Nearly Reach the Sky

by Brian Williams

  The League Cup has never been kind to West Ham. In 2000 we lost 2–1 to Sheffield Wednesday at Upton Park (although, to be fair to the tournament, we were beaten again at Hillsborough in the 2012 FA Cup). In 2002, we lost 1–0 at home to Oldham.

  In 2006 there was a 2–1 defeat at Chesterfield. Then there was a 2–1 beating by Aldershot at Upton Park in 2011. And, of course, we cannot omit the fact West Ham lost to Sheffield United on penalties at the start of the 2014/15 season. However, there is a certain amount of satisfaction for all those who hold West Ham dear that this was a giant-killing act – simply because Sheffield United is now considered to be a minnow. It’s what Carlos would have wanted.

  As I say, defeat to lower-league opposition in the FA Cup is a far more bitter pill to swallow for West Ham supporters. So in 1999 it felt like we’d been put on a course of antibiotics when we lost a third-round replay 1–0 to Swansea in January and then, after the following season’s tournament had been brought forward to avoid clashes with an expanded Champions League, we went down 1–0 at Tranmere – thus being on the wrong end of an FA Cup giant-killing act twice in the same year … which, you have to admit, is unusual. Even by our standards.

  Many moons have passed since I left school and I no longer find scraps of paper inserted in inappropriate places reminding me of the score when we lose. But it’s still no fun going to work after results like that. Lower-league opposition? Forget it. Give me the likes of Man U any day.

  In fact, somewhere in the back of my fast-fading mind is the recollection that the most successful club manager this country has ever seen once stared into the bottom of his glass of Châteauneuf du Pape and moaned to anyone who would listen that West Ham always played better against Manchester United than when we face other teams. I think the word he used to describe the way we raised our game was ‘obscene’. Sir Alex Ferguson may have been right. During his reign we scuppered Man U’s chances of winning the League twice and turned them over in both Cup competitions. Perhaps there really is something in the notion that they bring out the claret and blue devil in us.

  The first ever competitive game between the two sides was in the FA Cup – and we won that one as well. Sadly, history does not record whether the Man Utd keeper of 1911 looked like a man trying to hail a cab when he was beaten (in the way that Fabien Barthez did as Paolo Di Canio slid the ball past him ninety years later). If only they’d had YouTube back then.

  West Ham’s first League game against Man Utd was on 25 December 1922. The second was on 26 December! Just imagine: back-to-back fixtures on Christmas Day and Boxing Day at a time when rotation was something you did with the vegetables on your allotment, not the delicate little flowers who have agents. (You will be fascinated to learn that in 1922 we won the first game in Manchester 2–1, but lost the return fixture 0–2 at home. How West Ham is that?)

  I love the idea of playing twice in twenty-four hours, so – with the help of my son – I am trying to revive this tradition using a format in which West Ham never suffers a humiliating defeat to lower-league opposition: tabletop football.

  The idea came to me when I was rummaging around in the loft and came across the Pro-Action Football set Williams Jnr was given as a young lad. It had been many years since Geoff and I had last fought it out over the dining room table – me as Old West Ham versus his New West Ham (he selects any player who has represented the Irons since 1991, the year he was born, while I have the previous ninety-one years to choose from). But we have decided to renew our old rivalry in what I hope will become an annual Christmas showdown.

  To be honest, I suggested tabletop football because it is one sporting arena in which I can still compete with him. As a middle-aged man it is only natural that I’m too old and too slow to play football for real. What did depress me, though, was discovering I’m also too old and too slow to play hi-tech versions such as FIFA 2000-and-something. Give me a PlayStation controller and you’d think a diabolical combination of Avram Grant and Gianfranco Zola was running the team, such is the chaos that ensues. But I can still flick a plastic figurine with the best of them.

  For anyone of my generation, the top-of-the-table tabletop football game is Subbuteo. And, without wishing to sound unduly immodest here, I was pretty good at it in my younger days.

  My first set came with the two-dimensional players that collectors apparently now refer to as ‘flats’. The kits were red and blue shirts with white shorts. For no good reason I generally preferred to use the blue players. The trouble was every game felt as though I was controlling an anorexic Everton taking on an equally undernourished Charlton Athletic.

  In the year I first saw West Ham play in the flesh, Subbuteo introduced its so-called heavyweight figures, which were threedimensional and came in different club colours. It was as if a prayer had been answered, and my subsequent letter to Santa couldn’t have been clearer. Unfortunately for me, it must have got lost in the post, because rather than getting my beloved Hammers I ended up with Juventus. I think that was when I finally lost all faith in Father Christmas and his stunted workforce.

  I begged my parents to help me put right this terrible wrong, but they seemed strangely unwilling to get involved. So I nicked my brother’s paints that he used on his pointless plastic Airfix aeroplanes and turned the Old Lady of Turin claret and blue. Well, claret-ish. It was more pillar-box red to be honest, but it was certainly better than black and white stripes.

  Encouraged by my success, I tried painting our plastic Homepride flour-grader in West Ham colours too (don’t tell me you’ve never heard of Fred, the little man in a black suit with the bowler hat that unscrewed – what do they teach in schools these days?) but it didn’t turn out as well as I’d hoped. My mum thought I’d done it as some form of protest about not getting the Subbuteo side I’d asked for and my pocket money was withheld for several weeks as a result.

  However, it takes more than that to discourage a true West Ham supporter and, once my income was restored, I saved hard to buy the team I loved. (There was no such thing as a leveraged buy-out in those days; you handed over your own money or there was no sale.) For the next five years, during my time at secondary school, I never looked back. If there was a Subbuteo game going, I’d be up for it. And – always playing as WHUFC – I won more than I lost (which is more than can be said for the full-sized WHUFC over the same period).

  I had a particularly good home record, which probably had something to do with the fact I played on a top-quality surface. The original idea, when Subbuteo was first sold in 1947, was for players to chalk out a pitch on an old army blanket – but my old man was having none of that. During the war he had been in the RAF, and he didn’t like the army or their blankets. So he bought a rather nice piece of green baize and persuaded my mum to get busy with her Singer sewing machine. The result was a beautifully embroidered pitch with permanent cotton lines that cried out for a passing game. (We’re West Ham United – we play on the floor.) Few opponents could live with it.

  Those of you who recall how quickly the goalmouths at Upton Park became duck ponds in the late ’60s and early ’70s will note that what I was playing on was somewhat different from the real thing. Still, there’s nothing wrong with striving for perfection.

  Unlike many West Ham players, I probably retired too early. But you know what it’s like when you’re coming to terms with puberty – there are so many other things a healthy lad wants to do with his index finger.

  It was many years before I played again. It was Christmas at my sister-in-law’s and they had bought one of their kids a Subbuteo set. And what a set it was! The only accessories I’d ever managed to acquire were a miniature FA Cup and some plastic hoardings that prevented the players flying off the table and sustaining serious injury when they hit the floor. But this had the lot … floodlights, stands, supporters, officials, everything you could think of except, perhaps, the mounted policemen who – while you make your way to the ground – look down at you as if you are even more unsavoury
than the mess their horses leave behind.

  I didn’t get to use the claret and blue players on this occasion. My nephew supports Aston Villa (no one knows why) and, given it was his Christmas present, he insisted on his right to the sacred colours. I had no argument with that.

  What I did have an argument with was his interpretation of a ‘flick’. The rules of Subbuteo are quite clear about how you propel the figures around the pitch. You can’t push them, you can’t nudge them – and you certainly can’t pick them up and put them down anywhere you damn well like.

  I like to think of myself as a patient man and I tried to show him the correct technique. I also explained the rules about what constitutes handball, why it’s a foul if you smash into an opponent’s player without first touching the ball and that you can only score from within a marked zone. But I was obviously wasting my breath.

  His first goal clearly shouldn’t have stood as he had ignored at least three of the four points I had just made to him. Short of picking up the ball and throwing it into the back of my net, it couldn’t have been a more blatant case of cheating. But he was adamant he had scored and determinedly set up the pieces for a re-start.

  Looking back, perhaps I should have let it go at that, shaken hands and congratulated him on a well-deserved victory. But I’ve always had an inherent sense of fair play and I resolved to show him the true meaning of sportsmanship. I went on to produce a mesmerising performance, if I do say so myself. As I recall, I had a healthy lead and was putting together yet another intricate passing movement when he realised the enormity of his mistake and ran off to find his mother. As I explained to her, I think it should take more than losing a game of tabletop football to make a small boy cry. Apparently, for reasons that were never properly explained to me, he didn’t play Subbuteo again.

  When my son was old enough to take his place at the other end of the table, Subbuteo had rather gone out of fashion. There was a more popular game on the market called Striker, but that was rubbish. The top-of-the-range model was Pro-Action Football, so – like any parent who wants their children to get more out of life than they have themselves – I happily shelled out for that.

  Unlike Subbuteo, you could swivel the players so they are pointing in the direction you want them to kick the ball. (As anyone who has ever played association football will testify, there has never been a better coaching tip than ‘play the way you’re facing’.) Magnets in the base of the players meant the metallic ball was drawn to their feet and stuck there until you decided to pass or shoot. (Now I know how Trevor Brooking did it.) And when you did want them to get rid of it, you smacked them on the top of the head. (Be honest – who hasn’t ever wanted to do that when watching West Ham try to defend over the years?)

  The first time we renewed our Pro-Action rivalry the game ended 6–6. The old boys, playing 4–4–2, were: Parkes, Stewart, Martin, Moore, Lampard (Snr), Devonshire, Brooking, Bonds, Peters, Hurst, Robson (Pop). The latter-day legends’ starting XI, playing a more modern 3–2–3–2, was: Green, Repka, Collins, Tomkins, Noble, Parker, Tevez, di Canio, Cole (Joe), Cole (Carlton), Zamora. (How that lot got a draw against the greatest players ever to have worn the claret and blue is beyond me.)

  That was on Christmas Day. Sadly, the Boxing Day fixture had to be cancelled due to adverse hangover conditions. However, I’m determined to make this a family tradition over the festive period.

  After being held at home like that, I think I may have to change my team around a bit, though. Don’t tell Geoff, but I’m seriously thinking about presenting him with a team of nicknames the next time we meet. And I’m not talking about the Mooro and Pottsy kind of nicknames – I’m going for proper soubriquets.

  On current form, as a 4–3–3, I’d pick: Eric, Muffin, Stretch, Reggie, Pancho, Ticker, Hadleigh (aka Boog), Harpo, Sparrow, Psycho and Sarge. By the time he’s worked out who’s who, I’ll be 3–0 up and coasting.

  What do you mean you don’t know who Muffin is either? OK, I’ll go through them with you – but only you. No blabbing to my son (not that we’re competitive, you understand). Those nicknames translate as: Phil Parkes (Eric), John Bond (Muffin), Alvin Martin (Stretch), Tony Gale (Reggie), Stuart Pearce (Pancho), Ronnie Boyce (Ticker), Trevor Brooking (Hadleigh aka Boog), Pat Holland (Harpo), Alan Taylor (Sparrow), David Cross (Psycho), and Paul Goddard (Sarge).

  And that’s part of the beauty of tabletop football: it gives you a chance to while away time that could otherwise be usefully spent washing the car or mowing the lawn, dreaming up West Ham fantasy teams.

  As a man who carries some excess timber myself, I’d be happy to manage a squad that puts up with a bit of overweight too. (There’s nothing wrong with having a stout manager – just remember to call him ‘Big’, not ‘Fat’, or you’ll upset a lot of loyal fans.) The captain’s armband for my team of tubbies would, of course, have to go to Frank ‘one man and his forklift truck’ Lampard Jnr. Waddling out behind him would be Neil Ruddock, John Hartson, Julian Faubert, Luis Boa Morte, Julian Dicks (gulp – did I really just say that?), Mido, Titi Camara, Brian Dear, Jimmy Greaves and – bringing up the rear by quite some way – Benni McCarthy. You’ll notice I haven’t bothered with a keeper. Quite honestly, you wouldn’t need one. Just grease ’em all up and lever any of those salad-dodgers between the sticks and no opposition striker is going to be disturbing the onion bag in a hurry.

  If you don’t fancy the porkers, how about a team of Alans? Sealey, Devonshire, Dickens, Curbishley etc. Of course, you’d have to play a few out of position – the only defender I can think of is Alan Stephenson. And I’d cheat by including Paul, Martin and Clive Allen (crafty, eh?). But the good news is you don’t have to go with Allen McNightmare in goal: there’s a guy called Alan Dickie who turned out in the green jersey for us a dozen times in the early ’60s and, although I never saw him play, I just know he’s better than McNit.

  But the biggest challenge when picking fantasy sides is to put together the ultimate team of the most useless players we’ve ever had. Let’s face it, choosing a dream team of West Ham all-time greats is relatively easy. Picking Worst Ham United is far, far harder.

  For what it’s worth, this is my starting XI from hell: Allen McKnight, Rigobert Song, Steve Walford, Gary Breen, Mitchell Thomas, Freddie Ljungberg, Nigel Quashie, Ilie Dumitrescu, Peter Eustace, David Kelly, Ted MacDougall.

  You may well disagree with a number of those selections, and I can understand why. I don’t think anyone can put up a serious argument against McKnight – he truly was in a class of his own. But at the back there is a bunch of other players making a strong claim for inclusion: Gary Charles, Ragnvald Soma, Paul Hilton, Calum Davenport and John Cushley all made the shortlist. Some might even suggest George Parris, but I’m not having that. Not George!

  And what about midfield? ‘No Franz Carr, Andy Impey, Dudley Tyler or Dale Gordon?!’ I hear you cry. ‘No Nigel Rio-Coker?’ Then there’s Matthew Rush, Luis Boa Morte and Florin ‘two bob’ Raducioiu. As I say, this isn’t easy – although Joey Beauchamp did make the task a little less tricky by ensuring he never actually turned out for West Ham during his fifty-eight days at the club, thus ruling himself out of contention in this particular exercise.

  Dutchman Marco Boogers, on the other hand, did play for us – making four appearances as a substitute, which included a sending-off for a chest-high tackle on Gary Neville at Old Trafford that did not go down well with a red-faced man drinking expensive French wine. Before the hapless Boogers was finally sent back to the land of his birth permanently, there was an oft-repeated story in The Sun claiming he had returned to Holland feeling sorry for himself and was holed up in a caravan. However, it turns out this was not entirely true and the reporter had actually been told that, rather than residing in a caravan, he’d gone on holiday by car again. An easy mistake to make – it could have happened to any of us.

  That aside, what little anyone saw of him convinced us all he was utterly useless, which is why he made the shortli
st for one of the two places up front in my Worst Ham side. But, like Mike Small, John Radford, Jimmy Greaves, Sandy Clark and Lee Chapman, he didn’t quite get the nod for the first team. Sometimes, as a manager, you just have to go with your gut feeling.

  Try it yourself. It’s tougher than you think – but you may well come up with something better (or do I mean worse?). Still, I’m standing by my selection. All things considered, I reckon this lot would be certain to go down before the Christmas decorations even went up.

  Chapter 8

  And we hate Millwall

  I UNDERSTAND THAT NOT everybody feels the same way as I do about West Ham. Had I been in any doubt there were one or two clues in the year the hopeless Avram Grant masterminded our relegation. Some of the folk from south of the river, who do not much care for claret and blue, hired a light aircraft to fly over Wigan as our fate was sealed at the DW Stadium trailing a banner that read: ‘Avram Grant, Millwall legend.’

  At Tottenham – another club not renowned for its love of the Irons – one fan made a banner along the lines of ‘Come home, Robbie – mission completed’ after loan signing Robbie Keane contributed to our demise by missing a whole host of very scoreable chances.

  All very amusing, I’m sure.

  Our rivalry with The Hated Millwall, in particular, has prompted a good deal of speculation over the years. Again I am delighted to be able to call on the expertise of historian John Simkin to explain how it all started: ‘It has to be remembered that Millwall was established in 1885, ten years before Thames Ironworks and fifteen years before West Ham United. In fact, Millwall were champions of the Southern League when Thames Ironworks was established.’

  At that time, the two clubs occupied the same side of the Thames – with The Hated Millwall nestled in the kink of the river that is rather misleadingly known as the Isle of Dogs. Their name comes from the windmills that used to line the western embankment. Sorry, John. Didn’t mean to interrupt there. Please, carry on.