Nearly Reach the Sky

by Brian Williams

  In the interests of journalistic inquiry, I followed. Now the stewards were tending to those of us on the pitch individually. ‘Are you ready to make a sinner’s prayer?’ one asked me. I declined, but noticing that those who did bend to their knees were being given a package of literature, I asked if, as a representative of the press, I might be given one. ‘They are only for the converted,’ I was told.

  My professional instincts kicked in – that pack might be the key to a decent story, I figured. So I picked among the throng and found another steward. ‘I’m ready,’ I said. The steward held my hands, pushed me to my knees and asked that I repeat these words: ‘Forgive me of my sins, Lord, I accept Jesus as my master.’

  Graham’s performance had not really moved me – but now, bent down, hands clasped in the steward’s sweaty grip, I knew that, if a thunderbolt from the sky was ever going to strike me, this was the moment. Seconds passed. I opened my eyes, my fingers were released and I looked up. The light momentarily dimmed as I was handed my information pack, but forked lightning – there was none.

  The moral that I left with was this: like West Ham themselves, Billy Graham, on song, could put on a show with the power to transport crowds to a different realm. If you are looking for miracles and evidence of the existence of God, however, you will have to go a lot further than the end of Green Street.

  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:

  I queued from early morning with dad – who insisted on accompanying me, even though I was what I thought was a very grown-up thirteen years old. I paid 7s 6d for the ticket in the circle – I was subsequently offered the vast sum of £10 for it by a wealthy girl at school, but wouldn’t have sold it for a million.

  This was just before the release of their first album, Please Please Me, and they did pretty much all the numbers from that LP, including ‘Twist and Shout’.

  The concert was incredible – I think. I say that because the screaming was so loud that it was almost impossible to hear the music! I do remember the Beatles were showered with jelly babies. One of them (I seem to recall it was Ringo) had rashly said on TV that he liked jelly babies, and so we all trotted along with a bag-full which we then threw at them!

  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. T
here 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.