Tonight I'm missing my first game of the season. Already the jaundiced view of the 'team' has returned from last season. Not that it needed much encouragement, but Villa and Bolton managed it dead easy.
Even that lovely personal message from Avram about the quality of the performance against Bolton wasn't enough to tempt me. I know whistling in the wind when I hear it. I've heard it often enough over the years at West Ham.
Even the lowest price for more than a decade couldn't tempt me. There are lots better things to waste a tenner on. Like chucking it away.
The promise of a near full strength team couldn't do it either. Stregth being a relative concept.
So while I stay away, I shall still be flicking over to Sky Sports and watching the club website because I just can't ignore the fact that there's a match.
All I have to do is prepare myself for the Man Utd game via the telly on Saturday then.
And wait for Joel's temperate(?) take on the match, as he's the sole family representative there in person.
Tuesday, 24 August 2010
Saturday, 21 August 2010
Post-match bile West Ham 1 Bolton 3 21 August
So all of the anxiety over lost season tickets proved to be a waste of time. Just like the performance of the "team".
There is, of course, a dreadful inevitablity about losing to Bolton. We always do, home and away, and often for the same reasons - our defence is unable to cope with the determination, power and aggression personified by Kevin Davies. Not that what he does is a surprise, he's consistent every season, every match. And so are our defenders. Bullied out of the game.
Whereas our own forwards are (and always are) dominated by the defenders. In the end, Bolton always want it more and always get it against West Ham.
In the first half, Bolton missed two good chances in the first 15 minutes, both gifted by sloppy crossfield passes that Bolton players devoured.
Then we started to come into the game. Barrere looked lively and Dyer lasted the whole of the first half against all our predictions. We got a fairly soft penalty that Cole proceeded to miss to no-one's surprise (including his own by his reaction). Dyer hit a post from a good inside run and should have scored but that was it until half-time.
And then we proceeded to build on what was clearly another inspirational half-time teamtalk by scoring an own goal after 2 minutes of the second half. In doing so, Upson got a kick in the head from Davies, which was what I would have liked to do to him along with most of the rest of the crowd.
After that it was pretty much predictable. We huffed, puffed and substituted and then Elmander scored with comic freedom. Lee had acres of space on the right as Ilunga ambled across to "mark" him and Elmander was similarly unmarked in the area to head home.
More huffing, puffing and substituting including the lesser McCarthy (less than last year's blimp, anyway) to replace Dyer who amazed us all by lasting 75 minutes and not going off injured.
The we got a very, very soft penalty (for Parker appearing in the six-yard box, it must have been) and Noble pulled rank to score.
So, of course, we gave Matt Taylor plenty of room to feed Elmander to score almost immediately. Grant took Cole off so the crowd could boo him singly rather than wait for the end (and when there was still about half the home support present) but we'd all given up. Rather like the team.
At half-time the announcer greeted a lot of kids who were attending their first game at Upton Park. This is what they'll need to get used to if they are going to come regularly.
And, you heard it hear first, GRANT OUT!! (and Sack the Board, too)
There is, of course, a dreadful inevitablity about losing to Bolton. We always do, home and away, and often for the same reasons - our defence is unable to cope with the determination, power and aggression personified by Kevin Davies. Not that what he does is a surprise, he's consistent every season, every match. And so are our defenders. Bullied out of the game.
Whereas our own forwards are (and always are) dominated by the defenders. In the end, Bolton always want it more and always get it against West Ham.
In the first half, Bolton missed two good chances in the first 15 minutes, both gifted by sloppy crossfield passes that Bolton players devoured.
Then we started to come into the game. Barrere looked lively and Dyer lasted the whole of the first half against all our predictions. We got a fairly soft penalty that Cole proceeded to miss to no-one's surprise (including his own by his reaction). Dyer hit a post from a good inside run and should have scored but that was it until half-time.
And then we proceeded to build on what was clearly another inspirational half-time teamtalk by scoring an own goal after 2 minutes of the second half. In doing so, Upson got a kick in the head from Davies, which was what I would have liked to do to him along with most of the rest of the crowd.
After that it was pretty much predictable. We huffed, puffed and substituted and then Elmander scored with comic freedom. Lee had acres of space on the right as Ilunga ambled across to "mark" him and Elmander was similarly unmarked in the area to head home.
More huffing, puffing and substituting including the lesser McCarthy (less than last year's blimp, anyway) to replace Dyer who amazed us all by lasting 75 minutes and not going off injured.
The we got a very, very soft penalty (for Parker appearing in the six-yard box, it must have been) and Noble pulled rank to score.
So, of course, we gave Matt Taylor plenty of room to feed Elmander to score almost immediately. Grant took Cole off so the crowd could boo him singly rather than wait for the end (and when there was still about half the home support present) but we'd all given up. Rather like the team.
At half-time the announcer greeted a lot of kids who were attending their first game at Upton Park. This is what they'll need to get used to if they are going to come regularly.
And, you heard it hear first, GRANT OUT!! (and Sack the Board, too)
Pre-match nerves: Bolton (H) 21 August
Last night at about 8 I was chatting with Joel about what time and where I would pick him up for the game today. As we were about to ring off he commented that he hoped I had his ticket as he couldn't find it. Of course I have, was my answer. After the call I looked for his ticket ... and my ticket .. and Jack's ticket ... and Jess's ticket - all of which I had , together, in postie's red rubber band, on my desk.
Except they weren't. No matter how many times I looked on the desk, at the desk, under the desk, around the desk, in the drawers of the desk, they weren't there. Nor were they in my wallet, credit card case, any pockets of any clothes I own, or any other drawers in the house. My search was supervised and double checked by Anne, my wife, and after over half an hour of this I was in a major panic.
Calmly, Anne told me that what I had to do was go to the ticket office at Upton Park first thing this morning and sort things out. So, complete reorganisation of Saturday morning plans. No housework first thing, no cooking Lemon Meringue Pie after. Before 9 I would be at Upton Park. But I spent a miserably anxious evening worrying.
And had a poor night's sleep, interrupted by anxiety dreams, some tangential (a car crash happening in front of me), some direct ( the ticket office telling me they couldn't be replaced), with occasional reassurance (dreaming Anne shouted 'they're here' but, even in the dream, I knew it was a dream).
So I got to Upton Park at twenty to 9. Four (count 'em) jobsworths on the gate told me I couldn't go into the car park on a match day, so I was eventually at the ticket office window at ten to 9. Alone.
I was soon joined by a young lad who had got the 6.30 train from Bristol in order to show the evidence that he was under 16 and so could have a quid ticket. What's a fifteen year-old from Bristol doing supporting West Ham? His dad was from the East End and passed it on. But dad wasn't so foolish as to be there ...
When the window opened a fretful two minutes after 9, the guy couldn't have been more helpful. I explained my loss, he sympathised, I showed evidence of the tickets, he printed me four more. Damn, I thought, I missed a chance to get Jessica's name changed from 'Jessice' which, no matter that every year she fills in the change form when renewing, they still roll forward. But who gives a bugger? I have new tickets and was home by half-nine in time for the housework after all.
Now, let's hope that by 5 o'clock this afternoon, it was worth it - for me and the kid from Bristol.
Except they weren't. No matter how many times I looked on the desk, at the desk, under the desk, around the desk, in the drawers of the desk, they weren't there. Nor were they in my wallet, credit card case, any pockets of any clothes I own, or any other drawers in the house. My search was supervised and double checked by Anne, my wife, and after over half an hour of this I was in a major panic.
Calmly, Anne told me that what I had to do was go to the ticket office at Upton Park first thing this morning and sort things out. So, complete reorganisation of Saturday morning plans. No housework first thing, no cooking Lemon Meringue Pie after. Before 9 I would be at Upton Park. But I spent a miserably anxious evening worrying.
And had a poor night's sleep, interrupted by anxiety dreams, some tangential (a car crash happening in front of me), some direct ( the ticket office telling me they couldn't be replaced), with occasional reassurance (dreaming Anne shouted 'they're here' but, even in the dream, I knew it was a dream).
So I got to Upton Park at twenty to 9. Four (count 'em) jobsworths on the gate told me I couldn't go into the car park on a match day, so I was eventually at the ticket office window at ten to 9. Alone.
I was soon joined by a young lad who had got the 6.30 train from Bristol in order to show the evidence that he was under 16 and so could have a quid ticket. What's a fifteen year-old from Bristol doing supporting West Ham? His dad was from the East End and passed it on. But dad wasn't so foolish as to be there ...
When the window opened a fretful two minutes after 9, the guy couldn't have been more helpful. I explained my loss, he sympathised, I showed evidence of the tickets, he printed me four more. Damn, I thought, I missed a chance to get Jessica's name changed from 'Jessice' which, no matter that every year she fills in the change form when renewing, they still roll forward. But who gives a bugger? I have new tickets and was home by half-nine in time for the housework after all.
Now, let's hope that by 5 o'clock this afternoon, it was worth it - for me and the kid from Bristol.
Wednesday, 18 August 2010
Misery Loves Company
When the Young Boys of Berne were leading 3-0 last night, the Aston Villa result was given a different perspective. Sadly, though, Spurs managed to score twice and will doubtless proceed to the engorged riches of the Champions (and second, third and fourth places) League Group Stage.
Why is it that the fortunes - or lack of them - of my own team are thrown into such great relief by the status of others, especially near neighbours?
I long ago gave up on seeking to compete with Chelsea. The riches of Russian Oligarchy are out of any proportion to the corner shop mentality that was Terrence Brown, or the failed Icelandic Banker (and, lest we forget, previously convicted fraudster), or the East End Barrow Boy porn baron partnership (civil? not with David Sullivan, it won't be). So I just expend my inexhaustible reserves of bile on Fat Frank and EBJT. By the way, given his parents' criminal activities, could he still be taken into care?
As for Arsenal, the metrosexual sophistication and oh-so-French insouciance can be galling, but they haven't won anything for almost as long as us and their style vs. substance ratio means I can both laugh at them and (secretly) admire them. And their best players leave because they want to win things (so passe).
It's Spurs who really gall me. For a while there a few years ago, we were in the position of genuinely overtaking them. Two (three?) seasons we finished above them in the league. We could laugh uproariously at their pretensions to be a big club. Even when they picked up and had aspirations to conquer the promised land of the Top Four, we could beat them and scupper their chances - so that they had to plead a sicknote! And then it looked like they could be relegated until Bagpuss came along.
So the only joy I shall get out of their Champions League campaign is when they lose and it's over. They couldn't possibly win it, could they?
Why is it that the fortunes - or lack of them - of my own team are thrown into such great relief by the status of others, especially near neighbours?
I long ago gave up on seeking to compete with Chelsea. The riches of Russian Oligarchy are out of any proportion to the corner shop mentality that was Terrence Brown, or the failed Icelandic Banker (and, lest we forget, previously convicted fraudster), or the East End Barrow Boy porn baron partnership (civil? not with David Sullivan, it won't be). So I just expend my inexhaustible reserves of bile on Fat Frank and EBJT. By the way, given his parents' criminal activities, could he still be taken into care?
As for Arsenal, the metrosexual sophistication and oh-so-French insouciance can be galling, but they haven't won anything for almost as long as us and their style vs. substance ratio means I can both laugh at them and (secretly) admire them. And their best players leave because they want to win things (so passe).
It's Spurs who really gall me. For a while there a few years ago, we were in the position of genuinely overtaking them. Two (three?) seasons we finished above them in the league. We could laugh uproariously at their pretensions to be a big club. Even when they picked up and had aspirations to conquer the promised land of the Top Four, we could beat them and scupper their chances - so that they had to plead a sicknote! And then it looked like they could be relegated until Bagpuss came along.
So the only joy I shall get out of their Champions League campaign is when they lose and it's over. They couldn't possibly win it, could they?
Sunday, 15 August 2010
Absentees still feel pain!
So, having spent Saturday afternoon trekking round Ikea (a place with more pregnant women per square foot than a maternity ward) checking the scores every two minutes I again find myself in a position of wondering how to explain to my 5 year old son that yes mummys team has lost already. For some this might not be a difficult proposition but, when trying to ensure that he follows the family tradition rather than being brainwashed into his daddys way of thinking, this is not easy. At this point I sould explain that his dad is a Manc of the red variety and, like the majority of Mancs, has never lived outside London or attended a single game at Old Trafford.
While my son has been to a number of matches, as has been noted earlier, the highlight of these for him has been the half time hot dog. He is however proving adept at recognising Bubbles as proven in Girona airport recently when he heard someones ring tone and started singing along. Unfortunately he is not as adpet at recognising the players despite bieng able to shout out Rooney at the top of his voice every time we pass a billboard displaying Shreks doppleganger. For this I blame the media, why should it only be players from top clubs that are lauded and used fpr product placement or is it just that everyone recognises how rubbish our team are at everything! But I forget, Scotty Parker was the face of MacDonalds years ago - lckily not in the same way as Bowyer.
Unfortunately, once again due to family commitments I am unable to acutally attend ny frits game until the end of September so I can envisage a number of weekends coming up of waiting with baited breath only to be continually let down. The question is - does it hurt more when you're there or waiting for the news?
While my son has been to a number of matches, as has been noted earlier, the highlight of these for him has been the half time hot dog. He is however proving adept at recognising Bubbles as proven in Girona airport recently when he heard someones ring tone and started singing along. Unfortunately he is not as adpet at recognising the players despite bieng able to shout out Rooney at the top of his voice every time we pass a billboard displaying Shreks doppleganger. For this I blame the media, why should it only be players from top clubs that are lauded and used fpr product placement or is it just that everyone recognises how rubbish our team are at everything! But I forget, Scotty Parker was the face of MacDonalds years ago - lckily not in the same way as Bowyer.
Unfortunately, once again due to family commitments I am unable to acutally attend ny frits game until the end of September so I can envisage a number of weekends coming up of waiting with baited breath only to be continually let down. The question is - does it hurt more when you're there or waiting for the news?
Saturday, 14 August 2010
The First Day Let-Down
So there were good points. We were there in good time, parked well so that we were able to get away dead quick after the game and were back home before 7. It's often after 6 for a home game after dropping off various sons and daughter. We enjoyed the journey and the West Ham support, as ever, was very good - very loud, very supportive, very funny. But also (and this is not unrelated to the football played, very disgruntled). It's quite a while since I've seen fans leaving an away match before 70 minutes.
Not that much was missed by those who got an early start home.
Frankly, we were shit from beginning to (almost) end with about 15 minutes at the start of the second half when we seem to have decided that, as we'd already lost the game, we could play with some spirit for a change.
The team to start was little different from last season, with only Winston Reid starting at right back of the new signings.
And we were quickly back into the groove of last season - giving the opposition plenty of space in midfield, not marking for corners and passing as much to the Villa players as our own. Maybe it was the claret and blue that distracted them (but it didn't seem to affect the Villa in the same way).
It was a surprise it took Villa 14 minutes to score - especially as Tomkins had tried to make a present for Carew, and when that didn't work, decided to hit our post himself.
The defence was dreadful, Reid and Ilunga giving their men time and room to cross at will, Upson and Tomkins losing Carew at every attack (and he's not especially inconspicuous).
In midfield, Faubert showed why he was tried at right back instead, Rigor Mortis did nothing (except lose Petrov for their second goal) and Kovac, Noble and Parker lunged around (Kovac), passed equally to their defenders or our attack (Noble) or turned numerous circles (Parker).
Cole was, well, Cole.
At least at half time when Piquionne and Barrera came on we huffed a bit and the crowd got into a jumping up and down chant of "We are West Ham Claret and Blue Army" that cheered us up, but that was about it.
Except for the way we supported Rob Green who got the expected abuse from the home fans. Still, as we sang, "He's not as shit as Heskey".
But, to be honest, our whole team is crap.
So Messrs Gold and Sullivan, with their long experience with pornography, should know a bunch of useless f**kers when they see them. I expect another Chairman's column apologising for the shambles. Only this time, they appointed the manager and bankrolled the purchases, so maybe a bit of self-criticism is in order, too.
Next week, the Joy of Bolton......
Not that much was missed by those who got an early start home.
Frankly, we were shit from beginning to (almost) end with about 15 minutes at the start of the second half when we seem to have decided that, as we'd already lost the game, we could play with some spirit for a change.
The team to start was little different from last season, with only Winston Reid starting at right back of the new signings.
And we were quickly back into the groove of last season - giving the opposition plenty of space in midfield, not marking for corners and passing as much to the Villa players as our own. Maybe it was the claret and blue that distracted them (but it didn't seem to affect the Villa in the same way).
It was a surprise it took Villa 14 minutes to score - especially as Tomkins had tried to make a present for Carew, and when that didn't work, decided to hit our post himself.
The defence was dreadful, Reid and Ilunga giving their men time and room to cross at will, Upson and Tomkins losing Carew at every attack (and he's not especially inconspicuous).
In midfield, Faubert showed why he was tried at right back instead, Rigor Mortis did nothing (except lose Petrov for their second goal) and Kovac, Noble and Parker lunged around (Kovac), passed equally to their defenders or our attack (Noble) or turned numerous circles (Parker).
Cole was, well, Cole.
At least at half time when Piquionne and Barrera came on we huffed a bit and the crowd got into a jumping up and down chant of "We are West Ham Claret and Blue Army" that cheered us up, but that was about it.
Except for the way we supported Rob Green who got the expected abuse from the home fans. Still, as we sang, "He's not as shit as Heskey".
But, to be honest, our whole team is crap.
So Messrs Gold and Sullivan, with their long experience with pornography, should know a bunch of useless f**kers when they see them. I expect another Chairman's column apologising for the shambles. Only this time, they appointed the manager and bankrolled the purchases, so maybe a bit of self-criticism is in order, too.
Next week, the Joy of Bolton......
Friday, 13 August 2010
IT'S A FAMILY AFFAIR
Tomorrow (almost) all of the male side of the family will be at the first game of the season at Aston Villa.
That's me, and my two sons Jack and Joe (or, to put them in chronological order, Joe and Jack). Not present will be their sister, my oldest daughter, Jessica, who is also a season ticket holder but also has family responsibilities. Which is the youngest male, her son, Connor. Who has yet to be fully infected with the family obsession and therefore has more of a sense of balance (at 5 years old). He believes that the best bit of a visit to Upton Park is the hot dog, and he's often not wrong (and that's not testimony to the quality of the hot dogs). Also not present will be my other daughter, Rebecca, because she managed to escape to Glasgow (but who is also somewhat resistant to the family infection).
Some years ago, there was typically over-the top Sky TV advertising campaign for the new season, featuring a number of extremely overwrought fans celebrating or mourning. The punchline was 'be careful who you choose - it matters'. Cue laughter from my children. Their view was that they never got the opportunity to choose. They were taken to West Ham when they were too young to know any better. By then it was too late, they were condemned to a life of disappointment punctuated by the odd false dawn of hope.
So off we go tomorrow in the hope that our expectations can be wrong.
Until reality bites about 3.05 ....
That's me, and my two sons Jack and Joe (or, to put them in chronological order, Joe and Jack). Not present will be their sister, my oldest daughter, Jessica, who is also a season ticket holder but also has family responsibilities. Which is the youngest male, her son, Connor. Who has yet to be fully infected with the family obsession and therefore has more of a sense of balance (at 5 years old). He believes that the best bit of a visit to Upton Park is the hot dog, and he's often not wrong (and that's not testimony to the quality of the hot dogs). Also not present will be my other daughter, Rebecca, because she managed to escape to Glasgow (but who is also somewhat resistant to the family infection).
Some years ago, there was typically over-the top Sky TV advertising campaign for the new season, featuring a number of extremely overwrought fans celebrating or mourning. The punchline was 'be careful who you choose - it matters'. Cue laughter from my children. Their view was that they never got the opportunity to choose. They were taken to West Ham when they were too young to know any better. By then it was too late, they were condemned to a life of disappointment punctuated by the odd false dawn of hope.
So off we go tomorrow in the hope that our expectations can be wrong.
Until reality bites about 3.05 ....
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