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.

The International Break: West Ham 0 -1 Ipswich; 27 September; Crystal Palace 2 - 2 West Ham 1 October.

The ennui is almost overpowering, so I need an international break to recharge my faded batteries.  After losing to Ipswich (which BFS noted was a disappointment), I wondered at my air of resignation.  After all, we had a whole game at home and didn't manage a shot, and in the ninetieth minute we failed to mark at a corner, either for the cross or the midfield player to whom the ball eventually fell.  Now while Kevin Nolan is a pointer and gesticulator in the Ian Bishop class (and a real leader of men according to one of The Pornographers), that didn't translate into doing the marking.  But hey, it's another lesson to be learned.

Which we hadn't, apparently, four days later when we went away to Crystal Palace.  Since the last time we played them, at the Millennium Stadium we managed to let the barrage balloon in waiting that was Neil Shipperley score to put Palace and not us into the Premiership Promised Land (from whence Iain Dowie led them at the end of the following season, never yet to return), this could have been a grudge match if anybody could be arsed.  But nobody could be, as was obvious from the 'defending' that BFS castigated.  Well, you trains 'em Big Boy.  And at least we came back for a draw.

But we're ten games into the season and doing OK. Unbeaten away from home, but at home as safe at the back as a seven year old left alone with Gary Glitter.  In (almost) a quarter of the season we're nicely tucked into fourth place and only two points of BFS's magic figure of two points a game.  If only you could get two points a game instead of none, one or three ....  The defence, apart from the time between the 85th and the 95th minute, has seemed to be more secure than for some time with two centre halves who can head it and tackle and two full backs who mark the wide men and tuck in when necessary.  BFS did the necessary in replacing Ilunga (now gone on loan to Doncaster) and realising Faubert was only ever a faux full-back.  The midfield has not looked terribly secure without the Superman (and how Spurs fans suddenly appreciate him) and while Lansbury is class, Bentley, so far, is dross.  Faubert is a better midfield player than he is full-back, but that's not high praise, Taylor is variable and Jack not yet getting a run to prove his worth.  Despite the grumbles of home fans who don't readily appreciate one of their own, Mark Noble remains dependable.  If Nolan performed as well as he struts he'd be some player.

But we're still lightweight up front. Carlton Cole has high balls played up to him and Carew gets them played into the channels when he replaces Cole.  You'd almost think Carlton couldn't run and Carew couldn't jump.  One of those things is true.  Baldock it's too early to judge and Piquionne's best days are way behind. 

So, all-in-all we've not done bad to be where we are.  BFS says the team will get better over the next ten games, and then better again.  I hope so.  I'm enduring the Championship but not liking it.

And I could do without The Pornographers and Lord Sugar's Suck-up dreaming up the publicity stunt of suggesting King Carlos comes back on loan.  It only reminds me what we're missing.  If it wound Neil Warnock up again, it might be worth it.  But after losing a derby 6-0, wind-up might be unnecessary to make him self-combust.  You can but hope.