The Way to Walsall

Monday, 29 July 2002 12:45:

I’m in the garden attempting to read the plays of Samuel Beckett for some pretentious reason. Our thermometer attached to the back of the house reads 29. Heat and Beckett do not mix well so I sit perfectly still trying to capture what breeze may be making it over the neighbour’s wall. It is as hopeless as my desire to get my sticky fingers through these pages. The heat has done us all in -- me, the flowers, the warblers, the Beckett.

Dazed, I dream of cooler temperatures, of autumn, of...…cool mists swirling around the Centenary Stand just before the Hammers take to the pitch. Doves’ Caught By The River drifts from the tannoy. Played out over the laddish chanting and choral arrangements performed down below, it serves up a certain dose of willowy, pop-flowered anticipation when squeezed through the woeful sound system in Upton Park.

Leafing through my program I consider food options, but then hear the crowd noise elevate significantly as the players get ready to come on to the pitch. The pie will need to wait. It’s a special moment. The waiting is just about over. Below the East Stand, the sides are lined up parallel to each other in the tunnel, the players all ready to emerge and entertain. They dance with energy, hearing their boots on the cement and the rumble of expectation above.

"You’ll get burned," I hear from behind me.

When I look around Jillian is standing in the kitchen. I squint into the fuzzy, hot sky, then look down at the Beckett plays in my lap. "Yes, I suppose. It’s no use trying to read when it’s like this."

"Let’s go down for a swift half." She tosses a dish rag on to the counter and steps to the open back door. "Remember you're to collect Christopher later." Stepping outside and into the light, she adds, "say, is it true they’re going after Izzet?" Jillian shields her eyes with a hand and squints, attempting to bring me into focus.

I get up from the lounger. "So you’re saying Paolo, Defoe and Kanoute aren't enough? Can't Christopher take the tube?" Tossing the book down, I add, "there’s no money for Muzzie Izzet. There’s no place for him right now either."

"I just thought I read that they were going to get Izzet, in case Paolo goes to Man U and of course Christopher can't take the tube. Remember, he's only ten.""Right. Well, there isn't a place for Mustafa, nor the cash." I wipe my forehead and stretch, struggling to stay on my feet.

"How’d you know I was thinking about football?"Jill steps back into the kitchen and I follow. "It’s the end of July. It’s hotter than hell. Obviously you were thinking about West Ham."

"United!" I add a little too emphatically.

"The Hammers." She sighs humourously.

"The Irons." I enthuse. "The lads! Okay, okay. Right. Well then, specifically, what was I thinking about?"

We go to the front door."Do you have your key?"

I pat my pocket. "Yes, right here. So?"

We walk out the door, greeted by a hideously bright sun."Let’s see." She ponders for just a moment as we start down the road toward our local. "I think it was the usual, oh, what song will be playing beforehand. Some food thing, probably. You were thinking about grilled onions, I reckon. And, maybe something from childhood. Like, when they won the FA Cup in ‘80 and you had just been in hospital for your tonsils."

"I didn’t get that far. " I smile at the thought, though. "Ah, yes. Arsenal." I shake my head still amazed by the television highlights permanently burned into my brain. Key Image: Trevor Brooking's header getting by Pat Jennings. "1-0. Pure euphoria at Wembley. Absolute nirvana.

And I couldn't be there."

"You’re slowing down. Considering how long you were staring into the fountain, I would’ve thought you’d have been well beyond that memory."

"It’s the damn heat. It retards me.""It’s that Beckett, you mean."

Monday, 29 July 2002 13:05:


The Goat & Trumpet was the perfect place to escape the afternoon heat. Having a swift half with Jill in a deep, dark hole beat reading Beckett in the bright sun of the garden any day. Not surprisingly, we were not the only ones with this idea. When my eyes adjusted, they all appeared. The man across the road, Mr. Banhill motioned for us to come over, but we both signaled our desire to head for the bar and get a drink.

"He looked particularly well on. Excuse us, lads." Jill remarked as we cut through the Hennigan family.

"He always looks that way. Hiya, Gripper."

"Hiya, Macky." Grip Hannigan replied with a big, well-lashed up grin.

I continued through his gang. "Even when I see him coming home from church or down at Boots he looks well on." We reached the bar and wedged ourselves between a couple of labouring types smelling of curry take-aways and the couple who lived round back of us. They rarely said anything to us, much less gave a polite wave over the fence. Quiet coexistance. I held my hand up for Polly. "Should we go over and say hello to him?"

"He’ll ask about Christopher, you watch."

Polly arrived. "What will it be, then, for you two?"

Jillian made the universal sign for a swifty and I nodded along. "Right." Polly already had the glasses in her hands.

"What’s wrong with him asking after Christopher?"

"It’s a little creepy. I mean, he always asks."

"He’s old. He’s lonely. But he isn’t particularly creepy."

"I simply think that if you like kids that much you would have found a way to have some of your own along the way."

"That’s a bit rash. What if it just has never worked out for him? Or he has a medical condition. There are loads of reasons."

"I suppose."

"Bet he wants to talk about Gary Breen. He’s in love with the man."

"Do you think he’ll be fit enough to make an impact?"

"Mr. Banhill?" I joked just as our Young’s Bitter arrived. "Thanks Polly." I took a quick sip and looked at Jill. "I’m not sure. I haven’t heard anything more. Hernias are an unpleasant thing to try and rush along. But he’s been around and strikes me as an intelligent lad. I suspect he’ll make a suitable substitute."

"Cheers." Jill said with a wink. "Why does Gripper call you Macky?" We both took long pulls from our half pints. The Bitter tasted quite good -- clean, dry and as it was mercifully light on alcohol, perfect for an afternoon session.

"Can’t really say. For three years now he’s called me that and I’ve never corrected him. No one else has either."

"Do any of the other Hennigans call you that?"

"Come to think of it, none of the others call me anything. I’ll see them down the bus stop and they’ll say hi, but never use my name. I saw Oliver at Bow Church the other day and he was quite effusive, but…"

"Down right gregarious."

"…he just said hello along with a big slap on the back."

"I don’t think the Hennigans know your name."

"Next time I’m in their shop I’ll introduce myself."

"Why bother now?"

I felt a tap on my shoulder and turned to see Mr. Banhill tottering next to me where the Vindaloo Bricklayers were just a second ago. "Hello, there."

"Have you heard?"

I looked at Jillian who just flashed the ‘who knows’ face. "Haven’t heard a thing."

"He’s going to be in the side. Roeder said today."

Jill thought this very funny and turned away. I took another drink. "Now who would that be? Who are you talking about?"

"Breen! Of course. Gary Breen is fit." He held up his nearly empty glass.

"I can’t understand why the Beeb didn’t have it." I replied as serious as I could.

"They’re all Arsenal supporters over there."

"Of course."

Monday, 29 July 2002 14:30:

Cann Hall Road bustled as we emerged from the pub. It didn’t often bustle in the right way, but when it did the road gave out the impression it was ready for resurgence. As it stood, the area we lived in was more or less a blank canvass awaiting the gentrification that places like Hackney have recently enjoyed. For now, our little corner of Leytonstone remained decidedly undervalued – shall we say. There are a few pioneers here and there that have made the pilgrimage from elsewhere to buy some space, but mostly our area remained firmly on the kerb, waiting for a ride.

We had moved into the area before there was any discussion about revitalisation. We were either brave, visionary or stupid. Regardless, we wanted space and an area with potential and in Greater London, options are extremely narrow. After an exhaustive search involving a mesmerizing number of postal codes, we landed on the edge of N11. And so there we were, walking down Cann Hall Road.

"Someday this will all make a comeback." I said as we rounded the corner and headed into Woodhouse Road.

"You say that every day." Jillian chortled.

"It’s a mantra. You’ll see. It’ll work."

"Do you think Breen will start?"

"No. I don’t think so. I don’t know what Mr. Banhill was talking about. Christian Dailly is first choice. But he may bring Breen on."

Jill nodded the nod that tells me a new subject was at hand. "Are we going to the Waltham Forest Community thing tomorrow?"

"Don’t know. Are we?"

"I overheard Omar saying something about it to one of the Hennigans. They were talking about transport. And something about the college?" She nodded as though she did not believe that was a clear recollection. "Anyway, it reminded me to ask you after you were done chatting with Mr. Banhill."

"He does go on about it, doesn’t he? Especially after he’s had a few."

"Did he ask after Christopher?"

"As a matter of fact, he did not."

"Gary Breen really does have him in a bit of a state, then."

"Completely distracted."

She changed the subject again. "What are they going to do about the Model Yacht Pond?"

"They’ve dug the bomb out. That’s what worried me most. Now, who knows.

Friday, 19 September 2002 16:05:

Jillian’s mum, Henrietta, has lived in the same Hornchurch terrace for forty seven years. Strathmore Gardens changed little since Jillian was a girl. These days a few more plastic Iceland totes blew around in the wind, but everything else preserved itself well, which nicely served a widowed pensioner like Henrietta.

Loaded down with all sorts of bits and bobs, Henrietta’s house held many mysteries for Christopher. For instance, why didn’t the door to the loo close properly? And what was in the hut down back of the garden behind all the bushes?

The answers were simple. The door to the loo had racked, because of a foundation shift. No one had ever bothered fixing it. There wasn’t anything in the little hut as it had been cleared out ages ago. But these were still items that nagged little Christopher.

Something in the house mystified me as well -- an autographed picture of Charlton’s Bob Bolder. It hung upstairs, given to Jillian’s father, Arnold, upon his retirement from the Ford Plant in Dagenham. He wasn’t a Charlton supporter. In fact, he didn’t care for football much at all from what I understood.

I asked about the photo once years ago. Henrietta never answered me and I didn’t bother to ask again. So there hung Bob Bolder, in the little room across the hall from the wobbly loo door up on the second floor. It was signed, "To Arnold. Good Luck, Bob Bolder."

Friday, 19 September 2002 18:28:


Christopher spent much time at Henrietta’s place. We didn’t mind shuttling him, other than the A12 traffic. Jillian would not let him use public transport and honestly I wouldn’t either. He sat in back and picked at a flower he had taken from the garden.

"What type of flower is that, Christo?" I said to the rear view mirror.

He looked up and grinned. "An Oleander, I believe."

"Is it from Gran’s garden?"

He shook his head. "Dad, do you know how the town got it’s name?"

"Leytonstone?"

"No, Hornchurch." He pulled a face.

"I don’t. Do you?"

"There’s some bull horns on the church. On St. Andrew’s. Gran showed me. Horns on the church."

"Hornchurch." I shook my head to that one. I had never given it much thought, figuring it was some bloke’s name.

"Do you want to know something else?"

I looked at him in the rear view. "Maybe. More horns on churches type stuff?"

"It’s about Bob Bolder."

We were stopped at the Green Man Roundabout – for no apparent reason. "The picture?"

"When he came to Charlton from…from wherever he was before…"

"I think it was either Sheffield Wednesday or Liverpool."

Rightfully, Christopher ignored me. "…he came round to the recreation centre near the factory where Mum’s dad worked. Where they made the cars and stuff. There were some players making speeches and signing pictures and it was the day that he was leaving work so a load of the lads went there to see what was what and they got that picture for him. Like a present."

"That’s it? That’s the story? He hung an autographed picture of a player from a sport he didn’t like, because it…"

"It’s a momento. That’s what Gran calls it." He held the flower up. "Here’s my momento."

Nothing was moving in the Roundabout. But this was typical and I had learned long ago not to get lathered at the Green Man. "I remember when he came to Charlton."

"You hate Charlton." He put his flower down next to him. "And hates a strong word, right? That’s what Mum says."

Friday, 19 September 2002 19:42:


We were all assembled in the kitchen, a bustling day behind us. I started it by nipping round to grab a carton of milk at Hennigan’s and had reveled in the crisp, early morning air. Gone were the furnace days of summer. I absolutely love this weather. Weather that gave you hints about the coming winter through the breeze's clean, cutting edge.At the cornershop the talk was all about the Hammers inability to get their first result of the season. They go over to White Hart Lane tomorrow and no one expects much from the match. Spurs look keen to press for a spot in Europe and the Irons look keen to fall into a season-long relegation battle.

At home, round our small dinner table, talk was about road improvements. "What do you think of the proposal for the A406?" Jillian asked me while I gave the paper a quick study.

"I vacillate back and forth. While I understand what the Mayor is proposing, I don’t know if it’s realistic. The road is a terrible mess. It’s rubbish. The traffic has got to be dealt with.""Maybe they could do a combination of things."

"Dunno. I guess it comes down to really committing to finding alternatives to driving. Commit to Ken Livingstone’s vision. Fewer cars in London’s future."

"I’m committed to Ken’s vision!" Says Christopher who has been eating purposefully.

I look at him and smile. "Course you are. You’re the one always wanting everyone to ride the tube."

"The tube is brilliant. Everyone ought to ride it.""Well, you don’t have to ride the Circle Line at rush hour."

"I don’t get to ride any of it."

Jill sits down. "That’s right. Just keep reminding your father about that." She smiles wryly, gives me a wink and takes a bite of some bread. "So, is Gary Breen going to get into the side? They can’t be any worse off."

I put the paper down and take a drink of wine. "I don’t think so."

Christopher drinks his juice, finishes and sighs. "Mr. Banhill would be really happy if Gary Breen got to play."

Jill pours herself some more wine. "Well, I am sure Mr. Roeder is taking in account the feelings of our neighbour from over the road."

I take the paper and playfully hit Christopher on the head. "Aren’t you supposed to be on your way up the stairs to perfect your PlayStation Cup Winner before bed?"

"I ‘spose." He gets off his chair and picks up his book bag, which is this enormous thing that is practically his size. "Oh, here." He digs down into it. "One of the lads gave me this yesterday. And I thought you would want it." He takes a trading card out and hands it to me. "Here."

I take it. "Well, how about that. A Billy Bonds card. Look honey." I hold the card up for her.

Jillian makes an amazed face. "Wow, sort of looks like Pete Townsend."

Saturday, 20 September 2002 11:30:

The closest I came to dreaming recently was bringing home a brochure for a Jaguar -- to howls of amusement from Jillian and Christopher. I mean what could I have been thinking? It’s like back at St. Chad’s when I thought reading history would set me up for a life of writing novels and driving Princess Caroline around Provence in an Aston Martin. Well, you have to be a fantasist if you’re going to be alive these days."You coming anytime before Bonfire Night?" Jillian calls up to me from below, her edginess snapping me from self-absorption.

"Yes." I look at my watch. Noon. Match Day. How can I still be at the computer? West Ham is off to a miserable start. My enthusiasm for leaping down the road to Upton Park is dampened somewhat. But it’s early. Very early in the season. "Just hang on a moment. Go ahead and get Christopher ready."

"I’m ready." Christopher is standing in my study door, wearing two year old home kit that doesn’t really fit him any more. "Come on. Mum’s going spare."

"You think?" I shut the computer off and whirl around. "Don’t you want to wear the new kit?"

"This one’s lucky."

"Blymie. Well, Man City today. So we’ll probably need your luck." As I said, you need to be a fantasist these days.

Friday, 11 October 2002 08:12:

The jetliner seats filled with members of the straw hat machinist’s congress buckle under the tomato sunlight of ocean sadness. Acclaimed for the day to be carrying beekeeper gloves, they’ve never known which door to go through to see the scientist goggles rattling from chainsaw noise. Down upon the floor instructions for creating new dreams dry into the shape of horse heads. We awaken to imagine funny means to carve sensible presents of socks and shirts from plastic globes, before turning to windows filled with conservative viewpoints. The words have clockwork causing sentence fragments to accumulate green leaves of tropical depression.

It’s amazing the thoughts that come in and out as you stand wedged into a pack of commuters bouncing along on the District. Randomness is under-rated. It’s a fine way to pass time. An exercise much needed, but rarely performed. I am going into the City for a meeting at another division of our company. The ingenuous wonks at our Internet wing await my files and facts on particular clients. I would sooner clean the khazi down the pub than see these anoraks, but duty calls. The more pleasant morning pursuits of reading the paper and talking with Jillian were unavailable to me. The only consolation was that she had to leave early as well, so no discussion of England’s chances in Slovakia with Christopher and no leisurely cups of coffee. Did I eat anything?

There surely would have been something from Christo about the defenders. He loves Rio Ferdinand – his first hero as the Hammers dawned on him at age five (he was inconsolable when we sold Rio to Leeds). But Rio and Sol have been ruled out. So apparently, Sven is going to go with a couple of Middlesbrough defenders or start Woodgate.

Our train has paused at Whitechapel. Everywhere I go these days, there is a wait. All of us just stand there. Strangers packed next to one another, some trying to read, others lost in thought and a few looking quite possibly dead. There’s an announcement, but no one hears it.

"Did you catch that?" A young Asian women next to me asks.

"I didn’t. I don’t think anyone did." I shrug and go back to thinking about football. Southgate has quite a few caps for England, but Ehiogu would be making only his third (maybe?) start for us. He has a fine understanding with Southgate, so maybe these blokes can do some business in Bratislava. But I think it will be Woodgate. I hope he can stay out of the nick long enough to make the match.

We start moving again. I once felt as though I knew a lot about everything. Whether trivial or not, political or football, I was a know-it-all. It bothers me now, because with age comes wisdom and with wisdom comes the realisation that massive gaps reside in the brain. I don’t know very much at all. The useless shite that once passed for knowledge simply masked the fact I didn’t know who I was, what I stood for or where I should be heading.

I know now. For instance, this morning I am definitely inbound on the District. But really, that’s all I know. There are bits and bobs about redundancies and executive placement I suppose I sort of have down, but most of it allows me to do a creditable job of imitating a professional. It’s all fairly depressing. I mean, who do I think I am? Robert Half?

As the doors open to the Cannon Street platform, I force my way out through a tight gang of Moroccan lads all carrying on in French about Iraq. Why can’t they be talking about Zidane or Henry? The world should be discussing football, but instead it discusses politics.

Friday, 11 October 2002 18:12:

Standing at the Stop, waiting for the bus to round the corner, I sense Winter’s grey limbs hanging over us all. The breeze, with an icy, North Sea edge, rakes across from East Anglia. The smell of leaves and earth and wet pavement over-power the ever-present deisel exhaust, providing further evidence of Autumn turning. My thoughts of coming winter chill are broken by a jaunty, "hiya." Next to me, Mr. Banhill had materialised from, from, well, Aisle Ten of the Safeway? Hard to know for sure. "It’s getting colder by the minute, eh?" He adds.

"It is. Yea." I nod.

"Fulham coming up."

"I think they’ll have a tough go." I check to see if the bus is rounding the corner. No #58 yet.

"Dailly, instead of Breen again, I reckon." It was a cheap shot.

"It makes sense. Breen off the bench last weekend. I think he’ll do that again."

I am attempting not to be shocked by this statement. "I think they’ll need him against Fulham." I say in consolation.

"Sinclair looks to be in form." There was an odd pause and I waited for more."You know we’re from the same part of town." Mr. Banhill finally offered.

"Pardon?"

"Breen and Me."

"You’re from Ireland?"

"No, no. Hendon. That’s where Gary Breen is from." Mr. Banhill shuffles his feet, "I was born over there, but then we moved over to the East End when I was just a baby. But me mum was Irish and always followed Ireland, eventhough me dad fiercely supported England. Oh, the rows they’d have." He chuckled strangely and closed his eyes as if remembering something specific.

"Is that right? Well, how about that." I did not know that Gary Breen was actually from Hendon. I should have known that, though I don’t know why. He only just came to us from Coventry City in the summer. I guess the lack of accent never computed or I had assumed he’d been in this country for so damn long and talked in the media’s bright light for so long he’d lost it. It’s a funny revelation.

Mr. Banhill changes the subject. "You coming home from work?"

"No. Been over to Broadway Market. A bit of shopping. Trying to find a gift for Jill."

"In Hackney?""Well, there’s a couple of shops…"

"Hackney." He said it again like we were discussing a shopping trip to Mongolia.

"Jillian likes a couple of shops over there." I wish that I had kept hold of the paper. Could use it for a distraction. I certainly did not want to enter into a conversation about retail with anyone, much less mercurial neighbours.

Another period of awkward silence. "Do you remember that Cup match in 97 against Spurs?"

Did I remember it? How could I forget? "Yes, of course. I was there."

"I bet you were."

"Never miss a Cup tie."

"Good, then. I’ve been trying to remember who got our winner. Was it Hartson?"

"No, no. Dicks, from a spot kick. Howells had taken Hartson down to give us that. So maybe that’s why you thought it was Hartson."

"Bloody Spurs." He shook his head, then added, "Dicks? Are you sure?"

"Look it up."

"I would’ve called Ladbrokes and bet Hartson

You would’ve lost." And with this, the 58 turned in to the road.

Monday, 11 November 2002 23:05:

The first round of the FA Cup is always fun in that it always seems to give me a glimpse backwards into English Football as it once was. And it’s coming up on Saturday. You see some interesting match-ups. For examples, let’s look at this year. Orient, just up the road a bit, plays Margate, which is nothing special. Margate is a pretty fair Conference side, which should ask plenty of questions. I only mention it for local interest and Jill has relations down in Kent so we’ll just put that one aside. No, digging deeper into the list, we find plenty of compelling, perhaps even romantic, matches. Here are a few jumping off the page at me. Luton Town - Guiseley, Tiverton Town - Crawley Town, Vauxhall Motors - QPR and Team Bath - Mansfield Town. Plenty of clubs with Town in the name and that's almost always good to see.

Luton Town gets the awesome challenge posed by Guiseley FC. Guiseley, from up in West Yorkshire, make their home at the wonderfully named Nethermoor and currently reside at the bottom of the Unibond League’s Division One table. Guiseley will be making their way down to Kennilworth Road. They face a mid-table Second Division side coached by former Spur, Joe Kinnear. What will Guiseley make of the pitch quality, not to mention actual heat in the changing room?

Tiverton Town matches up against Crawley Town at Ladysmead. Tiverton is 9th in the Dr. Martens Premier Division. Crawley is third in that same division. It’s a bit unlucky for them to face each other in the first round without getting a whiff of Nationwide pints and pies. Tiverton Town qualified by traveling to Barnet and shutting the Conference side down with two goals from the stylish boots of Jamie Mudge. The Crawley Reds emphatically beat Flackwell Heath 4-1 to qualify for the match against Devon’s own Tivvies.

Vauxhall Motors will play QPR at Chester’s Deva Stadium – apparently the back lot amongst the Corsas waiting shipment is not good enough. Vauxhall Motors Sports and Social Club, reformed in 1995 as Vauxhall GM (then just Vauxhall Motors FC), toils in the Unibond Premier Division. Vauxhall is mid-table right between Gainsborough Trinity and Droylsden. They normally play at Riveracre Stadium close to the big car plant at Ellesmere Port. What will be the effect of a Motormen result on the quality of automobile produced the day after? Only GM Quality Control will really ever know.

Team Bath presents itself as a most unusual club, widely reported as a bunch of stoo-dents from the leafy campus of Bath’s esteemed University. True, for the first time in 122 years a crowd of students has qualified for action. They face a pretty fair, though struggling, second division outfit in Mansfield Town. And must play host to them.

However, Mansfield Town will be taking the waters, so to speak, against no typical gang of students. The current Bath side includes players who have been with Aston Villa, Charlton Athletic, Coventry City, Hibernian, Newcastle United, Southampton, Watford, and West Bromwich Albion. Sure they participate in something called the Screwfix Direct Western Football League, but make no mistake, these lads can play footy. You see, Bath University runs sort of a halfway house for former players looking for more out of life (i.e. an education) and has thrown open the doors to some pretty fair talent. So it’s not exactly like the last student organisation to qualify for the FA Cup – 1880’s Oxford University side.

Where will I be this Saturday? I could go over to Brisbane Road. I think I get in free for being a West Ham season ticket holder. It might be good for the soul to take in a quiet little First Round Cup match. Besides, the Hammers don’t play until Sunday when the Satanic forces of Manchester United invade Upton Park. But I have a load of DIY projects to do around here so bugger off Orient!

Wednesday, 20 November 2002 06:38:

I’m a list-maker. But not in the Nick Hornby way. No Top Five Power Pop albums of all time (Big Star’s "#1 Record", Cheap Trick’s "Heaven Tonight," Etc.). No, I keep lists like football matches watched on the telly, films watched and books read – which reminds me to put that book on Oscar Wilde down.

I also keep a list of all football matches witnessed in person, though I don’t write that one down. Let’s face it, if I can’t keep track of a thing like that, what use am I? And as a season ticket holder it’s even easier. All I have to do is remember when I didn’t have season tickets, then recall which fixtures I missed that season. The last time I missed a home match was the last season I didn’t have season tickets -- seven years ago. It was the opening match of the Centenary against Leeds United.

We lost, 1-2.

So why do I write these other things down? It’s fun to look at a list and see that I completed Martin Amis’ "Money" on 24 May 1999. Why is it fun? Nostalgia is an interesting phenomena. And that’s exactly what this is, I suppose. People like old music for the same reason I like my lists. Both can take you back to a highly specific time.

For example, I recall that when I finished "Money" we were on holiday in Salema. Christopher built his first sand castle and presented it to me right after I tossed the book aside. Jillian stepped on a sharp rock a few minutes later, but it did not cut her. There was an overly amorous German couple nearby on that beach. There were many jokes over dinner at the Boia Bar, mostly from Christopher who at age three did not know how funny he was being. It rained that night, starting just after we finished dessert. We all ran back up the road to the villa. Jillian and I drank a lot of Port after Christopher went to sleep.

Sure, I probably could have remembered most all of that anyway, but having a specific detail pinpointed brings it all into exceptional focus so quickly. So I suggest everyone start writing those lists. It’s really quite easy.

Tuesday, 26 November 2002 16:58:

Jillian’s two cousins in Kent -- one in Margate and one in Canterbury -- both seem to think we are Orient supporters and that we should come down for this evening’s Cup replay against their beloved Margate FC. I find it difficult to dampen their unbridled enthusiasm for this idea, because they seem to be so sincere. Ian’s voice had such an earnest and entertained pitch to it when he was laying out the grand scheme on the phone. Since Jill was not at home I was left with the chore of explaining that a) it’s a midweek first round cup replay involving a horrible third division side and a conference side that only recently became so and b) we don’t like Orient, though the club is just a couple of good football kicks away from our house.

True, I will go to Brisbane Road and watch Orient, but I get in for free and usually go to see some other club that falls into the special case category of support. Darlington, for instance, which goes back to my university days in Durham. If West Ham is not playing and Darlington is going to be in at Brisbane Road to play Orient (and Peter Cockroft has told me the weather is going to be splendid), I'll go, because I can relive a few odd memories from ages ago. And do it cheap as old chips too!

Darlington: We’d all get lashed and let some steam out down on the terraces at Feethams Ground. It was just after the crazy Cyril Knowles era at Feethams when bizarre things like knocking Boro out of the Cup happened. No one really concentrated too much on the quality and the match was only a small part of the entire experience. We’d have a bag full while down there, then on the way home we would always have to stop in Newton Aycliffe, pile out and have a wee at the McDonalds off the A1. After chatting up the young, impressionable counter girls, we folded back up into Tom’s Berlinetta and headed back to St. Chad’s. Those were the days!

I guess it was at Feethams that my attitude towards Orient formulated. During my time up North Darlington were Fourth Division, then third, then fourth again before finally sinking into the conference. Orient did the same sort of dance back and forth, yet they always seemed to have that certain luster that accompanies our London clubs. This sheen of superiority would send us off the end of the pier.

But I digress. Gone are the days when I thinned my blood with Lager and chanted from the ice-glazed terraces of a fourth division side. These days, it’s hot tea, prawn sandwiches and the family seats in the Centenary Stand. Someday, if Christopher voices some desire to take to the terraces for first round Cup replays on a freezing midweek night, I’ll have him give Cousin Ian in Margate a call. For me? I’m preparing myself for Southampton on Monday night. It’ll be grand and comfortable, but there’s no guarantee the football our Irons play will be any better than what Orient produce.

Tuesday, 3 December 2002 07:00:

There he was down there on the touchline. Glenn Roeder with his arms crossed and his long, black leather coat. He looked remarkably like a Gestapo chief watching Hitler Youth train. That he is one of the nicest gents in all of football doesn't matter to us in the upper reaches of the Centenary Stand. It was cold, rainy and Southampton were giving us the match if we would have it. We were ill prepared to watch the hulking Mr. Pearce work up front as a striker. We were less prepared to watch Roeder keep this experiment going all match long. Christ, we were all going round the bend even before Beattie stuck his boot out and gave them the winner. No, even before the final blow we were talking open revolt against the board. But now, after getting back home and warming up a bit, having a night’s worth of sleep, I can relax and be thankful that cooler heads prevailed. We shall let nature run its course. I'm glad Christopher wasn't there to see and hear the vitriol, the seething bile of the collective. Since it was a school night he remained safe and sound back at home with Jill. Her brother and his mate replaced them, despite both being Spurs supporters. We kept that all quiet down the pub, of course. Stuart, seemed pretty pleased I'd asked him to come along and through the rain, wind and DiCanio wizardry I think he might have seen what we've been on about all these years (I guess he never really knew football was played outside N17). Hope the next time he joins me at Upton Park, we can furnish the genuine article.

Friday, 13 December 2002 09:50:

I've been sitting in Victoria for the better part of an hour this morning watching tourists find their way to the photo booth to take their pictures for a tube pass. A few, lacking the necessary change wander into the American Express office in search of the right coins. They leave disappointed and end up having to go across to the W.H. Smith and buy something to get it right (I suppose a purchase at the Swatch kiosk would be too conspicuous?). Pretty resourceful, I suppose, but it's all just a clever rouse by management to get them immediately into retail orienteering. Why waste it on Ben Nevis or some sodding Cotswold walk? Spend now. Spend Here!I'm not certain what I'm sitting here for, really. I suspect it has to do with the fact that I am working extremely hard to avoid having to do anything of any worth this morning. I'll make up some story about delays and such. Make a call or two and put things right -- temporarily anyway. That's what I used to do when I was sane. When I had balance. Perspective. Grace. Walking in front of me right now is a young woman who I presume to be an American (yes, that look of being over-worked along with those white trainers have turned her out), but she could easily be Ingrid Bergman from Casablanca. I wish Jillian were here beside me to see this girl's hair, the nose, that jaw line. It's striking. She is consulting a small notebook and looking towards the stairs down to the tube. The back-pack looks under stuffed, ready to receive all those woolens and such -- the loot from a Cotswold walk?She isn't doing the usual route. Any of it. She has stopped right in the middle of nowhere, right out in the open. She is just looking around and quite slowly, I might add. Ingrid is methodical. Ingrid is waiting for Victor.I am waiting for Gadot. I think it will be a long wait.

Tuesday, 17 December 2002 09:10:

I see where Ken Livingstone is a new father. His plans are to keep the baby under wraps and not turn it into another Leo Blair. Well, good for him, I say. How old is he anyway? 56? When his offspring makes it to Cambridge or Phillipa Fawcett Teacher Training College, he'll be a young 75 or so. Just hitting his stride. I wish him well in the endeavour. Hope his two weeks off gives them all a grand start. I’m trying to think of what it would be like to have Christopher now, as a little baby, instead of ten years ago. It seems like my capacity for dealing with tiny objects has diminished significantly as my age advances. On the other hand I have much more patience these days than I did before. At his age, Ken should be the varietable Buddha of patiance.

Ken is celebrating his new fatherhood by raising our council tax 62 quid a year. Got to pay for all his new police some way, right? He says it's going to mean another 1200 officers on the streets, bringing the Met pay roll to just about 30,000. It seems like a small city of Old Bill should do it. Yet, we need more and we certainly see why along Cann Hall Road. He also wants to give teenagers a break on public transit, which is brilliant. Why not give them an incentive to start using public transport early? Good habits early make sense. Need to keep them out of automobiles for as long as is possible. This is highlighted by my current state of affairs, attempting to get across to Perivale -- by car! What am I, insane? My first mistake was not going into Stepney, then cutting right across using a variety of routes. You’d say, "oh, the traffic would have killed you before you hit Bow," but it is killing me anyway and I’ve driven 400 kilometers out of my way. I must concentrate on something else.

There’s always football…

Man U sure did expose everything last weekend. A devastating visit to Old Trafford is not what we needed. Roeder insists on playing Pearce up front. It’s farcical. We just had to meet Man U when they were getting to top form -- so depressing. They looked good, even Veron. And there was Roeder again, in his black Mac, pointing, then putting a finger to his cheek in wonderment. I imagine him saying something in German. "Verschieben Sie weaklings! Zerstören Sie den Feind!" This, of course, would not be the way for a gaffer to gather favour with his young men. Maybe he should think about a different haberdasher.

How can our lads look so quickly like a second division club? Cole was Captain, because Paolo is out until well into next year. This might be okay, but I’m not sure the youngster is up to the task just yet. The passing was inconsistent at the best of times. The attack ended in the same spots over and over. We simply coward through the match. Now I’m getting upset again. I don’t need the aggro. I’m sitting at a light in Hanger Lane Gyratory (always love that name!) trying to inch from the North Circular on to Western Avenue. It has taken me so long to get to this point so I must not cock it up and accidentally edge my way to Acton instead. Next time, it’s the rails for sure. I’ll rent a car from over here if I need to make it to Marlborough by mid-afternoon.

Wednesday, 8 January 2003 06:05:

It’s snowing. It’s bloody snowing outside this morning. I can’t believe it. Been ages since I’ve seen snow out in our garden. Brilliant. Christopher will go mental when he wakes up and sees it. And all I can think about is what this will do to traffic round the East End. Can you digress before you have even started? So about the ice breaking result last weekend…Secretly, I’ve always sort of favoured Forest. Brian Clough has always humoured me to no end. In recent years they seem to either be going up or coming down or beating the odds by staying one step ahead of the gray men of the City. That said, I certainly didn’t want them to come into Upton Park and do well in the FA Cup 3rd round. But for a dubious call by Paul Durkin we’d have a replay on our hands up at the City Ground and still no home victory. They outplayed us for much of the match and I started to get the terrible impression we were seeing the future – First Division football at Upton Park. We’ve all been talking about relegation, but there it was right before our eyes. A first division side scudding around our pitch, outplaying our lads. And now I hear that Lee Bowyer from Leeds is on his way. This is just what this club needs now. Maybe we can get Stig Tofting too. If Bowyer can stick some goals in then, maybe I’ll change my tune. And isn’t that always the way in football -- a hated player at another club comes to your’s and suddenly all those elbows and dives and yellow cards are forgotten. Sweetness and light. He's a local lad (Teviot estate in Tower Hamlets) and that's supposed to help us all forget some of his antics. Well, maybe we will after that first goal goes in. Glenn Roeder said he’d go to war with the likes of Cole, Carrick and Defoe. I’m not too comfortable with war analogies at the moment, sir. Can you go a different direction Glenda? Speaking about going to war, wearing a sinister-looking mac and bringing in beer hall punch up specialist Lee Bowyer is not the way to stay up in the senior bracket.

Thursday, 16 January 2003 08:02:

Our woes give us comfort. Something to think about. Worry after. Discuss and diagram. Where would we be without the relegation battle? Probably chatting about reality -- Iraq, the Good Friday Accord, gunmen in Hackney or the Congestion Charge.

It’s not much of a battle. Battle implies fighting chance and we don’t even have that. Most of us are resigned to First Division football for next season. We shouldn’t be that way as loyal supporters, but we are indeed realists at heart. We have too many injury problems, too many draws on the books and a board whose answer to this all is to buy troubled midfielders.
I’m not worried about it. In fact, I’ve decided to not really think about it at all. Go to the matches, cheer the lads, do some singing, eat dodgy pies, then be done with it. To make this more effective I need to work on my non-football thinking skills. Brush up on all this UN inspection stuff, the Ark Royal battle group, what our Labour MP (Mr. Harry Cohen!) has to say about it all. I’ll be a hit down the pub, talking about things said by shadow cabinet members. They’ll hail me a bleeding well-rounded bloke.

Jillian is coming down the stairs. Soon to follow will be Christopher and then our small kitchen will be all busy and loud with the breakfast.

"You still here?" Jill asks as she enters.

"Just have to get to Ilford. Shouldn’t be bad."

Christopher troops in, setting his considerable book pack by the door. "Dad?"

"Yes."

"Is it true we’re going to have the Olympics here?"

"There’s been talk of it, yea. But I wouldn’t count on it."

"Hope we don’t. It’s busy enough round here without loads of people coming in."

"And that, son, is all the argument it will take, I think."

"Did you call your Uncle about, you know?" Jill asks cryptically, referring to my Uncle Jack who has been known to produce seats at the Arsenal for us. Uncle Jack isn’t really my uncle or anything. He’s an army buddy of my step dad’s who has done very well for himself after leaving the forces. Again, I pointlessly digress. We have been speaking in code so as not to alert Christopher about the possibility of going to Highbury on Saturday. We would be going under cover, so to speak, and sitting in seats belonging to my "Uncle’s" partners. I called him a week ago and then promptly forgot about it, because that’s what I’m supposed to do now that I am determined not to let anything football related concern me.

"He hasn’t gotten back to me." I reply as circumspect as possible.

Christopher sits down next to me with a banana and a cup of tea. "Oh, that’s right. Forgot to tell you. Uncle Jack called yesterday to say we could go to Highbury this Saturday. He has the tickets for us all." Cue funny, sit-com music here.

Jillian hands him some toast. "Thank you for giving us the message."

"You’ll be up for acting like a Gooner, then?"

"They’ll never suspect." Christopher does not look up from his toast as he begins to sing, "there’s only one Martin Keown, One Martin Ke-own."

"That’s enough of that. You’re sounding too authentic." I reconsider the Guardian and my cup of tea. Now, why is it necessary to send the Ark Royal to the Persian Gulf?

Monday 20 January 2003 22:48:

Kicked out of Highbury. That suits me just fine. Found out after we went mental, because Bergkamp put his fist in Bowyer’s face on the way to delivering the ball to Henry who promptly scored. Not that I’m any friend of Lee Bowyer’s, but that was totally uncalled for on the part of the Arsenal player.

Christopher tried tugging at my jacket and reminding me where we were sitting. Then I started to get pelted with paper missiles and jears, then the steward showed up and waved us all out (well, really just me), the Met not too far away in case I was a threat. Uncle Jack will get a nice reception when he goes and takes his seat next. But, really, was I supposed to sit there on my hands while the Gunners cheated their way to another three points? I suppose.

So we buggered off and went home stewing, hearing about Henry’s third goal when we arrived home. Jay-sis it’s going to be a long run out until May and a miserable summer afterwards.

Thursday, 30 January 2003 07:32:

I want the FA Cup to mean something, but I don’t know exactly why. Is it nostalgia? The Premiership is the best league in the world. That should be enough and what the Hammers should be concentrating on right now. But something tugs on me to will the competition back to where it was when I was a young, impressionable supporter on the terraces.I’m still, to this day, bothered by missing West Ham’s last victory in the Finals. Against Arsenal of all sides! I was in hospital and they went and won the bloody thing. I missed it. The glory. The parade through the East End. Damn tonsils. Should have waited. I was in pain, but I could have endured it. Really. What kind of a football supporter am I to let something like tonsils keep me from Wembley? Maybe it's more to do with some sort of inferiority complex.

Jill sticks her head in. "I’m just popping down the road to Hennigan’s. Need anything before leaving?"

I look up. "No, no. I’m set. I’ll grab some tea at Waterloo."

She comes all the way in and kisses me on the top of my head. "Good luck today."

"Thanks." She’s been keeping a close eye on me since the reckoning -- since the utter humiliation suffered at the hands of Satan’s Earthly forces at Old Trafford. I should be happy the Cup has lost some of its magic after that performance, because her concern would have been more justified back in the glory days. I would have been inconsolable I reckon.I’m not one of those geezers who think the clubs should all feature lads from the Commonwealth and the stadiums should go back to open terraces and that a little pitch invasion is good for the spirit. No I like the more cosmopolitan flare the international players have brought to the league, like the comfortable seats in the Centenary Stand and certainly don’t like seeing some gobshite tosser running on to the pitch to give the wanker sign a spin. All this aside, there must be a way to restore a certain caliber of magic to the FA Cup; to inspire the clubs to play their best talent; to get stuck in on those midfield tackles and to above all, care a little about the result. If once again made prominent, the thorough head knocking, arse kicking West Ham took at the hands of Man U would send me round the bend and under the table. But then, could you imagine Man U if the competition actually meant something? They'd be a bit like Panzers running across Holland -- though Hammer supporters could make the argument that they have already achieved that. So perhaps it's best that the FA Cup mean something to the lower reaches, but not to Prem sides trying to beat the drop.And with this thought, I am off on my day’s travels. Bournemouth! Hip Hip Hoorah!

Thursday, 6 February 2003 17:45:

There aren’t any really good record shops in the neighborhood. Not really in the entire borough. This nagging fact focuses a bright spotlight on a host of issues, but above all it illuminates the absolute chaos that revolves around negotiating the streets of London these days. Freak snowstorms aside, just wanting to visit a good, solid record store creates instant anxiety. I have no faith that I’ll be able to keep up with salient trends in Pop music or worthwhile back issues as long as we fail to address the movement of our populace.

Ken Livingstone has stated that the Congestion Charge will begin on schedule, despite the Central Line being completely out of commission until who knows when. This puts additional pressure on the entire scheme at a time when nothing more needs to be applied. The big circles with the "c" painted in the middle are all consuming. Yet, if you examine where these circles are placed, along the boundary of the zone, you’ll notice that it isn’t really a big area. I bet it’s really only half the size of Zone 1, though I have no idea. Just a guess. How many really need to drive to Whitehall each day? Or across the Tower Bridge?

I’ve heard one is far more likely to be hurt in an avalanche than in an airplane -- a remarkable statistic. Funny enough I haven’t heard what the odds are for those of us who try to use the trains. Whether above ground or below, they’re expensive, unsafe and crowded, yet necessary. Jillian and I are fortunate in a fashion. She uses a reasonably reliable surface line (Silverlink) and I use the motor (Skoda) and the District Line if pushed to go into the City office.

How do the French do it? We were in Paris for a bit of a quick one on Saturday as West Ham played Sunday – they lost miserably to an underpowered Liverpool. Lunch at Le Voltaire. Carpeaux’s "The Dance" at the Orsay. A spot of shopping at Au Printemps. Anniversary type stuff. Anyway, it’s a quick shot on the RER from Gare du Nord to the station at Musee d’Orsay. Granted it was a Weekend morning, but everything worked smoothly, elegantly and about half of what it would have cost us for a similar transport in London. The Eurostar wasn’t cheap, but that’s a separate issue. I’m talking intra-city, not intercity.

It is obvious that the French government has recognized the value of this and continues to make handsome investments, without any silly half measures or hand wringing debates about privatization. And since we were so easily able to negotiate the city using le Metro and the blindingly quick RER, we ended up spending more time there, spending more money there and spending a good amount of conversational capital discussing the virtues of our get-away in Paris amongst friends.

What is the value of efficient and easy transportation to a city? Happy movers and dreamers spend more money? Is that it? Maybe, but they also make peaceful citizens. I believe the Student Riots would have been far worse without the cool, smooth delivery of les masses générales around the city. Paris has long planned to minimize unrest. The wide boulevards allowed better troop movement to put down nasty little flare-ups by pitchfork-wielding opposition. "Grapeshot down rue de Rivoli -- Now!" But le Metro keeps everyone humming along in their day no matter what barriers are thrown up by striking truckers or anti-WTO activists or Tour de France organisers.

Upon our return, it took us almost as long to go out to Hornchurch and retrieve young Christopher from his grandmother’s than it did to get from Gare du Nord to Waterloo. Preposterous. The A12 is going to be the death of me and thousands more before it’s all said and done. What are the odds of a hideous jam in Romford Road? 1:1.

I have read where there is a reissue of Fanny’s Reprise releases on Rhino. For Sleater-Kinney fans this is from where the sound comes. I can get it right over the web direct from Rhino so I don’t have to go down to the Virgin MegaStore (right, as if they’d have this) and hand over my hard-earned quid. I’d like to hear this stuff -- music I’ve read about in magazines for ages -- but I don’t want to mail order and pay shipping, further pumping the price up for this curiosity-inspired acquisition to a level unreasonable for a family man. I want to go to a proper record store and hold it in my hands. I want to examine the packaging and feel the shopping chemical pulse through me. But here we are again talking transport. I really don’t want to face going over to Championship Vinyl and Rhino knows this. That’s why they offer it up over the wire. Maybe that’s the only place to get it anyway. Who knows? But they know there are thousands who find the task of procuring obscure recordings of all-girl bands from the early seventies daunting in this day of traffic overload.

It’s a giant leap, but I blame the Tories for me not being able to hear Fanny. They started this whole privatization scheme as part of Thatcherism. Started under-funding transport. Fostered mismanagement just in time for Bob Crow and the RMT to take over and finish the job of scuttling the system. And now we’re left holding the bag. We’re left with motors dropping out of Central Line trains, causing inconvenient derailments, nearly constant industrial actions and a lot of frustrated patrons. I say get the Lib Dems in and we’ll have brilliant transport, cracking good schools, they’ll get that NHS mess sorted and we’ll have Fanny reissues for the masses!
Talk at the Corner Shop these days is not about Fanny reissues (amazingly enough) or about Ken Livingstone or council taxes or even congestion charges. No, talk orbits around beating the drop. Still. Even after the recent non-turn of events. It’s good to have faith, but realism is critical too. I am astounded by the conversation in the shop. This reminds me of the days back in autumn when Mr. Banhill talked inexhaustibly about a starting place for his hero-God, Gary Breen. Faith is good. Reality important. And perhaps this is a good lesson for me to take into the great transport debate. Faith good, reality important. Don’t let your spirit be snapped…by the man!

I’ve often talked about the value of ignorance. Haven’t I? Well, I meant to do it. But what is the value of ignorance to the facts as displayed by Gripper Hennigan, Mr. Gohadhi, his son Rafi and the Wedmick brothers. These were the characters down the corner shop. And they all firmly believe West Ham United will be in the Premiership next year – even after witnessing Sunday’s debacle against the Reds. Here’s the value: Within their ignorance to the simple facts we find hope -- the foundation for happiness. Yes, I’m over-reaching. But that’s what I do. Example: I can’t get Fanny reissues, because of freaking Margaret Bloody Thatcher and good old Bob Crow.
We are keeping the public at bay by fostering ignorance through distractions such as relegation battles. I’m half-serious! Corporations have learned there’s nothing that becalms the general public better than sport. Becalms and insures copious consumers are waiting at their doors, despite massive upheaval on the rail lines and roadways of the Capital City. If you can’t becalm the masses with smooth and reliable transport, befuddle them by relegating important football clubs.

Wednesday, 12 February 2003 14:30:

I should be in Harrow at a meeting. But instead I am looking at works by William Blake inside the Tate – a place I have not been for a good many years.

"Beatrice Addressing Dante" in pen, ink and watercolour.

I was in a little, Islip Street sandwich shop having lunch and decided to walk over here to see some Turner’s. But I went the wrong way after weaving through some Asians at the Octagon, turning left before ducking into this room, just off the Goto exhibit. Blake’s grim biblical illustrations grabbed my meager attention. These are not the types of pictures I need to be looking at, but they somehow captivate me.

"Judas Betrays Him" in pen, ink, pencil and watercolour.

They’re all a bit frightening in one way or another. I imagine these pictures are sort of what the Hammers back line see inside their heads each Saturday. Dark, serious doom. Well, maybe only Repka sees them.

A big knot of American tourists comes through for a cursory look about before rumbling off, not taken with the Blake vibe. For a time there isn’t anybody in the room. I think about my complete abdication of responsibility today. The prevarication put forward makes me feel uncomfortable, but the secretive part appeals.

"The Blasphemer" in pen, ink and watercolour.

Will there be anyone I know in here doing the same thing? No one at the office would be in here and that is all I’m concerned about, because I’m supposed to be in a surgery seeing a consultant about chronic back pain.

A tall, thin old man strolls into the Blake gallery, walking in as though he entered a Victorian ball. He was obviously influenced by what he saw in the Landscape and Empire room next door. Johann Zoffany’s "Cock Match" for instance. He stops and considers "Beatrice Addressing Dante", clears his throat, clasps his hands together and strolls out into the John Goto exhibit.

"The Ghost of a Flea" in tempera and gold on mahogany.

The Ghost is perhaps the scariest damn thing I have ever seen. I remember this painting. Now THIS is what the Hammer back line envisions when they take the pitch -- grim visage of the darkest evil. No wonder this is hanging here. Where else would it be? Someone’s country estate? St. Paul’s crypt?

I finally make my exit, though not as stately as the old man. The Goto exhibit is imaginative. The photographs are a fresh departure from William Blake, though there are similarities. More people meander in this room – those gangs of Asians I mentioned before. It looks as though we have been moved suddenly to Hong Kong. It’s really impressive.

Finally, I leave the Tate. It’s now 3:15 and I feel comfortable making my way over to Pimlico to begin my way home. The air outside feels like it’s about 5 to 10 C, but the wind is mercifully dull as I walk up Vauxhall Bridge Road. I’ll have to get this nagging back pain much more often.

Monday 24 February 2003 15:00:

We’re sitting right beneath Bolton in the table and have a legitimate shot at over-taking them -- eventually. We have Spurs coming in and Bolton enjoys the weekend off. We could be level with them on points Saturday afternoon. But Spurs will pose a definite challenge to a club looking to build on a fine result last time out. Christopher is of the belief that the result against West Bromwich is a clear indication that the Irons will be the first club to be at table bottom at Christmas and avoid relegation. I’m not too sure and we’re not heading to the Ladbrokes shop. But there’s some hope, if not glory around these parts right now. (we just have to continue to believe the back line will fall into some sort of shape).

Talk around here is nothing unless centered around Paolo di Canio. As you would suspect, there are two camps. One of those camps is glad to see him off. Another can’t believe he’d go and worries about the future without the fiery Italian striker. A third camp could be legitimately started by me who thinks it is all a negotiating stunt. He’ll be back. Where else will he go? Celtic? Portsmouth? Christopher is beside himself over this issue. His devotion to all things Paolo is a little disconcerting, but typical for his age.

The neighborhood club, Leyton Orient, wants to redevelop Brisbane Road. There’s some scheme to put blocks of flats at each corner. I say fairplay to Barry Hearn for dreaming, but don’t hold your breath for Council approval. I’m picturing some enterprising football supporter being able to sit in their reception watching the Arsenal on Sky, then getting up and having a look out the window to catch live action -- Orient trying to break through against Kidderminster.

Picking up Christopher at school and racing (ha ha) out to Hornchurch for dinner with Jillian and her mum. I hope we will make it on time. You know the A12! The congestion charge has not done us any favours in these parts. It may have helped in Central London, but we still are in the thick of it.

Saturday, 1 March 2003 19:45:

Jill and I met in June 1987 at a Kentish Town club where young people sometimes went to enjoy loud music. We were all queued up, waiting to get in. She was with her boyfriend at the time and I was with a bunch of lads. Drinking, I reckon. We did that back then before going to the Town & Country.

The whole thing was a fluke, because she made some casual remark and the rest just happened perfectly. Jill made a comment about West Ham United and my ears got all warm. I’d never heard a girl approximately my age (or really any age) make a comment about my football club (or any club) and certainly would not have expected to hear such words spoken while waiting to see Husker Du.

"You? You like football?" Her boyfriend asked.

"Very much so. My parents aren’t too keen, but somehow my brother and I are. West Ham United. That’s who I support." Replied the girl in back of me.

I turned round and encountered a fresh-faced, beaming young girl from someplace leafy and suburban. I could not contain myself. "Nice one. Good choice. I think they’ll win the League next season. It’ll be brilliant, yea?" This was puckish since we ended the previous season 15th in the table. John Lyall was gaffer then and had managed the side to a respectable and shocking 3rd place finish a couple seasons before. But no one in their right mind seriously believed the Hammers were up to winning Division One -- ever. But West Ham United supporters are clearly not in their right mind.

"Oh, you think so, do you? Last season gave you confidence, then?" She said back with her leafy, suburban voice delivering a gentle barb.

Her boyfriend, who was this enormous wide boy, took a small step towards me. "Hey, you never mind." He said in an Essex burr. "Go back to minding your business, mate." Why was someone like him here in the first place? He looked like he should be at a disco or the very least at a track wagering on Man of War.

Since me and the lads were pretty much a bunch of anoraks we felt it best to indeed mind our business. We were there to witness the great and powerful nexus that was Mould/Hart/Norton and not get into any scrums with hardmen from a Chelmsford council estate (do they even have council estates in Chelmsford?).

After we got in I encountered her once more. We were able to exchange freely as her enormous wide boy pursued drinks in the mayhem. She thought enough of me to provide her phone number and a not so subtle dismissal of the wide boy. "Nothing serious -- he supports Norwich," she yelled into my ear over the pre-concert music (Pere Ubu, maybe?).

Our first phone conversation lasted 45 minutes. I was just finishing up my gap year so I held forth on a category of issues of the time with barely a hint of self-consciousness. I’m sure I embarrassed myself greatly with some diatribe regarding Margaret Thatcher (two weeks on the beaches of Ibiza will provide all the necessary training for this).

She was going to be off to Wadham and seemed noticeably excited about the prospect of college. I made an ill-advised and quite bourgeois reference to punts and Pimms. One misstep in 45 minutes. Not bad. I didn’t mention I was off to the far north to read at St. Chad’s. Incredibly, we didn’t even get to the Hammers and whether they could cure their left back issue in the close season.

I think about this now, as we arrive home from another match. We just watched West Ham defeat Spurs. Jill and I have now been to a lot of matches together and you would think we would be more casual about such a resounding victory. We should be jaded. But we’re not. It’s been 16 years with football always in the background and both of us are well chuffed. Say nothing of young Christopher who is beside himself. It was a marvelous result with Les Ferdinand getting the opener and our back line keeping Sheringham out of goal. Christopher called it "poetic." (He’s reading the Guardian a lot).

None of us in the Centenary Stand were sure if the Irons were really that good or Spurs really that bad. We didn’t do much exploring of this deep philosophical question, though. We didn’t care. Suddenly, the sun is shining above the East End. West Ham United does have a shot at avoiding the drop. Who could have imagined this? Who could have even thought this possible a month ago?

A month ago I would have been looking for my copy of Husker Du’s "Metal Circus" so I could play "It’s Not Funny Anymore." Now, I’m digging around in some boxes at the back of our wardrobe, looking for a cache of CD’s that would include Husker Du’s "Warehouse: Songs & Stories." I want to dig it out and play "These Important Years."

Tuesday, 11 March 2003 06:37:

I see where Sunderland sacked Howard Wilkinson. They’d only hired him in October. Things move pretty fast in the Prem. Except at West Ham. Glenn Roeder is still with us, despite what they’ve said about him in the press, what they’re saying about him down the pub and at Hennigan’s. But, he is actually digging the lads out of it, as opposed to Wilkinson who had not done the job. Guess Peter Reid feels pretty good about that. He should. Their board cocked it up but good.

Christopher and I watched Arsenal and Chelsea the other day. Great to see Lampard’s late equaliser send it back over to the Bridge for a replay. That’s all Arsenal needs is another match on their calendar. I suppose at this point, it’s just so busy one more date on the fixture list won’t matter. I think Chelsea just may get by, though their form at Stamford Bridge is a bit like my Hammers at home. Well, not really. Chelsea at least will win at the Bridge, but it isn’t often convincing.

Watford and Sheffield United are through to the semi-finals representing the First Division capably in the FA Cup. I don’t like Watford very much. This goes back to a boss I had at McCreavy Stone. He was a big Watford man and he seemed to like stressing the notion of Elton John as a board member like this was cool or something. Might explain their current financial problems, though Sir Elton is not figuring these days.

Which leads me to thinking about why we dislike clubs we know nothing about. Watford, in this instance, suffers, because they had a useless fuckwit as a supporter ten years ago. But, really, every single side in the country has useless fuckwit supporters. No more than perhaps right here at my own side, West Ham United. But when you have nothing to recommend a club, its supporters have to do.

I don’t like Norwich, because of an old boyfriend of Jillian’s. I don’t know anything about the club or the players. It’s terribly unfair, I realize, but that’s just the way it is these days. West Ham has played Norwich some over the years and I’ve never really witnessed anything too unprofessional about the players – unlike Bergkamp’s elbow to Bowyer a couple weeks ago (that still obviously bothers me). So is it time for an amnesty for Norwich and Watford and all the other sides I’ve grown to disrespect over the years? What fun would that be?

Thursday, 13 March 2003 09:07:

Shouldn’t I be doing some sort of work? It’s a big question these days. A big, important question as I scudder across the outer atmosphere of depression. Actually, today is one of those light days that come after I have had some success. The pressure is temporarily lifted and my schedule is conspicuously light. So I can take it easy this morning after getting Christopher off to school and Jillian off to work. It’s so quiet in here right now.

I have a good feeling about going up to Everton. Wish I could join the club, but it isn’t possible at the moment. We’ve won two in a row and I have a solid feeling about it. What a change from not very long ago when it was all doom and gloom. Outrageous turn of fortune. I have to say, Christopher should take a lot of credit for the faith he has shown through the season. An unshaking belief that the lads will pull through. So on to Everton. I guess I better get on with something resembling work.

Wednesday, 19 March 2003 23:25:

We find ourselves on the eve of war. Literally within hours there will be bombs falling on Baghdad. In fact, there may already be violence in the works. I do not know for I have been staying well clear of the telly and the Net. It really is depressing us all in this household. All we can do is try to concentrate on the constants. Take some small joys in the fact our football club is making an amazing run.

We drew at Goodison last weekend, which I suspected. I had a small flash of confidence that the lads could snatch a surprise result, but we’ll take the point. It was a remarkable clean sheet turned in by the Irons. We were able to keep the indelible Mr. Rooney out of goal. Sinclair and Lomas were brilliant, just magnificent quality there.

Next up we have Sunderland coming in. This will be nothing short of festive as they are going down for sure and we are looking the part of Houdini at the moment. Sunderland have appointed Mick McCarthy as their gaffer to replace Wilkinson. This is quite late in the show to be changing the actors, but I suppose they already have their eyes on next season’s promotion battle in First Division. Wilkinson is not the man you want for such a campaign. Don’t know much about McCarthy other than his time at Millwall and then of course his tour with Ireland’s nationals.
I think Freddie Kanoute could be in for a goal or two this weekend. I’m not even sure he’ll be starting so why I make such predictions is beyond me. I wonder if we put together a few more results and climb clear of the zone, will di Canio be signed? Now I’m not so sure.

Tuesday, 25 March 2003, 06:10:

Another three points last weekend. We’re beginning to make a habit of it, this winning. Of course it was Sunderland who provided the points this time round, so I shouldn’t gloat. Why not? Gloating seems to be frivilous during these times. When we’ve got lads enduring violence in Iraq, maybe we shouldn’t be talking about football. I made the argument last week that football allows us all to forget the bad stuff by presenting a consistent vision of fantasy. But I’m not so sure of that anymore.

You can’t avoid the war. It is down the news agent’s, in the pubs, in the trains and it all acts to just beat you down. In sales we're scolded if not always upbeat and cheerful. But when people are being killed, shot, captured, humiliated and all the other stuff that comes with war, how can we put that aside and act as though all is well? How can we balance this out?

Maybe I’m just worried about West Ham going down to Southampton next. Don’t think we’ll keep the string going against a side that has been in rare form this season. I am hoping for another draw like we got at Everton, but how many of those can you get against quality?
I’m listening to a lot of Echo & The Bunnymen lately. For some reason, they fit my mood precisely – especially their early stuff. The first two albums just feel right to me in my current, brooding mood. Takes me back to being on the barricades against Thatcher and Reagan and Pershing Missiles and all that lot. Maybe I shouldn’t be listening to it, given my earlier declaration about the importance of consistency and normality. Should go back to listening to Coldplay. At least there we are confronted about Fair Trade and more current, pre-war events.
International weekend coming up. England playing some cute Alpine cottage of a country. Liechtenstein? Why do they even bother? I hate international weekends. Delays the good stuff. Delays our continued ascent up the table!

Wednesday, 2 April 2003 22:34:

Will Paolo even be on the bench at St. Mary’s? He and Glenn have had another row and that puts even his presence at Southampton in question. Oh, he will be there, but perhaps only in body. We must salvage a point there and it will be extremely hard to do.

We can take solace from the Everton performance. The Hammers can keep quality people out of goal. But can they keep Beattie out? Everton didn’t have anybody of his caliber to throw our way – the talented Mr. Rooney came on as a late sub and made noises, but didn’t do the business.
I must say, Wayne Rooney showed his quality tonight during the England-Turkey match at the Stadium of Light. He got man of the match. Extraordinary for a 17 year old. England won 2-0. Vassell and Beckham scored. We were down the pub for the first half and it was tense. Very tense, indeed. Everyone still talks about Istanbul three years ago. We can’t be rid of the Turks it looks like. We came home and luck changed.

In other news, the Central Line is supposed to be open tomorrow. Nobody I know really expects it to be. Six weeks of noodling and they’ll still make a mess of it, you watch. Who’s running this asylum?

Well, I suppose I should be getting on to bed. I hope Paolo can work something out with management. I sort of like having his dramatic input into the Club’s daily routine.

Tuesday, 9 April 2003 07:00:

It is damn cold this morning. We had a hint of summer, and then it went away mighty quickly. Peter Cockroft on the Beeb says it will be with us a while, but then we’ll moderate. Pleased to hear it.

West ham grabbed a draw at Southampton that pleases me tremendously. Despite Bowyer continuing to play like rubbish, we were able to get a point and suddenly it’s hard to remember the last loss (not really, it was at Elland Road on 8 February). Bowyer spent the afternoon at St. Mary’s having a kick around on the left flank. What happened to his surges forward? The crisp passing? Does the lad need a bust up down the pub to get his form back? Oh well, it’s nice not to lose, but we need some results to climb out of it. West Brom and Sunderland are done. They are well out of it now. Bolton has decided to go on a run themselves and we can’t seem to keep pace. There’s much optimism around the neighbourhood, but discomfort as well. There isn’t very many matches left to get the business done.

I read in the Guardian this morning that TfL has started a web site to teach children to look both ways before crossing over the road. Amazing how much technology it takes now to get that point across. Apparently and here’s a shocking statistic, a child gets hit and killed almost every day here in the capital. That is a striking fact. Over 200 kids died last year at the hands of vehicles on our roadways. If TfL thinks a web site with games will help cut that number by one then I’m all for it. I’ll need to talk with Christopher about this to see if he thinks it’s daft or not. Kids are the best judges, because it effects them directly. I am curious to see if he thinks the web site is at all interesting. We’ll see how well they’ve done their homework.

Let’s see what else is going on. George II’s war in Iraq is sizzling right along. Our lads are popping around Basra with the heavy armour looking close to securing it. Blair is meeting with George II in Belfast this morning. How odd is that? How symbolic is it that they meet in the land of balacavas and bombs down the betting shop, Orangemen and Catholic hardmen with itchy trigger fingers, Bobby Sands murals and, well, you get the idea. Very odd. Hope everyone behaves. So far there’s just been the usual bomb scares.

Jill comes skipping into the upstairs reception. "Are we really going out tonight or was that a hollow offer?"

I immediately turn from the computer screen. "Absolutely not hollow. And we aren’t just going down the pub. I want us to go to a proper restaurant. The Green Papaya? Fancy a trip to Hackney?"

"Now you’re talking, young man. I can taste the sweet potato fritters already." She comes over and kisses me on the top of my head. "Ciao."

"See you soon."

She stops before going down the stairs. "You are going to work today, right?"

"Oh, yes. Over to the Queensway office."

She disappears, but I hear her call out, "Enjoy. See you tonight."

I like going out to eat with the family. It’s an event and takes us away from the routines that sometimes get us into role-playing ruts. We don’t do it very often, but it is nice to break out and have a bit of Vietnamese or something else a bit out of the ordinary. We don’t count going down to the local as "going out." It’s somewhat like going down to the kitchen for a beer and sandwich, only there are streets and neighbours involved.

So this morning I get to try out the newly reopened Central Line as I am heading for one of our branch offices. After much teeth-gnashing and new motor mounts, some new track and more teeth gnashing, they think they’ve got it right. We’ll see about that. It’s been a pain in the arse having it out of commission. The Silverlink has been having a spot of bother lately as well so Jillian and I have resorted to sharing (rationing) the use of our Skoda Octavia. We think it needs valve work now so the less we drive it the better.

Friday, 12 April 2003 22:00:

Talk down the pub is all about Freddie Kanoute and Paolo DiCanio and Lee Bowyer. Many say the side will be better without these players. I am not so sure. Freddie is unhappy with his playing time, but is he a player that can reasonably expect a better shot at a different club? Maybe dropping down would get him that first team experience he craves. Three goals this season, compared to 11 last and 13 before that. Each year production has gone down, but so have his appearances. He’s only been in 8 league matches this term. It’s easy to say he’s a quality player that lacks enough heart, but in his case, I think he’s got a case for moving on.
Lee Bowyer is another matter. If he doesn’t stop hiding out during matches he’ll be seated on the sidelines for the last matches and certainly will be shipped out in the close season. Good riddance, I say. But I’ve never rated him, eventhough he’s a local and started for England and all that.

Paolo is a different kettle of fish altogether. Niggling injuries, age, tempermental behaviour are all catching up with him. Would he be better off in Portsmouth with Harry Redknapp? We might see. I still think he’ll stay, for some reason. These are all questions and complaints of a side involved in a fight for it’s big league life during an ever shortening run-in to the close season.
We have Villa tomorrow and we all anticipate a fine match at Upton Park. Weather could be about perfect. Villa played Arsenal well last weekend, but can still be had, particularly away from Villa Park. They’ve only been able to get two points in the last five or six matches. We’ll be in for at least another draw, but the hope is for the full complement of points for us. Another three will bring us within three of Villa themselves and go a long way to supporting the notion that the Hammers are Houdini!

I can hear Coldplay’s "Whisper" from Christopher’s room down the hallway. It’s getting a bit late for him to be listening to music, though I applaud his choice of bedtime entertainment. I should go and let him know it’s time for lights out, but Jillian is already beating me to it. A gentle reminder, the music goes away and the light goes out. Such a good little boy we have indeed.

"Do you want a glass of wine?" She asks already heading down the stairs.

The weekend has started. "I do. I’m coming down."

Time to pack it in and breath a little. Big match tomorrow. Big weekend too. We’re going to go and watch the marathon crowd go running by on Sunday morning. Jill has a co-worker who has entered and fancies himself as a modern Abebe Bikila. Doubt we’ll be able to pick him out of the 25,000 barmy runners, but it will be quite the site to see. I don’t think I’ve ever actually witnessed that many people running in one place. It’s sort of like the entire crowd at a football match, emptying out of a ground and running down the road at once. Madness.

Sunday, 13 April 2003 18:10:

I saw Mr. Banhill earlier today. First time in a long, long while. He was coming from services down the road at St. John the Baptist’s. He stopped to watch me check the oil in the Skoda. His opening gambit predictably concerned West Ham United. "Well, yesterday was a little frustrating."

"What’s that?" I pulled my head out from under the bonnet just as his statement registered.

"Yes. Yes it was. We all thought we were in for a result. You have to like the chances when Kanoute and Sinclair score goals. Sinclair’s goal was a cracker and we all thought we were on our way."

"Lomas should have opened it. Listening on the radio, I thought it’d gone in."

"It hit the cross bar, then the post. Crazy bounces. The place went spare."

"What is wrong with that bloke, Repka?"

"He can’t control himself. He just can’t. It certainly didn’t help our cause pushing Allbeck around. If we go down, there will be plenty places we can look for the reasons. Repka is one. That penalty let them back in the match…"

"…with the greatest of ease, I’m afraid. And now we’re really up against it. A result there would have taken a little pressure off."

"Yes. A draw wasn’t a whole lot better than a loss. But we’re still close with a good chance of saving ourselves."

"You reckon?" He shrugged. "Looks like you’re low on oil, there." He pointed to the dip-stick.

"This motor is always low on oil. A perpetual state."

Mr. Banhill continued his stroll down Woodhouse Road. "Enjoy the day. Say hello to that little lad of your’s for me."

"Sure thing, Mr. Banhill. You have a nice day too." I went back under the bonnet and replaced the dipstick. No mention of Gary Breen. The spell has well and gone from Hendon’s own, I thought, before straightening up and seeing Melaffa Boabica walking my way. A nice young lad, Melaffa and his wife lived three doors down and had a boy above Christopher, plus one below him in grade at Cann Hall Primary. For some reason, though, Christopher had never forged a friendship with the lads. Guess that’s how it went sometimes. Hard for me to recall what sort of selection process there was at his age. How did we decide with whom we spent our time? "How are you Mel?"

"I’m feeling terrible."

"Oh?" I close the Skoda’s bonnet.

"Yea. It's no good. No good. My mother is ill and I must go home to Rio tomorrow to see about that. Such a long, long trip back to Brasil. But she needs me."

"There’s no one else closer that can help?"

"My brothers are all without any use."

"I’m sorry to hear that." I pushed the bonnet down to latch it, then wiped my hands. "It must be pretty serious, then."

"I think so. She has not been well for many years. But now it is much worse."

I wasn’t sure what else I could say. It’s always tough when you encounter a casual friend who is having a tough go. You don’t feel like you know them well enough to comiserate in any meaningful way, yet you can’t ignore the fact they are dealing with weighty matters. "Well, I hope for the best." Then I got a bright idea. "Would you like Jill and me to look in on your family?" That sounded like a nice thing, but then I felt awkward.

He smiled. "That is nice of you, but I think they will be fine. I have not been away from them before, but they are prepared." He nodded to the car. "Is your car sick?"

"Just running through the oil pretty fast."

"Ah." He nodded again. "That’s a Skoda for you." Mel started to walk away. "Thanks for your nice offer. I will ask Lorinho to call Jill if she needs help."

"Have a safe trip." I waved to him.

My back hurt so I decided to go in and fix some lunch. I had the Sunday Times waiting for me and a garden chair out and dusted off, just for the purpose of a little afternoon reading. We had been out all morning to the marathon, trying to pick out Jillian’s co-worker. She thought she saw him, but wasn’t sure. How could we be sure with tens of thousands of runners? It was all a blur to me, but Christopher seemed to be well chuffed. He’d never seen so many joggers. After that, we came home and I noodled a bit with the aforementioned car so now lunch and The Times. Maybe a nap?

While slicing ham I thought of our starting 11 yesterday. James, Johnson, Repka, Pearce, Brevett, Lomas, Cole, Bowyer, Sinclair, Kanoute, Defoe. There is no reason West Ham United should be fighting for Premiership survival with that lot. There are only two I have serious reservations about: Bowyer and Repka. We could play donkeys in their two positions and be just as well off.

Jillian enters the kitchen and plucks a piece of ham off the cutting board. "Are we heading to Mom’s for Good Friday supper? I have to call her today."

"Sure. That sounds fine." I go to the Smeg for some lettuce. "I just saw Melaffa in the road and he has to go back to Brazil. His Mom is very ill."

"Really? That’s too bad."

"I told him we’d check with his family when he’s gone to make sure they’re doing okay."

"Did I see Mr. Banhill earlier?"

"Oh, yes. He was in fine Sunday spirits, indeed. Says hello to Christopher."

"Hey, the Full Monty, eh?"

"No mention of Gary Breen. Hasn’t brought him up since before Boxing Day, I reckon."

Friday, 18 April 2003 09:35:

Good Friday. A nice weekend ahead of us here in Cann Hall. We hope the weather cooperates with the proceedings.

We’re off to Bolton tomorrow. Well, not us personally, not the family unit. The club. The club is off to Bolton for a massive match tomorrow. Aren’t they all massive this time of year when you’re in the relegation zone? But Bolton is right above us in the table. A good result at the Reebok tomorrow with the right amount of goals and we can jump over them. Officially, the Hammers would be out of the zone, though certainly not out of danger. Such excitement. How can professional leagues around the world not have relegation? It adds so much to end of season.
I think we may go down the pub for it, though it might be best to stay home and avoid the clouds of cigarette smoke. I see where New York has banned smoking in bars and restaurants. Can London be far behind? It would be fine with us. Make it a much more enjoyable session if we don’t have to suck in Rothman’s smoke while attempting to refresh.

Talk down the pub last night was about the rail strike. RMT has an industrial action going, but it doesn’t look like it is going to bother the trains north too badly. That seemed to be the prevailing concern last night. No one really wanted to discuss the real issue behind the action. Safety. Service reductions. None of that seemed to matter as long as supporters can get to the match!

Monday, 20 April 2003 10:30:

The tackle was beyond out of control. The Guardian said, "too much, too late," which sums up everything about the Hammers this season. Ian Pearce’s challenge on Pierre-Yves Andre in the closing moments of Saturday’s Bolton match, which ended 1-0 to Bolton, meant an immediate dismissal for Pearce. Then the final whistle blew and Joe Cole went ballistic. Brevett, in on it too, showed a bit too much temper for someone who has only been in the claret and blue for a month or two. So now we have six points between us and safety with only four matches left, one of them this afternoon against Boro, who are unluckily for us coming off a whipping by Arsenal.

We’ll be going over to the ground this afternoon with a sense of dread. We have one foot in First Division already and this afternoon, Middlesbrough may just put our other foot there. Then it’ll be a quiet coast into the close season as we start trying to figure out which big club will end up with Joe Cole or where Jermaine Defoe may end up. Doubt if we’ll be watching them next term at Upton park against the likes of Walsall and Rotherham. It’s damn depressing. These are dark, footballing days indeed round the East End.

Aside from this mess, it was a fine Easter weekend. We were determined not to let the mess up at the Reebok interfere with the greater good. Jillian’s Mum came in yesterday and we had a big meal. We actually dodged some showers and spent some time out in the garden. We’ve been doing a lot of relaxing, preparing for a return to work tomorrow. I like these four day weekends, even if they see the relegation of my football club.

Monday, 20 April 2003 20:30:

We’re hanging by the thinnest of threads after taking it to Middlesbrough. Personally, I was a bit shocked with the result this afternoon. We’re only three points behind Leeds, though they have a match in hand and we’re four points behind Bolton with three to play. It will be a vicious end to the season. I think we’re doomed, but you have to have hope after today’s performance.

If we do stay up, I feel a lot of the credit will need to go to Rufus Brevett and Trevor Sinclair. Brevett saved James’ bacon by golfing Massimo Maccarone’s shot out of the danger area. That’s just another in a number of critical plays Brevett has made for the Hammers since coming over from Fulham. Unlike Bowyer, Rufus seems keen to impress and make a mark. Then there’s Sinclair who is scoring vital goals during this run-in. He put the only tally of the match across around the 70 or 75 minute mark and we all went spare. The roof came off Upton Park. Honestly, we didn’t look to bother Boro much with questions until Lomas hit the post and Sinclair scored ten minutes later. Then it was time to cross fingers and pray to the almighty footballing gods that Maccarone or Ricketts or Job didn’t equalize.

And they didn’t.

Interesting note about goal differential: As of the Bolton match, West Ham was –4 at home and –15 away. The –4 at home is the big issue, as I see it. No one should be –4 at home. Not that I’m completely overlooking the away form, but at Upton Park we should be pouring the goals through. Don’t our strikers enjoy home cooking? If we stay up with those sorts of differentials, I will be gobsmacked.

Tuesday, 29 April 2003 20:07:

Well, it was not a pretty thing up at Maine Road, though effective. Can someone buy Joe Cole some better boots? How can a professional spend so much time on the floor? And what of our David James? Has all that bleach he uses on his barnet soaked into his head? Thank goodness for Kanoute who came on to do the business and get us the points needed. It’s still a tall order, but there is belief round these parts.

Trevor Brooking looked like a businessman given a special gift by his staff -- an afternoon on the touchline of his favourite club. But that’s okay, I reckon. If it means three points, let’s institute a whole program next season. We’re starting to get serious about Chelsea coming round next weekend. Should maybe avoid the topic and think about May Day.

May Day is Thursday and you would think it’s going to be a right pain in the arse. What with Iraq and all, the demonstrators have extra stuff to complain about this go round. But May Day is always one of those days you hear about, then forget is going on, because you don’t encounter it. I mean to say that there will be marches and random demonstrations, but 99% of London will go about its business without a thought. Not that travel into city centre will be easy, but it never really is anyway. I will be visiting my clients in Norwich and Great Yarmouth so it won’t effect me one way or the other, unless of course, the anarchist’s roadshow appears in Wensum Street.
Glenn Roeder is out of intensive care, which is good news. The bad news is, he’ll have to under-go brain surgery in the not too distant future. That’s a miserable prospect for anyone. I hope he can stay away from the club long enough to make a decent run at recovery (am I thinking of the man or the club, here?). This West Ham United is not the one to watch for calm and tranquility.

Friday, 9 May 2003 12:45:

I actually wish I didn’t have the afternoon off, because while the weather is absolutely fabulous, I don’t have anything to do or any place to go and all this time to think about West Ham United going up to St. Andrew's on Sunday.

Just walked out to the garden and checked the thermometer -- 19 -- and it feels like there is virtually no humidity in the air. This has convinced me to take a walk over to the park. I have not walked the Wanstead Flats since last July, which is peculiar, since it’s right round the corner from us -- practically. But in July, Christopher wanted to go look at the Model Yacht Pond where the MoD recently had exploded an old World War II ordinance. They’re working on the old pond to turn it into something a bit more usuable and wildlife friendly. There wasn’t much to see at that point as the bomb stuff was all gone and there was a lot of excavating going on. We continued on to Aldersbrook and walked round the pond there, then came back home. I might retrace the route today. Go by what is now a pond with water in it that is going by the more elegant name of Jubilee Pond.

I just saw on the one o’clock news where some protester jumped off Nelson and actually survived. His parachute opened impressively to break his fall to the Trafalgar Square floor. The Met was right there to haul him down to the Nick. Not that the lad wasn’t jumping for a good cause (Tibet), but I question the effectiveness of this type of protest. Does it not only further the perception that the Free Tibet folks are all a bunch of loonies? On the other hand, I must say that they got a lot of coverage from the stunt. It is remarkable that the lad who jumped got the parachute open enough to provide a soft landing. How he didn’t end up breaking his legs is beyond me. How tall is Nelson’s column? Anyone know?

It has been a year since the Potter’s Bar crash and no one can say what caused it. The going theory is some sort of vandalism on the rails, but nothing more definitive has been put forward. One would think with all the sophisticated technology at the government’s beck and call a cause could be determined. Someone needs to call in Sir Topham Hatt. He’d get to the bottom of it. Sort them out, but good.

It’s unsettling for the millions who travel the rails daily to know there are these unsolved mysteries hanging out there. What were the incident statisitics before privatisation? I’m sure a comparison has been made and I’d like to see it. So many questions to be asked. Not enough answers to them.

Speaking of questions, how many will be asked of Birmingham City Sunday? We were all in near shock most of last weekend’s match as we watched some side wearing our kit beat Chelsea and look like they should be playing for a Champion’s League spot rather than pure survival. Kanoute really impressed us all with his work rate and the aerial displays. But how fitting to have DiCanio come off the substitute’s bench and score the winner. But that was last week. Sunday is everything. We must win and preferrably win big to try to get round the whole goal differential question. Though I think we would need to win by five and that’s not very plausible unless you’re Arsenal.

Bolton must lose. I’m not even sure where or who they play. They will be giving it the gas, so it matters little. I think they have Boro at the Reebok. Not long ago I would have instantly picked Boro for the result. But they’ve come across a load of poor form lately. So I hope it’s someone else Bolton plays.

We’ll be piling into the pub on this one hoping that Trevor Brooking has some more charms. It will be magic if they stay up. The first side to do so when at the bottom at Christmas. I am going for a walk now with my fingers crossed.

Monday, 12 May 2003 06:45:

I can’t get over what a sense of relief I have this morning. The season ended yesterday with relegation, despite a battling draw at St. Andrew’s against a rugged Birmingham City side.
Defoe really got our hopes up early when he broke through and Les fed him a perfectly gift-wrapped ball only to diddle it away inside the area. Why didn’t he blast an immediate shot to the right of Bennett? Or why didn’t he try going a little wider if he wanted a first touch? Instead he broke back to the middle and City was all over him by then. This play said it all about the Irons this year.

Yes, the season ended with my West Ham United being shown the door down to the First Division. And while there is no doubt this is a depressing state of affairs, I have this overwhelming sense of calm about it. Is this shock? Maybe. Of course, I’ve had since about November to prepare myself, so how shocking could something taking that long to finalise be?
Christopher had just come into the world when we were promoted to the still-new Premiership ten years ago. I recall, with pinpoint accuracy, our first goal in the Prem. It was 1993 and Dale Gordon, whom we just signed from somebody up North like Partick Thistle or Rangers, scored in a 1-1 draw at Coventry City. Christopher was just three months old. Insert sound effect of a "sigh" right here. And now we’re going down when he is already showing signs of being quite the young lad.

Sure it has been a nice run, but aren’t we too big and too good a side to be facing Walsall and Rotherham and all those small-timers next season? Does anybody even know the way to Walsall? I think part of the problem with relegation is that it’s one massive, extremely public rejection of a community’s focal point. There’s no question this sort of thing is a blow to a community’s self image -- unless you’re West Bromwich where they made no pretenses of being anything other than a First Division side on holiday this season.

Will we keep any of our stars? Probably not. We’ve seen the last of DiCanio and Kanoute. Cole and Sinclair will no doubt move on. The sale of those two alone should make up the club’s short fall. Defoe? Undoubtedly gone (hope not). Is there anyway we could unload Repka? Maybe throw him in on a deal. "Okay, Villa, you want Cole? Well, you have to take Tommy Repka too."
Will Glenn Roeder be in charge for the promotion battle? Many questions are with us this morning.

Maybe it’s time for Mr. Brown to promote Glenn Roeder to Vice President in charge of finding a new job. He is just not the right man for the position. The board should admit it and carry on with the change. Not to be too insensitive about it, because of Glenn’s health issues, but it’s a business right?

Well, now we have the FA Cup Final next weekend. Southampton and Arsenal. I have to pick Southampton automatically. Hell, Arsenal kicked me out this year, so I’m still upset about that, although I am still more upset about Bergkamp’s flying elbow. My heart says Gordon Strachan and his Saints hoist the cup, though my mind logically expects to see Thierry Henry and company up on the podium.

The Cup happens, then it’s all quiet on the football horizon. There will be bits of news about the player movements and such. Moans and groans as DiCanio gets signed by Portsmouth, etc. I’m beginning to seriously reconsider that man. But that’s another story. The fixture list will eventually come out, probably when we’re in Salema trying to rest our minds and bodies in the glorious Portuguese sun. I’ll look at the schedule in the newspaper, while digging my toes into the warm sand, but it won’t really register. No, I won’t be getting my head around football until the weather is hell here in London and we get into July. The training will start. The friendlies will go on. In August, we’ll open up our First Division account and only then will the true force of the relegation take hold. The sight of an aging Les Ferdinand dropping a header past the Stoke City keeper will be too much to handle, I’m afraid. He’ll probably move on to somebody like Wolves. Join Ince and Irwin in the Pensioners section.

My hope is that this is a much needed cleansing of the soul for me and everyone around the East End. It will weed out the casual supporter -- all those sunny day fans from places like Thaydon Bois -- leaving a core of strength. We should embrace this relegation as a bit of Zen -- whatever the hell that means. All I can say is the strong better be left, particularly when Millwall comes calling with their hooligans ready to dispense some good kickings out back of the station. There are rough days ahead for us, but we shall emerge better for having endured. Right? It will give us cache, cool and street cred. Without the meat of the Prem, we’ll certainly feel the same moral superiority and righteous indignation that vegans feel. It will be another fresh start.

Note: I’m going to miss singing, "we've got Di Canio, you've got our stereo" to the tune of La Donne e Mobile from Verdi's Rigoletto. Particularly effective when sung to visiting Scousers.

Monday, 12 May 2003 07:37:

Cheers!

Jillian just walked in and held up a small plastic wand with a small window in it. Seems to be a couple of blue lines in there. Crikey, we’re going to have another little one around!

We had to mop up some serious tears, rally the senses and get all the hugging done, because she has a train to catch and so do I. But my oh my oh my oh my. A funny old life, this. Just never can say what will come along.