Nearly Reach the Sky (13 page)

On a rather less notorious occasion we got away with one at
Upton Park in the 2005/06 season when Alan Pardew surprised everyone – me especially – by guiding what appeared on paper to be an under-strength squad to a top-half finish. Three of the fiftyfive points we notched up that year were down to a controversial O.G. at Upton Park by Middlesbrough's Chris Riggott. His deflection, following a Paul Konchesky free kick, was ruled to be a goal by the assistant ref despite Boro keeper Mark Schwarzer smothering it at the second attempt. We could see from the East Stand that the ball hadn't crossed the line. Heaven only knows what referee Steve Bennett saw. We waited for him to overrule the lino, and could hardly believe our luck when he pointed to the centre circle. The laughter that accompanied our celebrations was down to the fact that a dodgy decision had actually gone our way for once rather than merriment at Riggott's misfortune. (Not that we're immune from taking the mick out of a hapless defender who puts the ball in his own net – we just didn't do it this time.)

I have never been a huge fan of Steve McClaren, who was the Middlesbrough manager at the time. But on this occasion the Wally with the Brolly had a point. ‘It took me thirty seconds to go to the back of the stand and see it wasn't a goal, so why can't officials do the same?' he asked. ‘If the technology is there we have to use it. Other sports exploit it.'

You're right, Steve – goal-line technology has got to be an improvement. But when has football ever bothered to learn anything from those other sports you mentioned? Ever tried arguing with a rugby ref? You don't do it a second time. Similarly, you won't see a cricket umpire surrounded by stroppy prima donnas waving their arms around like a demented copper directing traffic after the lights have failed simply because a decision has gone
against them. It's drilled into you as a kid, the umpire is always right – even when he's wrong. A bit like yer dad.

I've not done a lot of refereeing myself (two five-a-side games, to be precise) but it seems to me that, rather than merely follow the rules slavishly, there's room for some creative thinking. You are no doubt familiar with the rap duo Rizzle Kicks. Well, I once put my theory into practice by asking a nice young man called Mike to kick Rizzle as hard as he could while I was looking the other way – and it worked like a charm.

Geoff and Jordan ‘Rizzle' Stephens were schoolfriends for years. Despite being an Arsenal supporter, Jordan is a lovely lad – but it's fair to say he's never been short of an opinion and he's certainly not shy when it comes to expressing himself. So I wasn't overly surprised when he questioned my first decision in a five-a-side game at the local sports centre which was part of my son's fifteenth birthday celebrations. To be honest I was a bit surprised when Geoff asked me to ref it, but I felt vaguely honoured too. I even went out and bought a whistle.

Jordan never went so far as to tell me where to shove my whistle – he's far too well-brought up for that – but it was clear from his frequent protests that he believed he should be protected from some of the more robust tackling that was a feature of the game. I'm a bit old-school myself and I like a decent challenge. You can't have spent as many years admiring the likes of Billy Bonds and Julian Dicks as I have and not appreciate the defensive side of our beautiful game, so I was perhaps letting a bit more go than you'd see on
Match of the Day
in this antiseptic age of minimal contact and boots like slippers and balls that don't have laces which you can head when they're wet without concussing yourself. Kids today? They don't know they're born!

Several polite requests asking Jordan to keep his lip buttoned fell on deaf ears, which prompted my next move. When the ball was down the other end I called over Mike, who was playing at the back for the other side. Naturally, I got the ‘What me, ref?' look as I beckoned him, but I explained that not only wasn't he in trouble, but I also had a little task for him. His look of bewilderment turned to a full-beam smile as I explained what I wanted: namely, the next time he was anywhere near Jordan he was to clatter him as hard and as unfairly as he could. In short, he had one free foul and he was not to waste it.

He didn't. Jordan was miles from the ball when Mike sent him flying with a villainous tackle from behind. When he picked himself off the floor he turned to me in search of justice, and found me strangely unsympathetic. ‘Sorry, Jordan, just didn't see it,' I told him. And as he looked me in the eye in total disbelief, the penny dropped. He was as good as gold from then on and we all had a fantastic afternoon. If I remember correctly I engineered a questionable penalty shoot-out which ensured Geoff got the winning goal. Well, we were paying for it, after all.

The men in black like to tell anyone who will listen that they have a tough job, but I'm not convinced. They don't even have to wear black any more (although at least they ditched that awful green they used to wear in the early days of the Premier League. I'm no fashion icon, but lime green? Per-leeze!).

When the Football Association was founded in 1863 there were no referees. This was a game for gentlemen and, as they weren't going to attempt to gain an unfair advantage by deliberately employing underhand tricks, nobody could see the need for a ref. Instead, the FA went for two umpires to interpret the laws of the
game – one provided by each side. By the 1880s it became clear these two honourable gents couldn't always agree, so they brought in someone to whom their quarrels could be referred. That's why they are called ‘referees' (although I have heard them called other names at Upton Park over the years, not of all which are entirely complimentary).

The following decade it was decided to put the referees on the field and – quite literally – sideline the umpires. That's when they found themselves demoted to mere linesmen. (Note to the FA: efforts to upgrade their job description by rebranding them ‘assistant referees' are fooling no one; they are linos and everybody knows it. If they were proper referees they would get a whistle instead of a flag.)

But they can console themselves with the thought they don't cop anything like the abuse that the man in the middle has to take. My mate Steve tells me that he once saw a long consultation between a ref and a linesman, which resulted in a controversial decision going Derby's way. At which point a section of the crowd adapted a Glen Campbell classic with ‘He is a linesman for the County.' And that was at Chelsea – who'd have thought they could come up with something as good as that?

The laws that govern association football have evolved since 1863. There are now seventeen. I think there should be an eighteenth – one that prohibits people crying in public before, during or after a game. Of course there will be exceptions – I'm a reasonable man, after all. So young Callum Mann, who was picked out by the TV cameras as West Ham were drubbed 5–0 at Nottingham Forest in the third round of the 2014 FA Cup and was reduced to tears, has nothing to fear.

Furthermore, in line with UK statute governing the age of criminal responsibility, anyone under ten will be exempt from punishment if they are caught sobbing on camera as their heroes are relegated. I am even prepared to extend this amnesty to juveniles as a whole if one of the ‘heroes' concerned is seen on a mobile to their agent seeking a transfer before the final whistle has sounded. But that's about it.

And, tearful fans please note, there is a significant difference between being relegated and failing to secure promotion through the play-offs – particularly if, like Blackpool, your miserable little club is unable to sell its allocation of tickets and then refuses to make those unsold seats available to ticketless opposition supporters who would have walked barefoot to get to a Wembley final.

Weeping is not the West Ham way (except perhaps when you see how much the owners have upped the price of tickets again). Admittedly, there were some runny eyes when we were relegated at Birmingham with forty-two points in 2003, but the pollen count was exceptionally high that day and I put it down to widespread hay fever.

Did we cry when we were hammered 6–0 by Man Utd in the FA Cup? We did not. We thanked our Mancunian hosts for their hospitality and went about our business whistling cheerful cockney ditties. Did we cry when we were humiliated by the same score in the Premier League at Reading? We did not. We offered our brave lads some heartfelt and constructive advice about the importance of the shirt instead. Did we cry when we were thrashed six-zip in the first leg of a League Cup semi-final at Oldham? We did not – we did a conga round the godforsaken terracing that stood in the shadow of Saddleworth Moor while one of our number stripped
off and danced chubbily in the pouring rain. Did we cry when history repeated itself at the Etihad years later as our boys threw in the towel against a rampant Man City and surrendered any hope of reaching Wembley before the return tie at Upton Park? I think you get my drift.

But hit the internet and you'll see clips of lachrymose supporters from all corners of the country wiping away the tears as their hopes of going up/staying up/winning something (delete where not applicable) vanish before their very moist eyes.

This sobbing business is a relatively new phenomenon. When football was played in black and white, supporters – as the Pathé newsreels will testify – would spin their rattles and throw their flat caps in the air when they won. And, if they lost, they'd merely shrug their shoulders, go home in an orderly fashion and give the dog a good hiding. Not that anyone condones violence against defenceless animals, of course. But there has to be a better way of taking defeat than boo-hooing in public.

The whole thing reached its nadir when, in the 2011/12 season, Man City fan John Millington was seen sobbing as his multisquillion-pound team lost to Swansea because he thought they'd blown their title chances. They still had ten games to go, for – well, I was going to say ‘crying out loud', but we're trying to man up here, so I'll instead go with – ‘pity's sake'.

At first Mr Millington denied he was blubbing. ‘I wasn't crying, I was just frustrated and very tired. There may have been a tear in my eye but I was just exhausted and frustrated,' he was quoted as saying in the
Metro
newspaper.

But later he went on to claim that his failure to maintain a stiff upper lip during the run-in was actually wot won the Premier
League for Citeh. He told the
Manchester Evening News
: ‘I really think it made the difference. Mancini said they had to win it for me and I think the players realised that. They saw me in tears and realised what it meant to all the City fans. United's players must have seen it too and it seems to have put the pressure on them. I like to think I started the mind games back then and it seems to have done the trick.'

The crying game took an even more bizarre twist during Euro 2012 when a German woman was shown on telly supposedly in tears because the Fatherland had been rinsed by Italy in the semis. She later complained, saying the footage was misleading because it had been shot earlier and she was actually crying when the teams came out.

What sort of excuse is that? Blimey, I've often wanted to cry when I've seen the teams come out at Upton Park, particularly when Allen McKnight and David Kelly were in the same side. But you don't, do you? It's just not the done thing.

And the reason you don't want other people seeing the tracks of your tears over something as trivial as a lost game (or even a lost relegation campaign) is that, as at all clubs, there are the occasional moments of shared grief that truly warrant an open show of emotion.

Bill Shankly famously once said that football is more important than life and death. A great quote, but nonsense nonetheless. Which is why I shed a tear when I heard the terrible news that Bobby Moore had been taken by cancer (and another when I saw the tributes outside the main gates in Green Street), but merely confine myself to kicking the cat and re-programming the satnav when we go down.

Which brings us, albeit in a roundabout way, back to our chilli festival. To avoid the embarrassment of being seen dabbing the old mince pies with a tissue inside a football stadium, remember to wash your hands after touching those fiery little devils – failure to do so will almost certainly end in tears if you rub your eyes in disbelief at yet another baffling decision by the ref. But the next time it happens simply make a note of the howler's Hackett rating and drop it in the post to the Referees' Association. I'm assured they will be delighted to hear from you.

W
E ARE NOW
halfway through this book. I’ve added a bit on for deliberate time-wasting plus injury to any feelings that may have been hurt, but there goes the whistle for half time. So you’ve now got fifteen minutes to kill in the best way you see fit.

You could try nipping off for a pint and something to eat, but the prices are extortionate and the queues will be endless. Chances are, by the time you’ve gulped down the last mouthful you’ll have missed the start of Chapter 12.

Not that sitting there and waiting to be entertained will do you much good. This isn’t the good ol’ US of A with marching bands and toothy majorettes twirling batons as if their lives depended on it. The best you can hope for is a couple of ancient rock classics
mangled by a low-grade PA system and, if you’re lucky, a brief update on the half-time news from elsewhere. (At the mid-point of
Fever Pitch
Nick Hornby is indoctrinating his half-brother into the strange ways of Arsenal, and in
The Damned United
Brian Clough is preparing for his first home game as manager of Leeds at Elland Road.)

There have been efforts to jazz up half time at Upton Park with a bit of American-style glitz and glamour courtesy of the Hammerettes, a group of local lovelies who once brightened the interval with some energetic dance routines. But you get the feeling the club’s heart isn’t really in it these days.

As any painter and decorator will tell you, a Hammerette is not to be confused with Hammerite, which is the stuff they slap over metal railings to prevent rusting. The girls strutted their stuff at the Boleyn Ground until they were given the bullet four weeks before the start of the 2006/07 season. To be honest, I wasn’t their biggest fan. However, you had to give them top marks for effort. And as our back four could never move in unison, it’s probably unfair to have expected the half-time dance act to have done so.

What followed was certainly worse – watching anti-corrosive paint dry would have been more entertaining than the penalty shoot-outs for toddlers and the various other ‘community events’ (the club’s words, not mine) that replaced the Hammerettes.

I realise we live in an age of austerity, but whoever thought that four members of the London amputee football team having a kickabout at half time in the game against Everton qualifies as entertainment should think again. Brave though these people are, this was never going to be much of a spectacle. And someone at the club must have realised there would be feedback from certain sections
of the crowd – not all of which would be positive. The remarks suggesting West Ham would be better off dropping the much-maligned Modibo Maiga and playing one of these lads up front instead, although accurate, were as inevitable as they were unkind.

To be fair to the mastermind who fathered this particular brainchild, I will admit that it was at least better than the world final of something called Match Attax, staged at half time against Chelsea some years ago, whereby two pimply youths went head to head over a small table in the centre circle and played an unfathomable card game before our disbelieving eyes.

It shouldn’t be like this. By all means give the players a break and allow the manager a chance to remind his highly paid superstars that the general idea is to pass the ball to someone clad in a shirt similar to the one they themselves are wearing. But what about the paying public? We’ve forked out a small fortune for our tickets, so in this day and age is it unreasonable to want every minute packed with high-octane entertainment? Association football is supposed to have moved on since the idea of an enforced break of fifteen minutes was incorporated into the original laws of the game in 1863, yet supporters who actually pay to squeeze through the turnstiles might find that hard to believe.

Those who have studied such esoteric subjects as why football really is a game of two halves have concluded it is down to the nineteenth-century toffs who liked to kick a ball around at public school before emerging into the real world and giving the working classes a kicking of a rather different nature. Changing ends at half time was part of the deal at Eton and Winchester among others, while the likes of Rugby and Harrow changed after a goal had been scored. Schools such as Eton and Rugby played by different
sets of rules – Eton’s being closer to soccer and Rugby’s being more like, well, rugby. The advantage of the fixed break halfway through a game was that, when the schools encountered one another, each could have a half playing the game with which they were most familiar. Well done, chaps – that all sounds jolly sporting to me. But where does it leave the plebs in the stands?

Sure, you get the chance to stretch cramped legs after being stuffed into an undersized seat for forty-five minutes (or to sit down if you are an ageing away supporter). And, of course, there’s an opportunity to take a leak. While we’re on this rather indelicate subject, could someone in authority at Wembley explain to me why, the last time I was there to support my beloved Hammers, the men’s toilet closest to us was set up like a ladies’ – cubicles only and no urinals? Trust me, that is not the quickest way to get a herd of blokes in and out of a public lavatory (although some of my fellow supporters did try to speed things along by using the basins – don’t forget to wash your hands afterwards, lads).

I think supporters deserve a bit more. A spot of live music would go down well, and at West Ham we’ve got enough bigtime musicians who support the club to stage our own version of Live Aid at half time.

It’s not as if Upton Park has been used solely to stage football matches in its illustrious past. There’s been boxing, for one thing. And religion. My fellow journalist and union activist Tim Dawson was there to see the American evangelist Billy Graham whip up a storm some years ago.

He recalls it to this day. ‘My one visit to Upton Park left me with a single overwhelming conviction: there is no God,’ says Tim. (We know how you feel, mate.)

Tim goes on:

Many thanks for that, Tim. Although I would say here that, had you ever seen Trevor Brooking at his best, you might not be quite so sceptical about the miraculous.

Not that I’m advocating a revivalist meeting at half time (except in the dressing room when we’re 2–0 down). Besides, the devil has all the best tunes – which is why I’m going for a concert.

The original Live Aid, in 1985, famously kicked off at Wembley with Status Quo ‘Rockin’ All Over the World’. Should I ever find myself in the Midge Ure role of organising the whole thing while someone else takes all the credit and gets a knighthood, I would have to rule out Parfitt, Rossi and co. because they don’t support West Ham. But there are plenty of rock stars who do.

Now, before we go any further, let’s be clear about this. Music at half time is fine; music when the players run out is just about acceptable (as long as it’s not something really naff like
The Great Escape
theme); music when a goal has been scored is an outrage. Clubs that do it should be made to forfeit the game immediately.

OK, now we’ve got that out the way I’m going to ask David Essex to open our Upton Park showpiece gig with his 1978 hit ‘Oh What a Circus’ which, as a title, is as valid now as it was then. He gets the honour for a number of reasons, most notably the fact that he is not just a lifelong supporter, he was once on the books and actually played for the youth side.

Another former member of the youth team who made his name on stage rather than on the pitch is Iron Maiden founder Steve Harris. In the spirit of Live Aid, when some members of different bands teamed up specially for the occasion, I’m going to ask Harris, who is principally a bassist, to line up in a West Ham fan band with Def Leppard lead guitarist Phil Collen, multi-talented
Foo Fighter Dave Grohl on drums, the Cure’s Roger O’Donnell on keyboards and Prodigy frontman Keith ‘Firestarter’ Flint doing the vocals. I reckon the song for them is Iron Maiden’s classic ‘The Number of the Beast’ which, as anyone who ever had the pleasure of being marked by Julian Dicks will tell you, is three.

Next up is Billy Bragg, doing a duet with Pixie Lott. I realise this is an unlikely pairing, but as a partnership it does at least have more chance of success than John Hartson and Eyal Berkovic ever did. I’d like to hear their rendition of Bragg’s 1996 single ‘Upfield’, done as a tribute to the subtle clearances from the back four that we have come to know and love in recent years.

We’re going to have to find a slot for Jack Steadman of the indie rock set-up Bombay Bicycle Club, not least because he’s the great-great grandson of Arnold Hills. But I’m afraid you won’t be seeing Katy Perry or Morrissey at this particular concert, even though – in their separate ways – both have turned heads by famously wearing West Ham colours in public. The Smiths’ lead singer fuelled speculation that he might be a closet Hammer by appearing on the cover of his single ‘That’s How People Grow Up’ in a shirt that bore the club badge and suggested he was a member of the West Ham Boys Club, but Morrissey later made it plain that while he may wear the odd tie-dye T-shirt, he was not a dyed-in-the-wool fan. Perry, meanwhile, had the tabloids drooling by taking to the stage at the 2009 MTV Awards in claret and blue lingerie from the club shop – but since her marriage to West Ham season ticket-holder Russell Brand ended in bitter acrimony she has given the Boleyn Ground a wide berth. I guess that now she has to get her frillies from Marks & Sparks like everyone else.

You will, however, be getting West Ham diehard Nick Berry
with his number one single ‘Every Loser Wins’ (if only that were true at Upton Park). And to close the show, let’s give it up for the Tremeloes – not so much because they are massive West Ham fans, but because they gave us the anthem that runs ‘Bubbles’ a pretty close second in the Upton Park hit parade (for younger readers, that’s what we used to call the charts when the Tremeloes topped them).

Opposition supporters must be baffled when we burst into ‘Twist and Shout’. Why would a bunch of cockneys sing something that is so closely associated with a lovable bunch of mop-tops from Liverpool? Everybody knows ‘Twist and Shout’ is a Beatles classic. Actually, it had been a hit for the Isley Brothers, and the Beatles covered it. So did the Tremeloes, who were from Dagenham.

In 1962 both bands had auditioned on the same day with Decca in the hope of signing a major record label deal – and the Essex boys got the nod. Clearly, they were going to spearhead the pop music revolution in Britain – it was in all the papers! The hits started to roll off the production line quicker than the new Ford Cortinas coming out of the Dagenham car plant and the following year the Tremeloes, fronted by Brian Poole, took the charts by storm with ‘Twist and Shout’.

Liverpool’s Fab Four, meanwhile, were staging a concert in East Ham in 1963. Rosie, my sister-in-law, was there. ‘It was at the Granada in the Barking Road,’ she tells me: