Back to where it all started to go wrong.

To the Boleyn Ground tomorrow (don’t whatever you do call it Upton Park for reasons to be explained) for the next in our round of six pointers against T’Hammers. After the victory last weekend against Wolves you can pretty much expect the same team, except with Matty or Dracula coming in for our crocked Yank. After his goal against Wales on Wednesday we feel that the misfiring Swede will keep his place but if we go goalless again there will be a clamour for a change in forward line. As for what kind of change, we will keep our powder dry until it it necessary. Like Sunday.

Anyway, as internet connection is sparse in Yorkshire, instead of being able to get you some news I would like to give to you a couple of stories about some recent trips to West Ham. The first is entitled as above.

So it’s April 2007 and Little Sam has just taken over from Big Sam. We are safe in fifth, looking good for a UEFA Cup place. Hindsight has yet to kick in. A good assistant taking over from a good manager who has just been given the great big “More money? Fuck You” from the board. West Ham, a team in the mire, destined to relegation. Surely an away certainty.
The first thing you note is that the tracksuit is gone, replaced by one you can pick up from the Ken and Barbie range at Toys ‘R’ Us. It seems a little, well, ill fitting. Not on the man himself, but it just looks wrong. Secondly there is the continual standing on the sidelines, waving his arms around at no one in particular, a foreshadowing of even unhappier days. And thirdly there is the earpiece, making him look like a 21st century Action Man with eagle eyes. And a scouse accent. Along comes Carlos Tevez, bang, bang, 3-1. Lots of positives. Of course, we all know where that went.

About a year later and I’m sat amongst about 5,000 less Bolton fans but sat next to the kind of Bolton teenagers that make you want to slap them. Know it all, seen it all, will smack all. These kids have none of this. Straight from the kick off they are winding up a West Ham fan who isn’t sat near the away fans to find out their opinion of Moliere. I think the tattoo that says “I love mum” around his neck gives this away. “Have it” they are saying. “You’re dead” he is intimating, with the sort of action across his neck that would suggest Dodge and getting out of it is high on the cards. As half time approaches, a kindly steward taps me on the shoulder and says it might be better if I moved seats. Five minutes into the second half he asks the four kids to leave. The West Ham fan and six of his cohorts leave their seats at the same time and never come back. Forty minutes later as I leave the ground I see four Bolton fans lying on the ground, being attended to by paramedics. The West Ham fan is crying into the arms of his mother who then drives him off. But it’s Ok, he didn’t mean it.

Oh and Upton Park, it’s the name of the tube station. Call it that in Newham, expect a stabbing.

Until Sunday, yippe kay ey.