Nearly Reach the Sky (14 page)

That was in March. In the summer the Tremeloes released ‘Twist and Shout’ as a single, while the Beatles included it on what was known as an EP, which stood for extended play and in this case was made up of four songs and cost twice as much. The rivalry between the two bands was intense. In the eyes of many, this particular battle was being won by Brian Poole and his mates. And what could be more natural for a bunch of football supporters to use something like that to their advantage when the opportunity arose?

At the start of the 1963/64 season West Ham went to Anfield and, thanks to goals from Martin Peters and Geoff Hurst, found themselves 2–0 up at half time. Cue the travelling supporters, who felt the most appropriate way to mark the occasion was with a hearty rendition of ‘Twist and Shout’.
Twist little girl.

In the second half Liverpool pulled one back, but goalkeeper Jim Standen saved a penalty to ensure a famous 2–1 victory – and a good deal more singing from the cockney contingent.
Twist so fine.

We still sing it to this day.
Twist a little closer.
There are some pedants who say that the Beatles went on to achieve considerably more success than the Trems, and that West Ham’s subsequent record on Merseyside means Liverpool actually had the last laugh. But I don’t agree.
Let me know that you’re mine.
The minor detail that, at the time of writing, we haven’t won at Anfield since 1963 is neither here nor there. We’ve still got ‘Twist and Shout’.
Oooooooh!

Without wishing to boast, I am one of that rare breed of individuals who has seen West Ham a goal to the good against Liverpool at their place. Not that we were in the lead for very long. And, to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t too upset when they equalised – it’s why I was able to get out of there in one piece. But at least I can tell my grandchildren, should I ever be blessed in that department, that I was there when it happened.

It was the mid-1970s and I had gone north with my mate Big Mick – a fellow forklift truck driver and my minder in the factory’s five-a-side team. Rather than take the football special, we beat the Inter City Firm to the idea of travelling in comfort and took a regular train. By the time we pulled into Lime Street the Liverpool supporters were there in large numbers waiting to ‘welcome’ the football trains that were due in a few minutes after us. The police were there, too, but we didn’t stop to ask directions to the ground. We kept very, very silent and walked past the lot of them looking for all the world like a couple of merry Merseysiders who knew precisely where we were headed.

We didn’t, of course, but after a quiet pint in a quiet pub, the quiet landlord pointed us in the right direction and we got to the not-so-quiet ground with our lives intact. The only trouble was we came at it from the wrong side and the police
wouldn’t let us through their cordon to join the other West Ham supporters in the Anfield Road end. We were left with a choice of the Kop or the Main Stand. After deliberating for all of three picoseconds we opted for the latter. Much as I love the Liverpudlian sense of fun, I felt the Kop might not be quite as hospitable as some pundits would have you believe.

Obviously we weren’t wearing colours. By saying less than a Trappist monk on Strepsils while pretending to be engrossed in our programmes, we managed to escape any unwanted attention before kickoff. And I knew the drill once the match started. As with any away supporter who has smuggled themselves into the home crowd, I was quite prepared to cheer a Liverpool goal in the name of self-preservation. More importantly, I told myself that in the unlikely event of us scoring I would remain unmoved – allowing myself no more than a secret smile and a quick nod in Mick’s direction once I had wiped the smirk from my face.

I most certainly was not going to punch the air with both fists, throw back my head (complete with Rod Stewart haircut) and tell my beloved Irons that I truly worshipped them in the most raucous tones imaginable. So when, after eleven minutes, Keith Robson converted a Billy Jennings cross-cum-shot it was hard to say who was most surprised when I did just that – me, Mick, or the thousands of sulky Scousers who surrounded us.

You know what it’s like when your team scores – for a brief moment you enter a private world of ecstasy, oblivious to all around you. That’s fine when you’re with your own kind, who are celebrating in a similar fashion. It is not so good when the people around you have got the ache because you have scored against their team. And it’s even worse when your mate and personal bodyguard has
vanished while you have been enjoying a brief taste of heaven here on earth. I was now alone in a sea of red.

As the game re-started I could almost touch the hostility. I knew I was being stared at by the people behind me. The hair on the back of my neck was bristling with alarm. This could turn very ugly indeed, especially if West Ham scored again. I needn’t have worried. A minute later, Liverpool’s Tommy Smith picked up the ball on the edge of the area after we had failed to clear a corner and slammed it past a helpless Mervyn Day to make 1–1 and restore a sense of normality to proceedings. I even applauded politely, happy to no longer be the centre of attention.

That day I used half time to find Mick and ask him precisely where he had disappeared to after we’d scored. He assured me we got separated when the crowd surged forward in response to the goal, and he’d tried to work his way back but couldn’t pinpoint my exact location. Sure, Mick, I believe you. Who wouldn’t?

When I first went to the Boleyn Ground the half-time music was provided by brass bands from the likes of the Salvation Army or St John’s Ambulance who firmly believed that Britain in the swinging ’60s still wanted to hear ‘The Dam Busters March’ and ‘Colonel Bogey’ on a Saturday afternoon. The programme in front of me, from the game against West Brom in August 1969, reveals the band that day was supplied by the British Legion.

On the back page, club announcer Bill Remfry reveals West Ham are expecting bigger crowds at reserve games and he is planning to provide what he calls a ‘Music Parade’ made up of ‘music from the shows and films, big bands of yesterday and today, and composers of the popular classics (such as Suppé, Rossini, Offenbach, etc).’ No offence, Bill, but I reckon my Live Aid idea beats yours hands down.

One thing that hasn’t changed over the years is the stampede to the bar a few minutes before the ref actually calls a halt to proceedings on the pitch. This wasn’t so much of an issue when we all stood – people simply pushed their way through the crowded terraces causing the minimum amount of inconvenience to those around them. It’s a different matter entirely when everyone’s seated, though. Packed in as tightly as we are, it means that if someone wants to leave their seat everyone in their row has to stand to let them out. When the people in front stand, you have to as well. And the ripple effect goes on behind you.

To compound the felony, the ones who leave early are invariably the last ones back, resuming their seats after the second half has kicked off and repeating the disruption they caused at the end of the first period. They are also the people most likely to head for the exits a few minutes before the end of the game in what they will always tell you is an attempt to ‘beat the traffic’.

However, the next time you find yourself going up and down quicker than my blood pressure, do what I do and console yourself with the thought that their lack of consideration for others is costing these people a small fortune. In the Premier League there are nineteen home games. If in every one of those games someone heads off for a half-time pint three minutes early, returns two minutes late and then leaves five minutes before the final whistle they will miss a total of 190 minutes over the course of a season. That’s more than two full games. And, as you will know yourself, they are not exactly giving away the tickets these days.

What baffles me is that the early risers are quite happy to risk missing a potentially momentous event, like Ravel Morrison’s first goal for the senior side. Actually, I nearly missed that myself. It
came forty-one seconds after the start of the second half in a League Cup tie against Cheltenham, and Geoff and I just got to the top of the steps as Morrison collected the ball on the edge of the area, turned inside, then out, wrong-footing the entire defence before curling the ball low into the bottom corner. But before you start giving my son and me that pained look of someone who has to shift themselves to let us through, let me point out that as everyone was standing to salute the goal we were able to take our seats in the Bobby Moore Upper without annoying anyone.

For those who remain in their seats, the programme is often the only source of entertainment. For many it is an intrinsic part of the day. And there was a time, long before anyone had ever heard of mobile phones, it was vital if you were interested in the half-time scores from other games.

The way the system worked was pretty basic: nailed to the perimeter walls were a set of boards with a letter on them which represented other matches being played around the country. At half time the scores went up, and the programme contained the key revealing what game corresponded to which letter. Unless you were the Rain Man and could memorise the entire first division fixture list in alphabetical order, you had to pay one shilling for a copy of
Hammer
to know what was going on in the other games (that’s 5p in the new-fangled currency that was introduced eighteen months after the aforementioned West Brom match – which we lost 3–1 by the way. For the life of me, I can’t remember the half-time score, I’m afraid).

Was F Leeds v. Newcastle or Liverpool v. Burnley? And what the hell were K and L, which were always the two games featuring London clubs in a lower division? See what I mean? No
Hammer
, no hope.

But if a programme is an essential part of the proceedings, I am yet to be convinced about another so-called football ritual. Before you answer the next question I would like to remind you that you are under oath and the penalties for perjury in this country are severe. So think back, then answer clearly and concisely: when did you last have a pie at a game?

Aha – just as I suspected! So why is there this myth that football and pies go together like Frank McAvennie and Tony Cottee? The idea seems particularly popular with affluent, middle-class supporters who suddenly turned into instant experts on the game when it became fashionable to start going to the ‘footie’. Is it, I wonder, the glory-hunters’ revenge for Roy Keane’s crack about the ‘prawn sandwich brigade’? If so, this nonsense has gone on long enough.

Just take a stroll down the Barking Road before any home game. Immediately behind the Bobby Moore Stand is a row of shops including one that sells pie and mash and another that does fish and chips. They’re two doors apart. Sure, Nathan’s pies are popular, but the queue for the Ercan Fish Bar is reminiscent of the snaking lines of people who wait for days outside polling stations in those courageous countries that have thrown off the shackles of dictatorship and won the right to democracy for the first time. Ably assisted by my son, who has a master’s in computer science, I have done some highly sophisticated analytical research here – namely standing by the nearby programme stall and noting the length of the queues for well over a minute. Trust me, the chippy has got this one wrapped up … so to speak.

Personally, I prefer the brilliant hot food on sale in Priory Road. Anywhere that offers a Mad Dog, a Terminator and a Stevie Bacon burger cannot be ignored by anyone who truly has West Ham in 
their heart (and cholesterol in their arteries). This wonderful institution simply has to be rebuilt, brick by brick, outside the main gates of the Olympic Stadium.

When I first started going to the Boleyn Ground in the late ’60s, I would invariably travel by Tube and alight at Upton Park. Had I turned left when I came out of the station, rather than go south and head for the ground, I may well have encountered Linda, my future sister-in-law, who had a Saturday job in the pie and mash shop that used to be further up Green Street, on the opposite side of the road to the station. In fact, I might have met the woman I would one day marry, because Di sometimes worked in there too. The shop made its own pies, but the example set by the manager to his staff is something that I adhere to now. ‘Mike would never touch the pies,’ says Linda. ‘He knew what went in them.’

Incidentally, should you have ever wondered about the green liquor that is practically mandatory with pie and mash, it apparently takes its colour from parsley. That, at least, is the official explanation.

Now, if I’m not going to have a pie on familiar soil I’m certainly not going to risk it at away games. Why? Because, as I drive home after a match in some far-flung part of the nation which has culinary traditions all of its own, I have no wish to hammer down the motorway with one eye peeled for a service station as my small intestine makes increasingly alarming noises, that’s why.

To be strictly honest here, I did break my own rule by having a Seagull pie at the new Amex Stadium in Brighton. But then I live in Brighton (yeah, yeah, my boyfriend knows I’m here … and I’m sure you can see us holding hands) so I wasn’t so concerned about
being struck down with gastroenteritis half an hour after the final whistle. And, just in case you were wondering, no – they don’t put seagulls in Seagull pies. I have tried to elicit compensation from the club for contravening the Sale of Goods Act (as Amended), but at the time of writing I have drawn a blank on that front.

Anyway, to return to my argument that it’s the clever dicks rather than the true fans who are obsessed with pies, I have categorical proof that I am right and everybody else is wrong (as my wife will tell you, this is not always the case).

We are at St Andrews, watching our brave lads teach the Blue-noses a thing or two about how to pass and move. A chubby gentleman, clearly of the Birmingham persuasion, has spent most of the first forty-five minutes single-handedly abusing us from the adjacent stand and then decides to beat the half-time rush. As he heads for the exit he is sent on his way with the spontaneous chant of ‘Home for his dinner, he’s going home for his dinner.’ But he didn’t go home – he came back after the interval. And this is where the proof of the pudding, or rather the pie, can be found.