It was like Lord of the Rings down at the running track today. Unbelievable that no-one had the foresight to turn up with a ladder or at least a grappling hook on a rope to invade the Director's seating from the concourse.
Here's what rich people do.
It's hard to conceive a more preposterous cock-up than what has been going on of late. But let's face the facts: it's no great surprise given the way Sullivan and Gold have managed our club since the took over.
I have some very good friends in Sheffield. We have a lot in common. We all love our football clubs and we also love English cricket. Sheffield United Football Club is a great Yorkshire institution and I happen to have a lot of respect for its fans. They are passionate. They are not glory-hunters. They support their local club, although admittedly quite a number of locals prefer the other steel city club, who my mates disparagingly call ‘Wendys’. Their corruption of ‘Annie’s Song’ has to be one of great football anthems. I like visiting Bramall Lane because it reminds me of football grounds in the 1980s. It’s a piece of nostalgia.
This is bound to spark outrage amongst Tevez-worshippers, but I have come to the inevitable conclusion that it is time for our club to move on from Tevezgate.
Over the past couple of months West Ham fans up and down the country have been fighting their corners against just about every other fan of another Premier League club about the rights and wrongs of the Carlos Tevez affair.
It took an independent inquiry to really blow the cover on the despicable Brown regime. Today’s FAPL judgement proved what many had suspected for a long time. Our club has been run by a bunch of parasitical charlatans without any obvious business ethics.
Today, the £100 million new owners of our club showed just how fickle they can be with the sacking of a manager that brought back pride to West Ham United Football Club.
Many ancient religions dictate a period of mourning after great loss. I have shaved my hair off, donned a sack and covered my scalp with ashes.
I’ve got to admit that I was not exactly overjoyed about nipping down to Upton Park today with the prospect of a top day’s test cricket on the telly.
It’s almost time to make that dreaded trip into the Principality again and to be honest the nerves are jangling like Big Ron’s bracelets.
11th May is a day that all football fans should never forget, it is the day that 56 people, young and old perished in the terrible fire at Valley Parade, Bradford. In addition to the 56 that lost their lives there were over 260 injuries – it was the worst fire disaster in the history of British football.
I'm not going to write a match report as just about everybody would have seen that game for themselves.
Now that two debacles in a row are out the way, one in Cardiff, one in Lisbon, it’s time for a little closure on the disappointing 2003/04 season. I hope you’ll enjoy some things that came back to me in a little retrospective through some of the notable points of my season.
It’s not often you find me in a gay bar, but I thought I’d make an exception for the visit to Cardiff. Besides, I do actually quite like Abba and it happened to be the only place anywhere near the Stadium where the bar wasn’t 20 people deep.
Not long back from outlaw country having successfully avoided ending up like Edward Woodward in "The Whicker Man".
Just before the transfer window opened, I started a debate on the forum of KUMB*. My starting point, because I knew that Old Man Brown was salivating at the prospect of cashing in on Jermain, was that there was no sense in a sale.
Tonight in desperation, I have been onto the National Schizophrenic Fellowship website to see what advice can be given about a split personality football team.
I’ll be honest with you, I’m not a particularly superstitious character. This stems from a time when I went to see Gypsy Rose Lee on the front at Blackpool and she told me that I would be lucky in love. Subsequent events proved that the old crone was a five star charlatan.
ESM Jnr and I, full of Xmas spirit in the car on the way to Upton Park:
My friends, I say that Monday is the day that will be the beginning of the end for the gangster regime that is running our club. I do not expect the forces of light to prevail at the West Ham United plc AGM but all revolutions begin in small ways.
For the last five days or so, I have been bang in the middle of never-never land where time blurs into one and obese Americans stare blankly into slot machines or slump in a stupor as the next hand of black jack is dealt.
Forgive me for coming at this a bit late, but I just had to sit down in a darkened room to calm down after the latest chaotic happenings at our club.
During half time at the Rushden & Diamonds game, I sat back in my comfortable seat in East Stand Upper to read the latest thoughts of Chairman Brown. I always try to read these statements with an open mind and honestly my natural instinct is always to try and see something positive in what people say.
Around the country in the expanding number of sports management departments at colleges and universities, lecturers are now preparing their classes for the forthcoming year.
During the course of my work, I often come across companies who go into administration.
Saturday’s fantastic game against the blue enemy will go down in the annals of West Ham history. Those terrible games at home against West Brom, Man City (bore draw of the century), Birmingham, Leeds (the give away of the century) and Oldham just faded into the distance.
My friends, it will go down to the wire.
West Ham's latest disastrous Premier League outing ended in angry scenes as thousands of supporters gathered around the Directors' Box to remonstrate with David Sullivan and David Gold.
First of all, a thank you to the mass media for spreading widespread fear about the snow and ice. Never seen such quiet roads. Oxford Fred wasn't convinced early doors after I said the road trip was on. "Mad bastards", he said.
Ah yes, a trip up to Anfield, a proper football stadium nestling like a jewel amongst the terraced houses and the burnt out cars. I'm always grateful to the Scouse fans for letting me know about the acute mugging threat in the streets. Sound advice that, never walking alone in Liverpool.
It’s been another fun old week in the parallel universe of Planet Gold, Sullivan and Brady.
I checked the other day and it’s been just over six years since I had a match report up on Kumb.com. I suppose you’re wondering where I’ve been?
Whenever I see Burnley, I'm always reminded of the time the last down in the Championship, when the reasons best known to myself I decided to go up to the Lancashire khazi for a midweek game.
I figure that it’s time the KUMB.com Old School put in a shift now that we have plunged into the chasm of the Championship. After all, who could turn down a few away trips to places that time forgot? It’s a rich old time for some social commentary.
Seven years is a long time. That’s how long I’ve been waiting to see a victory over those wasters. Longer than I was married. A death sentence in cat years.
Probably one of the most depressing and infuriating weeks in West Ham’s recent history has just played itself out with the net result that the drop looks like an evens shot at best. A few short weeks ago it was 7-1.
I ain't gonna pick over this too much, because I'm on suicide watch at the moment.
There was a time in the not too distant past when there was more chance of getting a quote out of Lord Lucan after having ridden Shergar to victory in the Epsom Derby than the Chairman of West Ham United Football Club. That was before we got a couple of media crack addicts for owners, always looking for a fix in the tabloids or Sky Sports News.
Another trip Charlton Heston-like up to the kingdom of the northern monkeys. To be honest I quite like a night out in Manchester and the primates are quite friendly with no sign of those red-arsed baboons that you sometimes meet on your travels.
Some people are never gonna get on. The Hutus and the Tutsis. The Shiites and the Sunnis. The Israelis and the Palestinians. Blakey and Butler. Zippy and Bungle the Bear. Coyote and Roadrunner. Me and the f*cker down my road who puts bollards out to reserve his car parking space on the public highway.
Living in the midst of enemy territory as I do I am always amazed by how a couple of wins suddenly sees all the Spuds rag shirts coming out.
What a jolly week it’s been. Meltdown in West London and the temporary appointment of Colonel Kurtz while some dodgy deal was being struck east of the Urals.
We were struck down just as we walked out of the Arsenal tube station. ESM Jnr and I, on the ground. Helpless with laughter as we spotted the gayest t-shirt ever with an airbrushed picture of Robert Pires on it. Little goatee beard, like a still from a gay porno remake of the Three Musketeers. I challenge anyone to wear that shirt without uttering the words “Chase me!”
Football at Christmas. Every year the same.
This week it had taken me about two days to calm down after listening to that jumped up gobshite Brian Mawhinney having a pop at Sir Trevor because the latter had the audacity to express his frustration about the development of young English players. That little exchange summed up what is wrong with football in this country when you get self-important opinionated committee fodder like Mawhinney in positions of power.
Whoever went to the Boleyn Ground today without feeling some degree of trepidation had to be an optimist, despite the fact that an alleged West Ham fan had been elected mid week to lead the world’s most powerful nation.
On the way up to the Black Country, ESM Jnr was working overtime on his ‘phone to sort out a flight back next month from Egypt after our esteemed sponsors went belly up. I was never happy with the deal myself. After all, who wants their chest size advertised on a replica shirt?
Crazy goings-on in the East Stand as what looked like an entire Scandinavian girls’ football team arrived in a lurid yellow strip. This reminded me of a couple of ‘soccer’ training sessions I witnessed recently with ESM Jnr in the States. “Those girls are really good”, he said with a look of astonishment on his face. We will need to raise our game for the Doris Football at the 2012 Olympics, I reckon.
I woke up with a glowing Beleisha Beacon ar*e after a strenuous day’s activities in San Francisco. That’s what happens when you’re out of practice and decide to go on an eight mile bike ride over the Golden Gate Bridge.
Pussy ping pong in Pat Pong. With the promise of that as pre-match entertainment, who could say that Scudamore is that wide of the mark with his plans to take the Premiership overseas?
Who doesn’t get a feeling of dread when the Mickey Mousers turn up? I remember the last time I saw us we beat ‘em at home. It was a special day for me as ESM Jnr made his first ever trip to the epicentre of the footballing world and took his seat in the East Stand.
Three weeks I was stuck in a confined space with the legendary Midnight Al in Sri Lanka following the mighty England. Midnight is an old school Manc, so named because he only recovers from the previous day’s hangover at around Midnight.
Unlike most followers of the claret and blue, the game at Derby is a massive one for me due to the fact that ESM Junior and I have five mates who are big Rams fans. The windups start early and we turned up Friday night in the East Midlands to give it large over some unnecessary amounts of Chinese nosh.
It was like the cave of wonders. Ali Baba’s takeaway just down the road from Villa Park. One local said that Kapil Dev was serving, which was welcome as “you need to be an allrounder to work in there”. Open Sesame as doner kebab and chips smothered in chilli sauce slipped down a right treat.
Picture the scene. You’ve been there. Friday night at the school disco. You hang around on a promise. On goes The Commodores. That’s why I’m easy. Easy like Sunday mooooooorniiiiing. Disaster zone, nothing left but mingers.
I used to like those slot machine games at the fair when you used to drop 10p in and hope that it would push a load of other 10 pence pieces over the edge. It was about letting it fall in just at the right moment.
This might go down like a cup of cold sick with our new package tour shirt sponsor but I am beginning to think that those anti-climate change protestors camped at Heathrow might have hit the nail on the head.
Gilo the Manc was in town today and he admitted that he didn’t know half the names of the players turning out for his beloved Cideh. “I’ll just say, go on 16”, he said.
Thankfully the superheroes had turned out for the Irons today. Captain Condom was on duty, ready to apply all his superhuman prophylactic powers to ensure that deep penetration into the away team would not end in disaster.
Baby Sam turned up in his newly purchased suit from Mothercare today looking like ‘Odd Job’ out of a James Bond movie. “Look at me, I’m the boss now, I must be as I’ve got a whistle on”.
Wicks is a laugh a minute. I first met him on a plane to Addis Ababa en route to watching cricket in South Africa. He lives in Preston at the moment and is studying to be a journalist. As a sideline he’s got this job doing very basic live in running commentary for Far Eastern betting firms.
I told ESM Jnr that he could only have his season ticket if he accepted that he was heading for years of anguish. Aged 7 he didn’t have a Scooby what I was talking about.
I have travelled along the road to Damascus, but received no blinding revelation. It was more a case of sh*tting myself that I was going to get run over by a Syrian tank.
Oxford Fred was really up for a trip to Coronation Street after a few days of madness down in Cheltenham where he’d ended up several hundred quid to the good with the usual inevitable consequences for his expected lifespan.
I’d undergo a vasectomy or root canal work without anaesthetic rather than lose to those lillysh*te ****s.
There was this American televangelist a few years ago who was totally bang to rights. He'd been living a millionaire lifestyle on embezzled money from his flock and had a penchant for cheap prostitutes.
Surreal. That's how it felt walking to Villa Park today. The last visit there of course was that famous cup semi-final win against Middlesbrough. Nine months later it feels like I'm living in a parallel universe.
Up and down like a whore’s drawers. That has got to be the best description of the West Ham United computerised ticketing system.
They were all there waiting for me in the East Stand. All looking smug as f*ck. “Look, here comes ESM fresh back from a trip to Australia to watch the cricket. Did you have a nice time?”. Yes, very f*cking funny.
I witnessed a fellow Eaststander purchase from the stadium ‘catering’ what could only be described as a toxic cup of coffee before the game today. There was something truly disgusting floating on the surface. “Now you know what killed that Russian geezer in the week”, I said as I handed out the number for NHS Direct.
As far as I was concerned today, we emerged with a creditable 0-0 draw. This was down to the fact that those educationally sub-normal f*ckwits at Transport for London kindly stranded me at Green Park tube station and I missed the only goal of the game.
It’s barely Guy Fawkes Night and already there are people walking around wearing Xmas paraphernalia. You could have knocked me down with a feather when five or so Ironettes turned up near me wearing ‘Rudolph’ style antlers with West Ham club crests on them.
One West Ham fan had more on his plate than most of us this week. You may have seen him on ‘Family Brat Camp’. I felt for the bloke – he had the daughter from hell and was trudging through the wilderness trying to get her back on track.
I'm not going to write a blow by blow account of that debacle. Although that was a long journey there and back, I'm glad I went. As you get older, nostalgia plays a greater part in your life and f*ck me, that was like stepping back into a time warp up there.
You know, a classical comprehensive education taught me something important in life. I learnt it from Shakespeare. When it thunders and pisses it down something shitty is invariably going to happen.
It always gets a bit vague whenever I go up to Manchester. This is down to the fact that Gilo the Manc is a master in dragging me off to oblivion amongst the cut prize boozers that never seem to close their doors. Licensing laws? They’ve never heard of ‘em up there.
It was just like old times. Glenn Roeder standing on the touchline in his trademark “What the f*ck do I do now” stance. The Bobby Moore Stand told The Toon fans in no uncertain terms what was in store with a rendition of the newest cover version of ‘Blue Moon’ – “Roeder, he’s gonna take you down.”
Now I’m always the first to congratulate West Ham fans on new songs, but I can’t say I was too impressed with an Eaststander’s new version of “We’re all going on a European tour”. Clearly the geezer has plans for a couple of weeks time,” We’re all gonna shag a Sicilian whore”, he promised.
It is now looking like a crash course in Arabic is on the agenda if I’m going to ensure that I get to see every West Ham match this season.
I was walking down Green Street with ESM Jnr and his half brother Ted, who was turning up at Upton Park for his first ever Premiership game. Ted, seven years old next month and absolutely fanatical about sport spotted a Sikh guy and said, “There’s Monty Panesar over there”.
Now that was a lineup to make the mouth water of any Irons fan worth his salt. I was bleary-eyed with nostalgia. To name a few of my personal favourites: Sir Trevor Brooking, Paul Allen, Digger Barnes, Ken Brown, Curbs, Mervyn Day, Devo, Paul Goddard, Georgie Parris, Pat Holland, Billy Jennings, Kevin Keen, Alvin Martin, Phil Parkes, Geoff Pike, Pottsy, Stuart Slater, Alan Taylor, Steve Walford. Legends the lot of ‘em and all united in tribute prior to the game for Johnny Lyall after his untimely death last week.
It was all looking a bit ropey, but a corner was awarded with five minutes left. A perfect left foot delivery and he rose like a salmon at the far post to head in and take the tie 3-2. What a f*cking fantastic start to the day as ESM Jnr’s U14 team prevailed in their Cup Semi Final and set up a date at the MK Dons Stadium on 7th May.
1.30 a.m. in downtown Mumbai and I knew that Gilo the Manc was worried. After bigging up his team’s prospects in the FA Cup and agreeing to watch the game, the northern monkey decided instead to get so wasted that he was poleaxed on his bed. It was his way of dodging the issue as no doubt he had seen the writing on the wall.
This last week has been one where three amazing things happened. First of all we signed an Argentinean; secondly we went to Highbury and won; and thirdly, yet most shockingly of all I swear I saw Glenn Roeder becoming a Premiership manager again. Nah, I must have been hallucinating.
I just knew we had a good chance today in getting revenge against a Blackburn team that had Mike Riley on their side when we went up to Coronation Street just before Christmas.
Birmingham. It always sends a shiver down my spine as it was here that I picked up the dreaded chicken pox off some diseased Brummie after carrying out some job interviews for my employer at the time.
What’s the strangest thing you’ve ever seen in a toilet at a football match?
One thing I’ve learnt from watching football over the years is that you sit behind the goal at your own risk. So it proved at the Charlton Conservative Club where a game of tennis football took place on the dance floor near the bar. I managed to avoid the ball in the back of the head, others were not so lucky.
It almost seems beyond belief but the last time I went to Blackburn was during the 1980/81 season, almost 25 years ago to the day. That’s only just a tad longer than Joey Barton’s brother went down for the other week ...
I remember it as if it were yesterday. Enfield Town Park circa 1972 and we were winning a cup game when we gave away a penalty. Yours truly was between the sticks and this kid strolled up to take the spot kick with a pair of George Best boots on.
Those of you familiar with the geography around the cradle of filth will know of Silver Street British Rail station and its railway bridge. This is a place which holds great horrors for me.
The last time West Brom came to the East End I was happily out of it in an alcoholic stupor in Las Vegas. Good job too, as we squandered a three goal lead, Defoe got sent off just before half time and we ended up losing.
There is a good time to go on holiday if you’re a West Ham fan. It’s whenever the team makes the trip up to Anfield. I’ve got fed up of going up there as have many travelling supporters, who haven’t seen a win there since 1963.
I’ve always had an affinity with Man City and today provided the first opportunity to experience their new stadium. I used to like Maine Road, as it always felt like a place that was in the heart of the local community, nothing like the feel of Old Trafford, which always seems artificial to me.
This last week I have been bored absolutely sh*tless. Everybody’s been going on about it ad nauseam. The uninspiring repetitiveness of it all has been making my toes curl. If I hear one more pundit saying that the Premiership is boring, I am going to be physically ill.
There’s nothing more enjoyable than really bellowing out some pent up feelings after years of frustration. I can tell you that standing outside the Australian team’s hotel in Nottingham this Bank Holiday Sunday giving it about as a large as it gets, is the kind of therapy I would recommend to anybody.
You may have seen the story in the week about the climber who spent years under a cloud about whether he’d left his brother to die half way up a mountain. Well, he’s finally off the hook as they found his sibling’s frozen corpse in a spot which proved his side of the story.
A choice had to be made this weekend between watching the Ashes at Old Trafford or our return to the Premier League. I think you already know what I decided to do, and the thoughts you are about to read were composed on a train up to Mancsville on Saturday night.