's a c**t (the asterisks were not in the original). And some pension plans stick in the mind. The non-scoring John Radford, Ian Wank-wank-wank?
Then there the ones you could not believe how they came to be with us. Titi Camara? Marco Boogers? Gary Charles? (All 'Appy 'Arry purchases by the way - no doubt bought to fuel his fund of loveable cockney boy stories; or his off-shore bank accounts By the way, brief digression - there's a loving profile in The Independent of 'Arry at a charidee do for poor unfortunate youngsters . Big-hearted and generous. Perhaps if he and others paid their taxes, the poor unforutnates wouldn't need charidee because the state could afford to provide. End of digression).
The ones we all love most are the ones who come up through the youth team and become outstanding footballers who are never ever anything else other than West Ham through and through, even if they go away to spend the twilight of their careers with other, less exalted teams. Failing that we'll make do with those who come to us from elsewhere but who have the passion and commitment to make us believe that they care as much as we do. It's why we loved Julian Dicks, Paolo Di Canio and now Super Scott (it also helped that the first of those two appeared, on plentiful occasions, to be certifably bonkers).
And I don't feel that way about other teams' players, even if they used to play for us. Glen Johnson or Joe Cole don't make me feel for Liverpool. Rio, Michael Carrick can't make me hate Man U any less. Fat Frank - uurrgghhhh. I love Carlos to bits but not his team. Jermain - well he's another reason to hope Spurs lose.
And there weren't any West Ham players in the Arsenal team (although great white hope and young offender Wilshere is a West Ham fan), but I took pleasure in their humbling by Barcelona. They've done it to us enough times, I'm glad they recognsie what it's like.
And now I must go and practise my "Meeeelan" chants. As The Controller points out, football brings out my nasty side. But it's all synthetic, not deeply felt, because I don't really care. But on Sunday, it'll be cranked up to 11 again.
So occasionally I am seduced by a Young Boys of Berne or aim for a Zenit on my front-room settee.
The Controller is banished to the back-room after the second most redundant question: "Is there football on?" (the first most redundant question being, of course, "Will that be the full English breakfast, sir?") With dispassion and no hope or despair for the outcome, I can take an aesthetic pleasure in a match, rather than partisan joy or vitriol.
But it's not the same. Football demands grand passion, and you only get that when you're committed to the outcome for one team. The players for my team can be heroes for all time in my recollection. As well as Moore, Hurst and the other one who went to outer darkness at Shite Hart Lane, there are earlier loves. Phil Woosnam was my Physics teacher in my first year at Grammar School before he became a full-time pro with West Ham. Later Brooking and Devonshire were utter delight (and I've forgotten how many people thought Sir Trev lazy. They're probably now having a go at Carlton).
And there were plenty of late career cameos such as Liam Brady to prompt thoughts of 'what if?'
Players could also be eternal, damned villains, even if (especially if?) they played for us. No-one can hold a candle to Paul Ince, of course, but Fat Frank and Jermain Defoe come close. Defoe was the focus of one of the most pithy, abusive chants I've ever heard that has since been repeated for other players but somehow not as tellingly as the first time I heard it from 20,000 plus voices: Jermain Defoe, he's a c**t (the asterisks were not in the original). And some pension plans stick in the mind. The non-scoring John Radford, Ian Wank-wank-wank?
Then there the ones you could not believe how they came to be with us. Titi Camara? Marco Boogers? Gary Charles? (All 'Appy 'Arry purchases by the way - no doubt bought to fuel his fund of loveable cockney boy stories; or his off-shore bank accounts By the way, brief digression - there's a loving profile in The Independent of 'Arry at a charidee do for poor unfortunate youngsters . Big-hearted and generous. Perhaps if he and others paid their taxes, the poor unforutnates wouldn't need charidee because the state could afford to provide. End of digression).
The ones we all love most are the ones who come up through the youth team and become outstanding footballers who are never ever anything else other than West Ham through and through, even if they go away to spend the twilight of their careers with other, less exalted teams. Failing that we'll make do with those who come to us from elsewhere but who have the passion and commitment to make us believe that they care as much as we do. It's why we loved Julian Dicks, Paolo Di Canio and now Super Scott (it also helped that the first of those two appeared, on plentiful occasions, to be certifably bonkers).
And I don't feel that way about other teams' players, even if they used to play for us. Glen Johnson or Joe Cole don't make me feel for Liverpool. Rio, Michael Carrick can't make me hate Man U any less. Fat Frank - uurrgghhhh. I love Carlos to bits but not his team. Jermain - well he's another reason to hope Spurs lose.
And there weren't any West Ham players in the Arsenal team (although great white hope and young offender Wilshere is a West Ham fan), but I took pleasure in their humbling by Barcelona. They've done it to us enough times, I'm glad they recognsie what it's like.
And now I must go and practise my "Meeeelan" chants. As The Controller points out, football brings out my nasty side. But it's all synthetic, not deeply felt, because I don't really care. But on Sunday, it'll be cranked up to 11 again.
Sunday 6 March 2011
Lifting Me Higher: West Ham 3 - 0 Stoke; 5 March.
I woke up and it was all a dream. West Ham aren't a bunch of disorganised, gutless, journeymen giving a convincing imitation of headless chickens as they maintain a firm grip on a relegation place. Instead, they are well-set up, with a proper regard for the opposition's strengths and weaknesses, tactically sharp and flexible, and playing with skill and purpose all through the team. And they are not in the bottom three (temporarily at least).
This was a game when it felt like the natural order was restored. West Ham played cultured football, retaining possession in midfield while the forwards ran with purpose to create space and opportunities and the defence was vigilant and operated as a cohesive unit.
Rob Green fills me with confidence. When a save is required, he's as good as anyone. When Obinna needed a bollocking for sloppy play in injury time when the game was won, he still got it from Rob Green.
The manager changed the defence to cope with Stoke's physical bombardment. In the centre Upson marshalled the rest well, and Da Costa won almost every header against Carew, who has at least four inches in height on him. And, of course, he scored our second goal with the type of header that has to be called imperious. Tomkins moved to right back and performed steadily, although he didn't get forward as much as Bridge at left back. But both had decent games with Bridge a regular outlet on the left going forward (and I can't believe I'm writing this about Bridge).
Parker, Noble and Hitzlsperger were awesome and completely dominated the midfield, always looking composed in possession and available to each other for pretty triangles, or incisive through balls (first goal thanks to Noble), incisive runs (third goal thanks to Scotty), good deliveries (free kick for the second goal from Hitz) or powerful shots (third goal that I'm sure Begovic got out of the way of, and another earlier effort from Hitz).
Up front, Ba, Cole and Piquionne were tremendous. If I wanted to picky-on Piquionne, he could and should have scored, but his running and aerial power occupied fullback and centre back on his side. Carlton was desperately unlucky not to score and played with power throughout, occupying Shawcross and Huth throughout the game. Ba is a livewire looking to score every time, and he's so sharp in the area (even if he does look like Bambi on ice when he's running) and that's what got him the first goal.
So, I'm remaining a believer. I don't much care about the cup, but I can't wait for the next two league games. Spurs away and Man U at home. We'll all find out if we're dreaming or the ugly ducklings have become swans, the caterpillars have taken beautiful flight as butterflies.
Come on you irons!
This was a game when it felt like the natural order was restored. West Ham played cultured football, retaining possession in midfield while the forwards ran with purpose to create space and opportunities and the defence was vigilant and operated as a cohesive unit.
Rob Green fills me with confidence. When a save is required, he's as good as anyone. When Obinna needed a bollocking for sloppy play in injury time when the game was won, he still got it from Rob Green.
The manager changed the defence to cope with Stoke's physical bombardment. In the centre Upson marshalled the rest well, and Da Costa won almost every header against Carew, who has at least four inches in height on him. And, of course, he scored our second goal with the type of header that has to be called imperious. Tomkins moved to right back and performed steadily, although he didn't get forward as much as Bridge at left back. But both had decent games with Bridge a regular outlet on the left going forward (and I can't believe I'm writing this about Bridge).
Parker, Noble and Hitzlsperger were awesome and completely dominated the midfield, always looking composed in possession and available to each other for pretty triangles, or incisive through balls (first goal thanks to Noble), incisive runs (third goal thanks to Scotty), good deliveries (free kick for the second goal from Hitz) or powerful shots (third goal that I'm sure Begovic got out of the way of, and another earlier effort from Hitz).
Up front, Ba, Cole and Piquionne were tremendous. If I wanted to picky-on Piquionne, he could and should have scored, but his running and aerial power occupied fullback and centre back on his side. Carlton was desperately unlucky not to score and played with power throughout, occupying Shawcross and Huth throughout the game. Ba is a livewire looking to score every time, and he's so sharp in the area (even if he does look like Bambi on ice when he's running) and that's what got him the first goal.
So, I'm remaining a believer. I don't much care about the cup, but I can't wait for the next two league games. Spurs away and Man U at home. We'll all find out if we're dreaming or the ugly ducklings have become swans, the caterpillars have taken beautiful flight as butterflies.
Come on you irons!
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