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.
