Meanwhile back in the traffic jam there was an impromptu conference between several drivers and the majority of us decided the only way out was to inch back slowly until we were in a position to take the other half of the slip-road fork and head north west. It was high risk but, mainly thanks to the generosity of other motorists who recognised our predicament, we all got out of there safely.
The choice now was to bomb all the way round the M25 going clockwise or come off and fight our way through the capital’s southwest suburbs before driving through central London. I opted for the latter, but this was before I had been convinced of the merits of a satnav (as I say, we all make mistakes). The riddles posed by the likes of Epsom, Ewell and Sutton are not to be solved quickly and the diversion meant there was no chance of getting to Upton Park in time for Geoff to buy his shirt before kickoff. In fact, rather than have a leisurely couple of hours to browse in the club shop and grab a bite to eat as planned, we barely made it into the ground before the game started. We only managed that through some highly unorthodox parking and a brisk jog through East Ham’s Victorian side streets.
Right from the start we battered Brighton – creating chance after chance. Inexplicably, they all went begging.
Judging by the groans it seemed the more perceptive members of the West Ham crowd began to suspect it was going to be one of those days when Carl Fletcher botched a decent opportunity shortly before half time. This came after Marlon Harewood, Don Hutchison and Luke Chadwick had already been profligate in front of goal.
Shortly after the interval Matty Etherington had a shot saved and then hobbled off with an injury. I heard a nearby Jonah tell his mate that, the way things were going, it was only a matter of time before our opponents went down the other end and nicked one. I wasn’t having any of that – we were by far the better side. Defeat was unthinkable.
In fact, I was convinced we’d take all three points when Bobby Zamora came on as a sub for Etherington. The script practically wrote itself. He made his entrance to a huge reception from the Albion fans and indifference bordering on contempt from a large section of West Ham supporters, who still hadn’t warmed to him. What better way than to make his exit having proved the doubters wrong by scoring against the club where he had made his name?
Barely twenty minutes later, Jonah was proved right as a large lump of Brighton rock called Guy Butters got his head to a hopeful cross into our box and put the astonished visitors ahead. This was nothing short of floodlight robbery. We were favourites for promotion while their form was so poor they had signed a 38-year-old Steve Claridge from non-League Weymouth to dig them out of a relegation hole. We simply could not lose this game.
But we did. In all we created seventeen clear-cut chances. They didn’t have a single corner in the entire match. Yet West Ham lost 1–0. Gutted does not even begin to cover it.
Geoff, however, still wanted his shirt. And not only did he want his name on the back, he had his heart set on a giant number thirteen as well to mark his birthday. Now I’m not superstitious you understand, but there is such a thing as pushing your luck too far…
The journey home was never going to be fun. The south-east quadrant of the M25 was still closed so the only option was to head back into central London, cross the river at Blackfriars, and endure the long crawl south as best we could. My son, who had naturally insisted on wearing his new purchase straight away, coped by going to sleep. Which was probably just as well considering what was to happen on the A23.
The traffic was nose to tail and all three of the southbound lanes were choked with cars. Then the guy behind started to flash me. I couldn’t have got out of his way, even if I’d wanted to. This went on for several minutes before he forced his way into the outside lane. As he inched past me I got the treatment from the driver and his three mates. I’m no lip-reader, but I got the gist of what they thought of me. Besides, the hand gestures that accompanied the abuse filled in the blanks.
I should have let it go at that, I suppose. But when he’d got past me I flashed him back, which was probably the biggest mistake I made all day. He immediately cut back into the middle lane in front of me, forcing me to brake hard as he did so. And now the hand signals from his mates in the back were less of a sexual nature and more on the lines of, ‘Come and have a go if you think you’re hard enough’. Oh yeah – thanks for the invitation, guys. Thanks, but no thanks.
I’d never been involved in a full-blown road rage incident before. This really was turning into the perfect day. I wasn’t entirely sure what my next move should be, but I was pretty certain that it didn’t involve pulling over to discuss the matter in a civilised manner with these four upstanding young gentlemen.
By now the traffic was starting to thin out and if the guy in front really was in a big hurry he could have easily pulled into the outside lane and, by bullying other motorists to get out of his way, made the rapid progress he was obviously hoping for when he first encountered me. Instead he slowed down. Effectively he was inviting me to overtake him. Once again, thanks but no thanks. I had no intention of going alongside him and running the risk of being rammed, or getting in front and have him on my tail in some weird and highly dangerous re-enactment of a First World War aerial dogfight. So I slowed down too.
His next move was to pull over into the nearside lane. Again I declined the opportunity to overtake and pulled in behind him. Judging by the looks I was getting from the back-seat passengers I had deeply offended these people. OK, so I had flashed them, but that hardly explained the desire for mortal combat. Parts of the A23 are quite well lit and I wondered if they’d spotted Geoff’s West Ham shirt. Was that the cause of their fury? I really could not fathom out why they were all quite so angry.
As I changed down into second I checked the speedometer. We were barely doing 15 mph. Next to me Geoff stirred briefly. I really hoped he wasn’t going to wake up. No father wants their son to see him as scared as I was just then. Then I hit on my plan. We weren’t far from where the A23 turns from three lanes to two, with a slip road up to a roundabout. I would sit in behind these headcases until we got to the junction and, when it was too late for them to react, I would pull off sharply at the last minute and take an alternative route home across country and come into Brighton via the Devil’s Dyke. My heart started to beat a little slower now I had a workable strategy.
I was down to first by the time we were approaching the turnoff. With apologies to the car behind me, who must have thought I was on tow we were going so slowly, I had no intention of signalling my intentions. Nice and easy does it; don’t go too soon; leave it until your opponent has passed the point of no return. Relax … wait … any second now … Bollocks! The bastard had done exactly what I had in mind and shot up the slip road – clearly planning to rejoin the A23 on the other side of the junction and then intimidate me from behind. I had an instant to make a crucial decision: follow him to ensure I kept my positional advantage, or hit the throttle and hope the time it took him to get back on the main road would give me the vital minutes I needed to make my escape.
I changed up and put my foot down, going through the gears like a racing driver. I would have been more confident of disappearing into the traffic if I had taken the time and trouble to remove the roof box after our summer holiday months before. How I was regretting that particular piece of idleness now. It felt as if I was carrying around a giant beacon announcing my whereabouts to a group of homicidal maniacs who were intent on giving me a good hiding and possibly more besides.
But you’ve got to give the Golf its due: when you ask it to get cracking it rarely lets you down. Einstein convinced the world that it is impossible to travel faster than the speed of light. However, you can get pretty close when the occasion demands. There will be a number of drivers on the A23 who’ve seen a rusting VW with a box the size of a small house bolted on to the roof blur before their eyes as it vanished into the distance who can testify to that.
Never have I been so relieved to get h
ome. By way of celebration I poured myself an extremely large glass of red wine while Geoff showed off the birthday shirt, complete with his name and a large number thirteen on the back, to his mum. She poured herself a glass about the size of mine when he told her how much he had paid for it.
Now, if I’m going to be perfectly honest, I’m not keen on replica shirts. In fact I think that of all the rip-offs the football industry has dreamt up in an effort to separate long-suffering supporters from their hard-earned money, this is the most cynical. They cost buttons to produce yet retail for a small fortune; they become redundant every time a club alters the design; and they look ridiculous on middle-aged men with flabby beer bellies (I know this because there is no shortage of mirrors in our house). However, I was thirteen once and understand that a young man wants to wear his West Ham colours with pride.
Quite how we came by those colours is something of a mystery. There is a wonderful story that we acquired them from Aston Villa as a result of a bet but, sadly, there’s not a shred of evidence to support the tale.
This particular legend has it that a man named Bill Dove, who helped train the Thames Ironworks team and was the father of one of the better players, was at a fair in Birmingham when he was challenged to a foot race by four Villa lads who were there as well. What’s more, they wanted to have a few quid on the result.
Unfortunately for them, Bill was a top-class sprinter and romped home a clear winner. More unfortunate still, they didn’t have the cash to honour their debt – and no one took plastic in those days. Just as it was all on the point of turning ugly it transpired that one of the Villa boys was responsible for doing the club’s washing and he offered a complete set of kits by way of payment. The story goes he later told his incredulous bosses that the gear had mysteriously ‘gone missing’.
Remember historian John Simkin? He’s the man who poured cold water on the Pears soap association with ‘Bubbles’. He doesn’t believe the Bill Dove story either – but he reckons there might be an Aston Villa connection. He says: ‘They were the most successful club side during this period having won the League title five times in seven years. It has been argued that the Hammers might have adopted Villa’s colours partly to be associated with the success of the club.’
So when did West Ham first play in claret and blue? ‘The earliest photograph I have been able to find showing West Ham wearing today’s colours was taken on 16 January 1904,’ says John. ‘The game was against Plymouth Argyle at the Memorial Ground.’
And before that? ‘Thames Ironworks’ first match was a friendly against Royal Ordnance on 7 September 1895. The result was a 1–1 draw. I have been unable to discover any written documents that reveal the colours that the team played in. However, there is a photograph taken in 1895 that shows the team wearing dark shirts and trousers. If we assume that Arnold Hills selected the colours, I would think that they played in dark blue. These were the colours of Oxford University, the team Hills represented in the Varsity Match and in the 1877 FA Cup final.
In 1896 Thames Ironworks won the West Ham Charity Cup. A photograph of the team shows that they are still playing in dark shirts. The first detailed description of the kit appeared at the beginning of the 1897/98 season. The strip consisted of light blue shirts, white shorts, red cap, belt and stockings. These kits were probably inherited from Castle Swifts FC, the works side of the Castle Mail Packet Company, which was the first football club to be formed in Essex, and had gone bankrupt.
There are photographs of the Thames Ironworks taken in 1897 and 1899. Although in black and white, they lend support to the idea that the team continued to play in light blue shirts, white shorts and scarlet socks.
Thames Ironworks was renamed West Ham United in September 1900. A team photograph taken that year suggested that the club had retained the light blue colours.
If only the Bill Dove story were true – there would be a delicious irony in receiving stolen goods from the Villains. Although in this case Aston Villa may not be the villains of piece – they could even be the heroes. Simkin says:
What we do know is that the directors of West Ham were seriously concerned about the financial situation of the club at the beginning of the 1903/04 season. Given their perilous situation, did the wealthiest club in England take pity on them and donate them a set of claret and blue shirts?
I guess we’ll never know.
You’d think that no shirt would be complete without a badge, but study the old photos and you’ll see that West Ham teams of the past often played without wearing one (a badge, not the shirt – this isn’t Newcastle). And when they did there was no castle. Early shirt badges merely had the two crossed hammers that represent our ship-building heritage. The highly stylised fortress which is supposed to be the Boleyn Castle didn’t appear until later.
The awesome website theyflysohigh, the brainchild of Steve Marsh, has a terrific display of photographs featuring various items sporting the club badge. ‘A castle was added to the official match day programmes from the start of the 1921/22 season,’ says Steve.
Up until West Ham United gained promotion to the first division at the end of the 1957/58 season, both the castle and crossed hammers were seen as separate elements. The players’ promotion souvenir handbook issued in 1958 was the first time that both the crossed hammers and castle were seen as one combined image.
Interestingly, though, the first picture I can find anywhere of a shirt badge that includes the castle is taken at the 1964 FA Cup final against Preston.
The move to the Olympic Stadium has prompted another redesign and the Boleyn Castle has got the chop once more. In the supporters’ poll that preceded this decision I suggested that on the new badge we replaced the castle with a wrecking ball, but nobody seemed very interested in that idea.
The revamped crest also includes the word ‘London’, which I guess is handy if at any time you forget where you are. But I can’t help thinking we’ve missed a trick here.
Rather than merely listing the name of England’s capital city, we could have given the badge an extra touch of class by adding a motto. If we’re going to be a superpower in European football as a result of taking up residency in such grand surroundings at Stratford we might as well have all the trimmings. Not that we have to waste a lot of time dreaming up one of our own – we can simply borrow someone else’s. It doesn’t matter much what it says, but it does have to be in Latin. It’s just not a proper motto otherwise.
There are a few to choose from. Tottenham go with Audere est facere (to dare is to do) but we don’t want anything from them, thank you very much. Man City’s motto is Superbia in proelia (pride in battle) while Everton’s is Nil satis nisi optimum. That translates roughly as ‘only the best is good enough’ – but for my generation those words will always be preceded by the line, ‘The Milky Bar Kid is strong and tough’, so it doesn’t quite fit the bill.
For Blackburn the way forward is Arte et labore – by skill and hard work – but look where that has got them; Bolton’s Supera moras (overcome delays) sounds as if it was created as an early radio traffic bulletin for anyone using the M6; and, despite the best efforts of several managers in its recent history, Sunderland still have some way to go Consectatio excellentiae – in pursuit of excellence.
I’ve always had a soft spot for Queen’s Park, the Scottish outfit whose home ground is Hampden Park even though they themselves are amateurs. There’s nothing like thinking big in my book. Their motto, Ludere causa ludendi, means ‘to play for the sake of playing’ – and while that may not quite tie in with the club’s ethos of recent years, I reckon it sums up what West Ham are all about.
Incidentally, if there are any Jesuit scholars reading this who quibble with the Latin translations I suggest you take up the matter with my learned friend who provided them, Professor Vic E. Pedia.
As I say, I’m not a great one for replica kit. Admittedly I did buy the BAC away shirt before the Keith Hackett semi-final against Forest, but we all know what
happened there. Needless to say I never wore it to another match – home or away.
On special occasions I dust off the Wembley 1980 commemorative number (it’s white with claret and blue trimming and a nicely understated FA Cup motif ). I was lucky enough to be at the Cup final against Arsenal. Looking back on that game it is apparent that replica shirts had yet to make their appearance in the stands. Back then we contented ourselves with scarves.
There’s a lot to be said for a scarf. They look fantastic when held aloft by massed ranks of supporters, they don’t cost the earth – and they keep you warm on a chilly winter’s afternoon.
Be honest, the replica shirt poses problems when the weather turns nasty, doesn’t it? There’s no point spending all that money and not displaying your expensive purchase, so you don’t want to wear it under a fleece. You either have to wear it on top of something else, which looks silly, or you go with just the shirt and freeze your bits off.
The scarf, unlike the replica shirt, can be displayed in all weathers – leaving no one in doubt which team you support. Although, as I discovered many years ago, that can sometimes cause problems.
My mum knitted my first West Ham scarf – alternate squares of the sacred claret and blue with tassely bits of wool at both ends. I loved it. Sadly, the other kids with whom I went to school didn’t – especially the ones who supported Chelsea. Things came to a head in the playground one day when some of these boys in blue tried to part me from my precious knitwear. But we all know these colours don’t run and I had no intention of giving them up (although I have to admit now it was not because I have ever been particularly brave – the truth is there was no way I was going home to face my mother without that scarf, which she had sweated over for hours).
I’m not going to exaggerate here – this wasn’t the Rumble in the Jungle. Nor was it the Thriller in Manila. This was the Tussle with the Tassels. Even so, with a couple of kids pulling one end and me desperately clinging on to the other the immediate future was looking decidedly bleak for my scarf.
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