The Wigan experience was an experience like no other. If I’m honest it wasn’t one I was over-excited about. Since the Wednesday I’d been suffering with flu. Sweating, shivering and aching, and off to see Wigan, who are one of my least favourite teams of all-time, didn’t sit well. Why do I hate them? Well… Their chairman, Mr. Whelan, happily campaigned to have us relegated a few years back, they beat us 3-2 and did send us down during the better-forgotten Avram era, and in general they just strike me as a ‘nothing’ team due to their poor support. Not even interested in partaking in an alcoholic drink, I set off on a long day out from Dorset, praying for my patience to increase, temperature to drop and three points at full-time.
With routine very solemn broken, my main port of call prior to kick-off was always going to be The Queens. Thinking Red Bull was going to perk both my mood and health up, I made the thirty minute plus tube journey east-bound, packed on like cattle and having the added bonus of being able to experience the various sweat aromas of different age-groups, genders and nationalities. You always know what to expect with The Queens however. A group of lads will be camping out by the jukebox, occasionally treating us to the likes of ‘Twist and Shout’ or ‘Bubbles’, the bar staff will have a look of haggard resentment, repeating ordered rounds back to you whilst being done up to the nines like a reject from TOWIE, and there will be a small, yet brave woman of Oriental descent, passing through the patrons, making up for what she lacks in English, in enthusiasm for selling pornographic dvds. Yes, this is definitely THE place to be in London.
But then the unthinkable happened. Fancy dress. Or at least I assumed. Through the haze of flies and fumes eminating from the gents stood Captain America, Wolverine and Thor. Normally I’d put such a thing down to drink flowing and being mistaken, but such a thing wasn’t to be so I asked the reason.
‘Ah’ came the European reply ‘We from Albacete and wanted to see West Ham’
No reason for fancy dress was given, so instead I ignored it, turned on my heels and headed towards the ground, confused at Spanish super heroes.
The ground seemed fairly quiet and subdued as kick-off fast approached. Maybe the excitement of watching Wigan hadn’t rubbed off on the crowd yet, maybe the realisation that it was Wigan had. I took my seat and braced myself for the 90 minutes ahead. As expected at a kids for a quid game, there was a large number of children in Upton Park. No worries, their enthusiasm is infectious, should make for a fun afternoon with future West Ham fans creating a buzz of innocence. Unfortunately, one gent forgot this despite having a young lad with him. Expressing his views in a profanity-laced soliloquy, his outburst was only interrupted by the unbroken voice asking what the damning denunciations meant. As the crowd of approximately 100 fans in earshot stopped to wait for an explanation, whilst knowingly nodding and grinning at each other. Having possibly have done this before, the cockney version of Gordon Ramsay calmly explained his actions to the youngster before rounding it off with ‘But don’t tell your mother!’ Thus throughout the game he was a tad quieter, only responding to questions or cheering the goals, neither with a foul mouth.
And so the game finished. We now know of the performance and scoreline, and a hoarde of happy hammers left the ground with a spring in their step. I decided I needed to change my home shirt. Not because it had O’Brien on the back, but more because, once again the sponsorship was peeling off. Laden down with more merchandise for my niece and nephew, I finally got to the counter where I paid and explained my quandry about the shirt. Fortunately they were more than happy to change my faulty replica top, as long as they had the other in return. Unfortunately, that meant getting undressed in the shop. Stood half naked in club shop is not a good look for a chap of my appearance, yet bereft of common sense I saw it as the way forward and ‘treated’ the cashier to a butchers of my chunky, pasty, tattooed frame. Though I was pleased with the service of getting my shirt replaced, the fact I couldn’t get the name on the back again in homage to our versatile full-back Joey, left a black mark against this chapter of my day out.
And so from the shop it was time to make my journey home. Looking to wander down Green Street I was informed by the police that there had been a road accident and there would now be a diversion meaning that the queue to Upton Park station would be that little bit longer than usual. In the great scheme of things it’s obviously more important that those in the accident were ok, but my weary and ravaged limbs only wanted to get home and patience was running thin. The last thing I needed or wanted was to be accosted by a group of inebriated Norwegians who were the unofficial Ragnvald Soma fan club. I was soon accosted by a group of inebriated Norwegians who appeared to be the Ragnvald Soma fan club. Asking me my opinions of our former ‘defender’ I thought it best not to patronise. Thus, as they were not speaking in their native tongue, I kept most of my opinions and descriptions down to four letter words. Realising I wasn’t the biggest fan of the enigma that was Ragnvald, my new Norwegian friends hastily retreated and disappeared into the East London spring sunset, allowing me to make my way home.
It was an interesting day for me. Poorly, I still managed to troop on like the brave soldier I am and get to the game.
Embarrassed in the club shop, disturbed in The Queens and delighted by the result. Trials and tribulations aside I wouldn’t change a thing about supporting West Ham
Peace out
Smudgy
@TheRobTaylor32
Haha was that you in the club shop, lol.
Looooool did u see ‘im