1970 Hamburg

An Englishman is just about to leave a lady of the night’s room, after an evening of pleasure. She realises he hasn’t paid her, and loudly demands, ‘How about my Marks?’ ‘Six out of ten’ he replies, and casually continues his journey.

These days we’re all obsessed about judging, marking and awarding points to almost anyone and anything. It would be easy to point our accusing fingers in the direction of Mr Cowell, but scoring people out of ten reared it’s ugly head intermittently back in the 60’s with the ‘Oil give it foyve’ girl, and the Clap-o-meter. Bo became the perfect ten of the 70’s (I would have given her one because she was a bit thick)

And then there’s feedback.

 In my world, feedback is a screeching noise that a speaker makes if you stand to close to a microphone. In fact only the other day, I was getting feedback from my computer. I tried to google the cause and the only ‘result’ it came up with was how many my computer was being rated out of ten! 

“Can I have twenty Rothman’s and the Sun please?

‘I’m very sorry I’ve only got tens. Do you want two packs of ten instead?

‘Eh…no thanks. I’ll take one pack of….

‘Oh ...It’s ok. Someone put the Peter Stuyvesant’s in front of them. That’ll be nine pounds twenty pence please’

‘There you go… do you want the odd twenty pence?’

“No..it’s fine I’ve done it now. Here’s your change…. thank you’

‘Thanks a lot, bye.’

‘Excuse me Sir. Sir? Before you go…. could you help me to fill in this feedback form?  … it won’t take long.

‘Errrrrr …ok? Fire away’

‘Let me see. Ah yes. What were your first impressions when you entered the shop’

‘Well…… I thought…..’

‘Was it a) This is a nice shop. Was it b) It’s a bit dark in here c) I bet everything is pricey in here or d) what’s that smell?’

‘A’

‘Was it a) This is a nice..’

‘No no, A. It’s a nice shop’

‘You are very very kind. You’re not just saying that to be kind ……. are you?’

‘No. Not at all. I was glad to help. Bye.’

‘Question two.’

‘How many are there?’

‘Not many…. Question two. Did the shopkeeper, that’s me, greet you with  a) a welcoming smile b) a sort of cheesy grin c) a big smile but you could tell it was false or d)…

‘B’

‘I haven’t finished yet’

‘It’s B though. That’s how you greeted me. B. Final answer.’

‘Or d) the shopkeeper looked like he had just smelt some off haddock.’

‘B’

‘Ok.B it is then. Please forgive my cheesy grin. I didn’t mean it.’

‘It’s not a bad thing.’

‘My area manager thinks it is. I’m already on a written warning about my cheesy grins’

‘A then. I’ve changed my mind.A’

‘It’s too late. I’ve ticked the box in ink.’

“Oh.’

‘Question three. Did you have to wait long before you received your items?’

‘No. You were as fast as lightning.’

‘Is your answer a) thirty to sixty seconds b) sixty to a hundred and twenty seconds c) five minutes.’

‘A’

‘Please. You must let me finish. This is very very important…... or d) you are still waiting’

‘A.A.A.A.A…….A’

‘I think it was B. If you care to remember….I couldn’t find the twenties at first and you didn’t want two tens because you probably thought it was girlie or something, and then I found them behind that flipping flip pack.’

‘Ok .B.’ 

‘I’ve ticked A already.’

’Then why did…..

‘Question four.’

‘Is this the last one?’

‘Last one.’

‘Promise?’

Question four! …...What would you compare your overall experience to?  a) A foot massage at your local spa. Spa as in bath robes and facials….not the tatty supermarket chain where no-one goes unless it’s thick snow and they live right above the shop. b) A walk through the Funhouse at Dreamland before it was rubbish. Kind of enjoyable but a bit awkward. I promise not to blow air up your trousers when you leave ha ha. Hmmmm.’

‘This is stupid.’

‘I’m very sorry but that is not one of the options I have in front of me. Hey! Comeback! I haven’t finished yet. I haven’t got to the shearing of a Tibetan yak during a mild earth tremor ………’

Why do we insist on bisecting, trisecting,dissecting and judging everything?

 …….Which leads me neatly to my point.

What is the purpose of rating a player after the match. Who are we to judge them? 

The thing is that we all want to be a judge. It’s a team game. A team wins. A team loses. Or they draw…. they finish equal. The points are dished out, to the victors the spoils. 

And that is that. 

Or is it?

No. We have to have the ‘post mortem.’ Why. No-one died. It was a game between two teams.

Let’s see where it all went right / wrong. Let’s give the players individual scores. I have never grasped the concept of this. What is the point?

‘I’m giving Kevin a four. He was useless.’ 

‘Why not a one then?’

‘’cos he did a couple of good tackles.’

‘A good tackle is worth two then?’

‘And he did a good pass.’

‘So a good pass is worth two and a tackle is one?’

There is nothing to gauge a player precisely for his performance…. so we judge. What is the point?

Man of the match. An accolade to make one person feel great and twenty one other players feel inadequate. 

‘I’ve given Nolan a five, Jarvis was slightly better with a six and Tomkins was slightly better than Jarvis so I’ll give him a seven.’

‘So the difference between Nolan and Tomkins was Jarvis?’

‘Uh?’

‘What if Jarvis hadn’t played?

‘Uh?’

See….a totally meaningless exercise in futility. 

What does rating players out of ten achieve? 

Absolutely nothing.

If you have enjoyed this blog please leave your rating between 1-10 on our website 1 Being the geezer must be illiterate and  10 being this guy makes Shakespeare look like he used to write for Bella

vs Brighton

The band played a detuned version of ‘The Great Escape’ as I tried to use my charm, charismatic personality and (as a last resort) my Hammerschat verbal season ticket to pass through the turnstile without the pain of coughing up a fiver. I’d be here before. Deja bleeding vu. The the lady (?) on duty looked at me blank. She referred me to a joint chairman (the older one) who denied any knowledge of Hammerschat, me, or letting anyone in ‘buckshee.’  Cogs turned. There was an uncomfortable pause. ’Oh….Hammerschat…. why didn’t you say?’ he said waving me through, wallet still in tact. The band played on. 

  The Haverettes have been going years. I remember them in their heyday, thirty or forty strong, turning out for all the borough carnivals, marching with precision through the streets, winning awards across Europe (I might have made that one up). I’m sure they played in our twin town Ludwigshafen a few times (I might have made that up as well).

It was Billy Jean’s turn to receive the trumpet and triangle treatment. It wasn’t too shabby actually.

The band was only twelve strong. Maybe it’s uncool nowadays. I think the uniform could do with (I hate to say it) Americanising, bring it into the 21st century.

I’d brought my tripod this time to improve my chances of getting a still still photograph. I’d brought a zoom lens which I proceeded to drop on the floor. “Bet that’s broke it’ someone grammatically incorrectly chided, probably hoping it was (it wasn’t). I decided to set up shop near the director’s box. There was a minutes silence before the kick off. Two minutes later there was another silence. Brighton had scored. They looked good. Their players looked super fit and were knocking the ball about a la Arsenal. I missed the goal because I was still fiddling with my tripod, but basically the ball hit the back of the net. The West Ham ladies weren’t at the races….. I feared the worst. They are still in the process of rebuilding, and the team looked very unteamlike. A few minutes later Aditi made a great save to deny the visitors. West Ham were relying on booting it up to Paige who was being chaperoned by two Brighton defenders,and Danni and Whitney were chasing shadows down the right hand side. But they held on to the one goal deficit with great courage. 

Twenty one minutes in and West ham are awarded a penalty for a foul on Giulia Ferrandi. After some treatment (not the last) Giulia picked herself up and slotted the penalty cooly past the ‘diving the wrong way’ keeper. This seemed to give the girls a lift and they began to play some good stuff. Giulia took the full force of the ball (not sure where) and was poleaxed again. There was a lengthy break for her to regain her senses and soon after her recovery she was floored again by a clash of heads. The biggest headache was delivered by the scoring of Brighton’s second goal just on the stroke of half time, the cliche’d good time to score. When is it a bad time to score?

Half time and the Haverettes performed a mean version of the Bond theme, followed by a rambling bit of music I didn’t recognise. 

I don’t know what the teams had for half time refreshment but they both came out for the second half in a’going through the motions’ attitude. One of the chairmen (the younger one) joined me for a chat on the cold steps. Risking piles we discussed the the present (good) state of the team and various players attributes. All seemed well with the good ship West Ham ladies and the future looked bright. Chev (I think that’s what her name is) came on as sub and started to give the Brighton defence the runaround. Stephen told me she was very skillful but needed to get a mean streak. Moments later she received the ball far out and hit it first time. Brighton’s keeper could only stand and admire the ball as it hit the back of her net. It was a stunning strike. Unbelievable. 

In true West ham tradition the ladies spent the rest of the game repelling the onslaught that came their way, Sitting deep lumping the ball….Sam would have been proud. Aditi still had time to make another brave save, injuring herself in the process. They survived. The whistle blew. It felt like a win. It was a victory of sorts and well earned too.

Ladies and Upton park return

‘All those in favour say aye,’ or was it ‘All those in favour say I?’ 

Team or self? 

‘There’s no ‘I’ in team,’ the motivators smugly quote. 

Well there’s an ‘I’ in side. And there’s ain united. 

We are unfortunately  living in a ‘look at me’ society, where self is all important. All that matters.

Do we need to redefine the word ‘selfish’? Maybe insert a hyphen. Self-ish?

Self. ‘Self importance’ which was once slung about as an insult is now accepted…. even expected as the norm.

No photograph is worth it’s salt unless the ‘takers’ mug (ugly?) is taking the limelight away from the intended subject. (I too am guilty as charged with an unsuspecting kangaroo)

Self.

The first I’d heard about the battle of the sexes fixture was at West Ham Ladies away cup win against Crystal Palace. A fan website with a vested and invested (time-wise) interest in West Ham Ladies had an inkling to get a team up to play them in a charity match at Rush Green. Even I was asked to partake. Me? A Saga holiday  qualifier. What were they thinking?  Whoever thought I would relish the thought of being kicked up in the air by Rosie Missen, or having a clash of heads with Hannah Wheeler, or challenging a fifty fifty with Olivia Sammons, was grossly mistaken.

However, before the idea had had time to germinate it was ironically hijacked and equally ironically  described as ‘ the brainchild of ….…’

Sour grapes were not on the menu. Our pick-and-mix of nobodies was no match for the delectable   (albeit nepotic) gourmet running buffet of D-Z listers. And this feast of football was now to be served up at the Michelin Star rated Upton Park, aka (the recently/historically/romantically ‘entitled’ ) Boleyn Ground, whilst at the same time cocking a snook to the ‘Greasy Spoon’ that was Rush Green .

Where’s the harm? What’s the problem? 

As far as I was concerned the wasn’t any. A game against the Ladies in what was in a way Dad’s back garden would have been fun. 

For them. 

No justification necessary. 

The whole thing was shot in the foot by the (self) promotion on social media, the match being touted as ‘The last time to see the stadium if you didn’t have tickets for the Manchester game which was the ‘last time’ Joe Public could see a match there. I’d already seen the people at  Upton Park who didn’t have tickets. They were the ones lobbing bottles at the Manchester United team bus. And it wasn’t a charity match anymore, it was thinly disguised as a fundraiser. A free entry fundraiser. Maybe it was an exercise to see how far the young pretender’s muscles would flex. Maybe it was because, like a shark, once they had tasted the blood of playing on the Upton Park pitch they had become insatiable.

Self - Even I was being seduced by the notion. From the ‘you gotta be kidding me!’  I went to offering to go in goal (10 minutes max). History. Sod that. I was dreaming of my Warhol quarter of an hour (minus 5). I’d already come out for a cross (punching it clear) in my sleep.

The first murmurs of unrest doubted the ethos of the fixture, rightly or wrongly, and envisioned it marring the memory of the ceremonial beauty (apart from the bloody awful ‘Rejects’) and historical implication of the official farewell. Dancing over a grave?

Trivially and trivia (lly) all I could think was that if the game did go ahead, it would feature in pub quizzes for years and years to come taking the place of Alvin Martin’s anomaly of a hat trick.

An internet argument ensued. 

Internet arguments are pointless. After two or three exchanges they become personal, sexist or racist. Or all three. Internet ‘discussions’ are playground fights at best.

This is the point where the grown ups in charge should have stepped in and made a decision.

They didn’t.

There was a referendum instead. 

It was ‘Let the Ladies play’ against ‘ Preserve the men’s place in history.’

Internet polls require no effort, no passion or any deliberation from the voter. Click a box in the time it takes for the next level of Candy Crush to load. 

Who would vote?

The  likers vote for. The likers ‘friends’ vote for. They’ve been tagged (begged). They don’t know all the ins and outs, but  by clicking the thumb(s) up they’ve lended (sic) moral support. Lended. Not given. They expect it back…forget to retweet their retweets at your peril.

The haters vote against. Haters are half glass merchants. Against the grain spoilers. Keyboard crusaders out (in) on a mission. They have an uncanny ability, nay, superpower to know exactly what’s right (never) and what’s wrong (always). Haters are unrelenting. Likers relent. Haters rant like demented Wicked Witches of the West (www.) at their flat screen spittoons, dishing out curses and fatwas to all and sundry. Likers shrug a philosophical ‘Oh well’ and get on with their advocations of cute pet video shorts.

The votes were in and counted and so were the chickens.

It was David (not that one…. or the other one) versus Goliath.’

Apparently David has more friends than Goliath, there was no need for any secret weapons.

This was a victory of Pankhurst proportions… or was it? 

Before you could say open top bus…… it was off.

The ‘grown ups’ finally stepped in.

The gods had spoken. The Demi-god had been overruled. 

As a staunch supporter of both teams, I was a bit saddened that it had come to this. The hard work that goes into running and maintaining the ladies club, the Chairmen with their generosity and personal hours of devotion and over a hundred players of all ages on the books, was being over shadowed by an unnecessary crass debate. 

12,000 votes were cast. It was close. 52% - 48%. Which meant 6,240 voted for the Ladies (average home attendance 50). Surely these voters could show their support by actually going to a (insert swear word out of frustration) game. That would definitely tick the box.

The Ladies team is a butterfly, fluttering free, occasionally resting on the shoulder of the club and not a fly in the ointment in which they were in danger of fast becoming. As a supporter and a reporter I really hope that one day soon the Ladies team will be completely fusion welded to West Ham United Football Club instead of just being Claret and Blu-tacked on the periphery.

Peace.

Spurs at Hornchurch

Rome wasn’t built in a day (especially if you take into consideration the time it takes to get planning permission).

One swallow doesn’t make a summer.

With time the mulberry leaf becomes satin… with time and patience the mulberry leaf becomes a satin gown. 

A wise horse never eats the grass behind him.

West ham Ladies can take heart and comfort from all of these adages (maybe not the last one, at first I thought it meant keep going forward don’t look back, but now I’m leaning towards don’t eat where you’ve just taken a dump). It could have been oh so different if only we’d have had (grammar alert) a Russian linesman, we would be now marching into the next round. Instead, 'Spuds-U-Don’t like' are set to carry on whinging into the next round. I haven't seen such petulance since that little girl in ‘Willy Wonka’  who wanted her dad to buy her everything. 

Sour grapes? Who me? Maybe.

The day had started so well as well. I’d been told that my media duties re the West Ham Ladies were becoming more official ( I was now the unofficial official reporter for Hammerschat instead of the official unofficial reporter….. if that makes sense. Or was it the other way around? hmmmm) and I was still the official crap photographer, mainly because no-one else turns up with a camera. ISO’s are still a bit of a mystery, even though the theory of them has been explained to me on numerous occasions. I needed a new lens. A sports lens. After doing some research, I discovered that  ‘sports’ lenses were also ideal for taking pictures of birds (70s joke alert) so it was a win win situation, They were also a f-f-f-f-f-fousand pounds. Maybe I’ll stick to my cheapo one for now. 

  I was also basking in the glory of being the co-presenter for Hammerschat’s ‘Talk a Good Game.’ When I say ‘glory’ I really mean ‘thank god I didn’t cock it up too much.’ The footage came out Thursday and apart from looking twenty years older than I thought I looked (I must get a new mirror) and looking five stone heavier than I thought I was… it wasn’t too bad. It wasn’t too good either. Apologies to Cindy for saying that she looked ‘tasty’ in her videos. Luckily when Marc Nurse said in his interview that he had contacts in South America, I didn’t blurt out ‘So we could be seeing some Brazilians in the team soon then?’ 

      I'd also been privy to a top top secret. I was sworn to secrecy. My lips were sealed. Apparently I was one of only four people who knew. I’m not very good at keeping secrets if the truth be known. 

“I’m with Hammerschat,’ I announced confidently, camera bag slung over shoulder,  wearing a pair of old boots to stand in the pitch side mud. I was gradually working my way through the ranks (in my imagination) and it was now my turn to be a proper press photographer. Even though I’d got to the ground an hour before the match was due to start, the girls were already on the pitch warming up. Hannah Wheeler made her way over to me and gave me a high five. That one gesture made me feel one step closer to be being accepted as part of the gang. Natalie Strange came over and helped me identify the player who’s name I didn’t know (yes…I’d got it down to one). It was Kelsey with whom I’d confused with Chelsea (easy mistake). It took her about five minutes to convince me that Kelsey and Chelsea were two different people, due to either her accent or (and most likely) my hearing. Tim Hunt came over and I congratulated him on his new job title (sorry..I’ve forgotten what it was now. It sounded important though (cough)). Marc and I settled for a handshake instead of a hug this time in case we set tongues wagging and even Olivia Sammons, who now had realised I wasn’t a stalker, came over and shook my hand. 

  It was at that moment that I felt a pang of disappointment. Nothing to do with Olivia’s handshake. No. Out of the corner of my eye I’d spotted a guy dressed from head to just about below his waist in red, a kind of Father Christmas who’d put the wrong trousers on (grey). I had always been fearful of that combo ever since I’d seen the movie ‘Don’t Look Now,’ but the thing that worried me most was the great big sports lens attached to his camera. Damn. I was almost ashamed to get my camera out now. Damn. I needn’t have worried. Nick Hayes turned out to be a top gent. I told him that I was suffering from a bout of lens envy, but he did his best to re-assure me by saying that because I was an amateur it was only to be expected that I had crap equipment. 

Well it was kind of re-assuring ….I think.

‘You must get some great pictures with that.’ I said, stating the bleeding obvious. It was then he pointed in the direction of the dugout (are they still called dugouts? They’re not dug out anymore, they’re more like bus shelters) and said ‘I get better pictures with that!’ It looked like a cannon. A Canon cannon. It was massive. It was a lens and it was massive. It was bigger than my car (ok slight exaggeration). Nick then proceeded to give me a crash course in camera settings. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I was chronically sophophobic and that his words were already making their way out of my other ear. Nick also had something else I didn’t. A chair. Well it wasn’t a proper chair but the large equipment case which doubled as a seat. I couldn’t very well sit on my camera bag, it was  small, soft and would squash under my weight. 

I had earlier actually contemplated bringing a chair of some sort, but all I had to choose from indoors was a settee (too heavy) a kitchen stool (too high) an office chair (the wheels would get stuck in the mud) or a dressing table stool (which would’ve looked absolutely ridiculous). Kneeling or sitting cross legged (which I hadn't done since I was at school and if I had’ve managed to get into that position I would have needed assistance to get out of it) were not an option. 

So I stood. Not ideal, but on the positive side, if the ball came flying towards me I would have a better chance of getting out of the way.

Nick and I positioned ourselves at the appropriately named (by me, just now) East End of the ground either side of the goal, him with his bazooka and me with my pea shooter (I’m still talking about cameras btw) ready for action.

The Match

The team was the same as last week’s apart from Erika Campesi coming in for Shev, who hopefully wasn’t on a tour of 'cake shops.'

It was a nervous start by WHL, maybe still thinking about the 0-5 drubbing they received 10 days previous, and a mere 5 minutes were on the clock when THL took the lead. Avilla Bergin tapped in an easy deja vu goal. This was becoming a habit, letting in early goals. Bergin spent the rest of the game spitting her dummy out when the ball didn’t get through to her or things didn’t go her way. Gradually WHL got a hold on the game and won a free kick just outside the THL area. Pinna stepped up to take the kick. The THL wall had a blonde moment and disintegrated at the sight of Romini’s curled effort. Wayne the goalie could only watch as the ball found it’s way into the bottom corner of the net. WHL defence was holding strong with a few pitch battles going on, and they had the best chance to go ahead when Locke narrowly missed from a tight angle.

Half time at the burger van, and I’d managed to find myself behind a man in the queue who was buying four lots of burger and chips. I only wanted a coffee. 'It won’t take long’ I thought/hoped………. until I noticed that the chip basket looked like it was only capable of frying one chip at a time……

I spotted Marc’s missus in the crowd (?) I thought I would casually introduce myself, gain her confidence with a view to getting some inside information.

‘ Hi, I’m Avit. Pleased to meet you,’ I smoothly opened with. ‘I suppose you want some inside information ,’ she said smiling, exposing my transparency immediately. The charade was over before it had begun and Keeley was only too willing  to provide me with some common knowledge info. This reporting malarkey was proving to be even more cloak and dagger than I’d first thought

The second half was basically two really committed teams cancelling each other out. THL scored an offside goal (they still don’t count phew) and whinged about the decision…... for a change. My personal highlight (if you’ll pardon the pun) was when the setting sun provided a spectacular backdrop for Danni Ritson’s hair. She looked like one of those girls in those 70s shampoo adverts, all soft filters and glow. I’m pretty sure I was the only one in a position to take that shot. I felt like I’d scored. I nearly managed to take another corker. Wheeler was chasing the ball down towards me and I snapped away until she nearly crashed into me. A sort of big game hunter photo. The end result was a crystal clear photo apart from her face which looked like I had blurred it intentionally to protect her identity.

And so to extra time. And penalties. If we’d had goal line technology at our disposal there wouldn't have been any need for penalties. It was obvious to everybody in the ground except the officials that the ferocious drive by Campesi had crossed the line after crashing down off the crossbar. It wasn’t to be. With the end of extra time approaching Sammons’ strong tackle which seemed to KO one of the THL and caused a bit of a kerfuffle/handbags (or should I say man bags?)

And so to penalties.

The referee kindly granted our request to have the penalties up the end we were sitting so that we didn’t have to lug all of our equipment (well Nick’s) up the other end. Hats off and respect to both teams, the takers were nerveless and pinpoint accurate with their kicks. After the first two THL penalties went straight down the middle, I suggested to Lauren that she should stand still for the next one. ’ Trouble is if I don’t dive I look a bigger mug,’ she philosophically countered, and to be fair she did have a point. I wasn’t sure that I should be having that conversation with her anyway, especially in front of the lino….. I could’ve been booked.

  I feared the worst when WHL Rosie Missen  stepped up and I was already writing the headline (Row Z Missing) but she finished with aplomb. In fact they all finished with aplomb except Ritson, who finished with a plum. Her penalty was well placed but Wayne guessed correctly and the penalty shoot out gods decided that that was that. Ritson distraught and inconsolable didn’t need to worry. The team needs gutsy players like her.

Lauren Picton         No chance with goal or penalties 

Danni Ritson           Played a blinder (and nice hair)

Katie Bottom         Cool and calm in possession ( I said hello to her mum)

Hannah Wheeler     Strong and mobile (sorry I didn’t stop that ball you had to run after

Olivia Sammons      Hard as nails, tackles like Tommy Smith (I said hello to her mum as well)

Gemma Abela         Broke up play in midfield good distribution

Cindy Ferreira         Very skillful defended as well as attacked

Rosie Missen           No nonsense all action display

Erika Campesi         Unlucky with ‘phantom’ goal well played

Romini Pinna           Superb strike and all round classy display

Whitney Locke        Unlucky not to score didn’t stop running

PS The secret turned out to be the worst kept secret in the entire history of secrets…….

…..and don’t look at me!

Vs C Palace

Hammerschat were out in force. Charlie, Geo and myself were going  media mental at the West Ham Ladies vs Crystal Palace Ladies game. The West Ham Ladies had got another bite at the Cup cherry after narrowly being beat 5-0 by Spurs earlier in the week. The Ladies hadn’t had a game all year before the Cheshunt Tragedy and were clearly ring rusty, but now it was a chance for redemption against Crystal Palace Ladies at Bromley FC. CPL hadn’t lost match since we tonked them at the beginning of the season, but since then both teams have had massive personnel changes (that doesn’t mean we got rid of all our tall players) so that stat really shouldn't have any bearing on the game.  Geo and Charlie were going to be conducting interviews, and I was going to practice my photography, hoping to get a lucky shot or two, and simultaneously try to remember what happened so that I could write this blog. We were The Three Amigos, The Three Musketeers, Tom Dick and Harry, Charlie’s Angels, Snap Crackle and Pop or …….. nearer the truth…. The Three Stooges. Plan A. Set up the (borrowed)  video camera a location where we could interview someone/anyone to test the sound/visual levels of our equipment. Charlie identified a corner of the ground, near the pitch where we could pressgang an unsuspecting victim into answering some banal questions in the interests of science. For some reason he managed to set the camera/ tripod up next to some dog/fox poo. ‘Oh’ said Charlie when I’d pointed out his faux pas. I left them to their preparations and snapped away at the Ladies being put through their paces by Marc (manager) and some of his oppos, one of which was a Man U fan that I’d enjoyed some good banter/insults with earlier. I’m still getting to grips with all of the Ladies names. I tend to focus on the forwards because I’m hoping to snap goals…… but today I was concentrating on the defenders.

     The girls were now doing a stretching exercise which involved putting one leg up on the perimeter fence the way a ballerina would use a barre, only a bit more ungainly. And in boots. It looked quite painful, (note to self never attempt it. Ever). After that there was a casual kick-a-bout session, Shevvy practicing breaking the net with her pile drivers, Danni showing off her tekkers and Whitney trying to hit a cow’s backside with a banjo. She was due a goal soon. Surely. 

The camera was ready. The microphone? Well I’m not sure what the microphone was. It looked like something Ken Dodd would buy in Victoria’s Secrets. Or a rat. It was black and fluffy anyway. Geo was hanging. He’d taken in the West Ham Man City match the day before. He’d also taken in copious amounts of lager punctuated with shots and was feeling kind of fragile. He beckoned Tim Hunt, one of the trainers, to try out our set up, a dry run of sorts. ‘Can we interview you Tim?’ Geo win    asked in a ‘can’t be bothered’ tone. Tim grinned. ‘No,’ he replied. The shortest interview ever. ‘Oh go oon,’ Geo half-heartedly implored in his Aberdonian lilt. ‘I prefer to be known as the silent assassin…a man of mystery,’ Tim explained. We contemplated conducting the interview in mime form, but the site of three blokes playing charades wasn’t really good box office. ‘Danni!’ I got her attention and she dribbled over to us. ‘Can we interview you for practice Danni?’ Geo huffed. ‘Whateversmate… hurry up though, ‘ain’t got all day,’ she said with a tinge of impatience. ‘Howoo bout ya show’s yoo tekkers while you speak?’ Geo was pushing it. ‘It’s not BGT Geo,’ I said, whilst Danni continued with her keepy uppies. ‘ Here show us your tekkers,’ Danni said to me (slightly mocking if the truth be known) and lobbed the ball at me. I hadn’t kick a ball in anger for about thirty years. My first touch surprisingly wasn’t too bad. I cushioned the ball on my instep and it bounced neatly up about head height. My second touch however was not so good and I toe punted the ball directly at the camera, and only the Yashin-like reflexes of Charlie saved the day. Despite my poor showing on the footy front Geo still suggested that I might like to make a cameo appearance at a charity match. I’d have a go at singing ‘Word up’ …. But playing football? Moi? Really?
We were finally ready to roll……. But Danni was gone. We had been faffing about too long and now we had lost another interviewee/victim. ‘We’ll have to do it ourselves,’ Geo bemoaned still regretting the last few pints that he had drank the day previous. Now, I had no intention/inclination/ambition of being in front of the camera, my Brad Pitt days were well and truly over (actually they’d never begun) but here I was, being thrust into the media spotlight. Surely there must be better things to film than my ugly mug. Surely.
Geo and I managed to make banal comments for about two minutes and we were done. ‘Was that it?’ I thought. ‘Easy peasy.’
Geo suggested that we could go to the club house and say hello to a few people. Charlie packed all the equipment away unaided (our choice not his) and we traipsed our way to say hello to Natalie Strange and Katie Bottom’s mum in the bar. After what seemed like a matter of seconds I looked through the window to see the teams shaking hands. I ran. By the time I’d got to the pitch they were already having a team photograph taken by a guy smoking a big cigar, and by the time I’d got my camera out of it’s bag the photo opportunity had gone. Damn. I was  close but no cigar. I did manage to get a picture of them forming a huddle though. They were in it for ages. What the hell do they talk about?
The match
The first major incident of the match was when Hannah Wheeler made a train crash tackle on a CPL in the box. It was more MMA than WFA

and deservedly got punished by the awarding  of a spot kick to CPL. The penalty was clinically dispatched, Lauren getting her fifty fifty question wrong.  1-0. The worse thing about conceding the goal was not the fact that we were losing, it was having to listen to ‘Chelsea Dagger’ blaring from the tannoy system. That tune alone could inspire the opposition to tighten up their defence. I wondered if they played Chopin’s Funeral March if they conceded a goal. Now that would be funny
 The match was evenly balanced and any thoughts of another capitulation were far from the WHL minds. CPL didn’t seem to be paying enough respect to the three pronged danger of Shevv, Romina and Whitney  (backed up by full debutante Cindy Ferreira so it was four pronged really if I’m being truthful but it doesn’t sound as good), and gradually they began to find holes in the CPL defence.  Just after Romina hitting the side netting, she was put through by Shevvy and dinked the ball over the keeper. 1-1. The tannoy was silent. No ‘Turn Back Time’ no ‘Let ‘em in’ no ‘Oops upside and on me ‘ead.’ Just silence.  Minutes later CPL refused to learn their lesson and whilst trying to dribble out of defence a CPL defender was caught in possession by Shevvy, who then threaded the ball through to Whitney …… and…… wait for it…….. she scored! I bet her Dad’s face was a picture. All of the moaning and shouting had paid off, although later on I was discover that he was banned from shouting instructions. He had an endless supply of lollipops to help him to keep schtum. Maybe we could get Chupa Chups to sponsor us. The rest of the half was to and fro, CPL scoring an offside goal (they don’t count phew) and WHL threatened on the break. HT 1-2.
Geo bought himself a chocolate bar and moaned for the duration of half time that it cost a pooned. I chatted with the official photographer about lenses. He said he was Crystal Palace’s men’s photographer as well and takes roughly 1200 photos a match, that’s one photo every 4.5 seconds. I find that very hard to believe. Maybe he was bigging himself up. We had the camera set up in a better location for the post match interviews, just in front of the family enclosure and away from any dog poo. Geo (still hanging) said ’Ya noo, I’m strooggling to think of a question to ask.’ I’ve always thought that post match interviews can be so cliche and said that I wanted to talk about eye make-up. Maybe I was strooggling as well.
The Second Half
The second half was a battle. We defended deep and in numbers. It wasn’t quite the Alamo, but CPL threw everything at us with no reward. In fact WHL looked more likely to scored when they occasionally broke. Lauren Picton’s handling was super safe. The WHL defence was outstanding. Olivia Sammons work rate and determination was relentless, a real powerhouse. Gemma Adebla made everything look easy and was always calm in possession. Hannah Wheeler was a tower of strength and unflappable. Rosie Missen worked her socks off (not literally) and Danni Ritson probably irritated the life out of their forwards by calling them all ‘mate.’ The shy and retiring (not literally) Katie Bottom played the captain’s role impeccably, and also cleared the ball off the line for what would have been a certain goal. Cindy Ferreira covered every inch of the pitch (not literally) and was unlucky not to earn a penatly when she went down like a sack of pommes de terre in the box. Romina Pinna showed her quality and held the ball up well. Shevvy has great touch and doesn’t realise how good she is. Whitney has a great engine (not literally)and has really bloomed in this new incarnation of the team. The three subs Chelsea, Erica and Giulia replaced the tired legs, and frustrated the Eagles to the bitter end.
We’d won. The girls celebrated as if they had actually won the cup and you couldn’t blame them after their disappointment in the week. I tentatively climbed over the fence and snapped their happy faces (not literally) and felt part of the celebrations. Geo and I interviewed the girls afterwards, I got my eye make-up question in, Katie was very humble about her goal line clearance and Whitney banged on about her goal…. and rightly so. I asked Hannah what the worst thing she had been called by another player, but she said she didn’t want to swear on camera. From the clues Danni gave I’m pretty sure what it was ( not very nice ha ha). The final interview was with Marc. He asked who I was on twitter and when I revealed that I was avithammer he looked really pleased to see me. I went for the handshake and he went for the hug. The hug it was.
It was that kind of day.

Whit Sunday

I hadn’t seen the West Ham Ladies for a while. They had been playing away a lot and the 500 mile round trip to Plymouth seemed less attractive to me than walking 50 yards from my house to their home ground. If I climb over my fence I’m only 2 inches away from their home ground. That’s close. I decided on the long way round to avoid splitting my trousers or being arrested for gate crashing. 

   Talking about gates, today’s attendance seemed quite low. I’d already made my mind up that I was going to shun the verbal season ticket so as to help support the team with my fiver, and also avoid anymore embarrassing ‘Who did you say you were?’ moments at the turnstile. 

Cutting it fine as usual, the girls were already on the pitch doing the customary shake hands routine. Then the announcer (nice bloke) announced there would be a minute’s silence. Immediately I thought…Jimmy Hill? They won’t know who Jimmy Hill is. The minute’s silence however was for someone else altogether. A local man who was involved in sport. In silence I slowly walked to a position where I could photograph the ladies. After all…. that’s what I was there for. As I passed a man I heard him say, ‘It wouldn’t hurt you to stand still for a minute.’ 

The ludicrousness of him breaking the silence to scold me flashed through my mind, and unswervingly I maintained my dignity so as to record the event in pictures. He should carry the magic fucking boomerang around with him next time (you have to be about 50 to get that reference)

The match kicked off and early doors Plymouth looked the sharper of the two teams, with some neat one twos and plenty of running off the ball. Plymouth’s captain was head and shoulders above the rest. Literally. The royalty named Katie Middleton was an intimidating opponent, plenty of power coupled with a deft touch. She reminded me of when you get an African schoolboy player with a dodgy passport. My son had one in his team. Hench. I think that was a nickname though. On his passport his date of birth made him out to be 10 years old, but he had the beginnings of a beard and quite a deep voice. Now I’m not suggesting for one minute that Katie had stubble or could give the 3 tenors a run for their money, but she was all but an unfair advantage.
West Ham Ladies began to get a grip on the game and Pinna was put through only to see her shot whizz past the post. (I actually videoed it thinking it was going to be a goal and ended up with the worst action footage in the world). In the 12th minute the eagle-eyed referee spotted Katie Bottom flattened in the box whilst awaiting the delivery of a corner. It was the sort of foul that often goes unpunished…. but not this time. Both teams seemed to be bemused by the decision but it was one the WHL gratefully accepted. Romina Pinna (wearing, the most confusing. Headley on her shirt) stroked the penalty home to get her memorable day off to a good start. The WHL forward line were causing problem after problem for Argyle, Romina and Shevvy with their intuitive partnership and Whitney with her immense work rate terrorising the fullbacks. Whitney apart from the defenders had another obstacle to overcome. There was a guy standing near me, and every time Whit (that’s what he called her) kicked the ball, run for the ball, looked at the ball, thought about the ball, or just stood there, he was giving her instructions, a kind of coaching from the touchline XL. ‘Run Whit,’ ‘Move up Whit,’ ‘Go forward Whit,’ ‘Whit! ’ ‘Press Whit,’ Come on Whit.’ I was sure it must have got on her nerves. It was getting on my nerves. A bit. I didn’t want to rub anyone else up the wrong way after my’ not playing statues’ fiasco and Danni jokingly threatening to get me banned for taking comedy photos of her (I think she was joking). Whit came within earshot again. ‘Make a run Whit.’ ‘Shut up,’ she exasperatingly  replied. ‘Oh,’ I thought. If he was a coach methinks she is going to be in a bit of bother. Later she explained to me that he was her dad, and then it all made perfect sense. I’d have been saying the same. Maybe worse.
WHL continued to dominate. Aditi could have done a Sudoku to pass the time. More superb play from the diminutive Romani and in the 28th minute it was 2-0, her shot flashing past the air grasping Devonish damsel in distress. Dark clouds were looming. Not poetic ones. Real ones. The heavens opened up to unleash torrential rain onto the pitch. It seemed to spur the Plyms on and WHL looked worried. I’m not sure whether they were worried about having frizzy hair in the morning or about stemming the attacks led by the marauding Katie Middleton. Some sloppy play led to WHL getting caught in possession allowing the irrepressible KM to rain on our parade and drill the ball home. 2-1. Game on. The whistle blew, the rain stopped and we could all relax for 20 minutes.
I’d just like to give a quick mention to a lovely fellow (forgot to ask his name) who provides the music and announcements from a shed-like (shed?) using quite antiquated equipment. Before anyone starts thinking - turntable - large horn - dog sitting in front of it, it’s not that old. CDs but no usb’s , PCs or mp3s. Anyway I’d just like to say he’s a nice man doing a grand  job. My thoughts turned to the coffee stall. I wanted one but my thoughts were mainly for the people that run it. There were probably only about 30 spectators in the whole stadium. Understandable. Christmas shopping and all that. I always like to patronise (pay-tron-eyes not pat-tron-eyes) small businesses. I had one once…. and it’s hard. All sympathy went straight out of the window though, when I rounded the corner to see a mob of punters waiting to be served by the lone waitress who was on her mobile, oblivious to the mass hoards (7/12).  Instead I took refuge in the warmth of the lounge bar where they didn’t sell coffee and I had to settle for a pint of coke with an iceberg in it. Doesn’t time go fast when you’re enjoying yourself. I was merrily Tweeting away info on the first half to anyone that could be bothered to read them and missed the start of the second half. Something was missing. The Haverettes. They had probably plumped for the rich pickings of Romford Market (can’t blame them), and the A augmented seventh flattened ninth chord they usually end on is my signal to head back to the match. I hadn’t missed much. For some reason at the last few WHL matches, the players come out for the second half a bit lethargic. Maybe they relax too much. Maybe they’re drinking Ovaltine instead of tea. I even had time to chat to the subs whilst our motivation inability took hold. Plymouth attacked wave after wave, not really threatening Aditi’s domain. Hannah Wheeler and co stood firm and repelled (booted) the ball as soon as it got a sniff of their goal. Katie Middleton crunched Aditi and Aditi came not only off best, but unhurt (apart from her nose and having her foot trodden on accidentally).
With less than 10 minutes left Romina was put through and rounded the keeper to claim a hat trick and to make the points safe. Before you could  sing ‘Can we play you every week?’ the Argyle lot replied. I didn’t see who scored but I can bloody well have a good guess. 3-2. The game had burst into life. West ham were cutting through their defence like a knife through I can’t believe it’s not butter. Next it was Shevvy’s turn to pop up and dink one in. 4-2 This girl makes it look so easy. Three goals in four minutes. At last I had something to photograph other than Upminster windmill and some giant conifers. WHL were coasting now. Whitney was through. In full flight she beat the defender, ghosted past the goalie, placed a nice controlled shot towards goal and…………hit the post. I couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t believe it. The crowd (?) couldn’t believe it. ‘Whit…….. chase back,’ heckled her dad.
The match was fizzling out and I made my way back behind the Argyle goal, just in case we scored another and I could get a different angle. ‘You can stand next to the pitch if you want to get better pictures,’ one of the ground staff informed me. ‘Mind you…. you might get your nice boots muddy.’ It was the 88th (bit fucking late) minute and I said I would maybe go there next time but thanks. Anyway it would much more than getting closer for me to get good pictures.
Final Score 4-2
Message to West Ham Ladies: If I do get to stand pitch side, please try not to boot the ball at me. Thanks.

Last Match at Upton Park

I didn’t really want to go. I wasn’t meant to go. It wasn’t even my ticket, it was my son’s. But my son has decided to live and work in The Middle East, and after having researched the practicality of a midweek jaunt to Upton Park, he bequeathed to me his ticket to the soon to be historic last game at the Boleyn ground. It was against my will and my better judgement. I felt like a xocolatophobic.  who’d found the Golden Ticket.
                 Until I had had the ticket thrust in my hands, I wasn’t really bothered about the occasion at all. Last game, penultimate game, the game before the penultimate game. It was a game. Period. If someone had  offered me thirty pieces of silver I would have bitten their hand off. I couldn’t see past the doom and gloom of an unruly mob running on a full tank of cheap cider and one gulp bottles of beer. I had visions of the queue to the station winding down Green Street like some modern day Jarrow march. Images of ‘fans’ smashing the place to bits to claim their own ‘exit through the gift shop’ souvenirs.
  But it all changed. I was going. I had been seduced by the hype, I had been sold (given) the dream. I’d stopped hiding behind the walls of my fears, and now I was going to be able to say I was there.
Who to?  I didn’t know.
Having parked up what seemed like a sponsored walk away from the stadium, we headed East from Plaistow. Against my will (power) I was shunted into a pie and mash shop. My strict diet was to take a battering. I was too polite to refuse, and it would’ve been rude not to have finished the two of everything put in front of me. It was a lapse. Scooping up with a spoon the last drops of liquor was another. I consoled myself with the thought that I would go back to eating cardboard in the morning.
            As we continued to stroll down the fried chicken scented streets towards The Boleyn we heard the first strains of ‘We’ve got Payet.’ Then we saw the first bottles being thrown like confetti at a Hell’s Angels wedding. Due to bad timing, bad planning or just plain bad karma, the Manchester United team bus had crawled into a bottleneck of drunken morons. Not fans. Morons. Morons consuming alcohol. Consumed by alcohol. Snarling and laughing. Laughing and snarling and safe in the knowledge (?) that they were protected by the rule of mob. A dangerous cocktail of lager induced bravery mixed with inherent stupidity was being served up outside the Boleyn pub. The idiomatic monkeys were clambering on the backs of our bronze World Cup heroes.
   We passed through wearing ‘we come in peace’ expressions, went our separate ways (seats), me to the comparative tranquility of Priory Road. There a queue snaked along the Barking road. The prize at the front was a pile of empty boxes, once brim filled with the last ever (extortionately priced) Upton Park programme. I wanted one. It seemed that I was alone with my demands. Most people were walking around with a codgle of them under each arm, no doubt Ebay fodder for the following day. I wasn’t going to queue in front of an empty box, so to my seat it was. Everybody seemed to be making their own documentary of the occasion.
‘This is me walking to the ground.’
‘This is me going through the turnstile.’
‘This is me walking up the stairs.’
‘This me sitting down on a plastic chair.’
Netflix must be shaking in their boots.
I don’t have a tear jerking  affinity with the ground like some. It is (soon to be was) the place my team plays. My affinity is with the team. Upton Park is the ‘Ship of Theseus.’ The oldest part is the East Stand, which to me is still classed as new. The fans create the atmosphere not the ground. The atmosphere has been muted since the advent of all seater control and unpopular managers.
Coffee. The hot water tap jammed and hot water was pouring everywhere. ‘Someone’s going to be in hot water,’ I quipped to no-one in particular and no-one in particular laughed.
To my seat. I thought to myself this is the last time I’m going to start a sentence with ‘This is the last time I’m…..’  My seat had a few surprises. It had a sparkly wrist band (pink) a T-shirt (nice) and a poster that we were to hold up as part of a mosaic. On the sheet of paper it promised me that I would be part of a magnificent display if I stood with it blocking my vision as the players came out. (Later on I found out the television cameras didn’t even film it, so I’m still none the wiser what the picture was).
I thought it would’ve been a hoot if they had given the Manchester United fans a mosaic which read ‘We only live round the corner.’ They would have never known.
Unlike outside the ground, inside the ground the atmosphere was amiable. The Romford Drum and Trumpet Corps were loitering with intent. I managed to dodge a bullet from the friendly fire the Percy Dalton look-a-likes were dishing out. Gone were the days of having my shoes filled with dry peanut skin.
 I found myself chatting to people I had seen for years but had never spoken to. I laughed and joked with the chap who stares at the back of my head every match. He has seen a lot of changes over the years. Black to grey. Grey to gingery  brown and then back to grey. Thick to thin. Now the back of my head had gone full circle. He in turn had provided me with an unwanted running commentary for the same duration.
By pure luck/chance/fate a gentleman sat next to me who I’d been dying to ask a question to for the past fifteen years.
 Fifteen years ago I spotted the same man a few rows behind us and I thought he looked like someone off the telly. ‘I’m sure that’s the bloke out of Casualty,’ I said to my long suffering daughter. From that day  on I repeated that sentence every time I saw him. For fifteen years. It was a mystery (for my daughter it was misery). I should’ve just bowled up and asked him straight out if I was so sure. But I wasn’t.
  Tonight was different. Tonight we were all friends and family. We could say anything.
‘Are you an actor?’ I blurted out to the suspected board treader. He seemed startled but at the same time pleased with my blunt question. ‘Yes I am,’ he replied in a rather grand almost Shakespearian accent. I’d never heard a posh accent at Upton Park before. His face took on a warm glow. ‘Were you in Casualty?’ I confidently continued to interrogate. The glow disappeared as quick as it had come. His face frowned from top to bottom. ‘I’d never appear in one of those trite programmes’ he scolded.
I should have left it there. ‘What have you been in I might have seen then?’ I continued like an unrelenting inquisitive six year old.
He rubbed his chin and gave the question some great thought. Or maybe he was acting like he was giving it some great thought. If he was, he was a good actor. “Game of Thrones?’ he casually offered. ‘Never seen it. I know someone who has though. Which part do you play?’ I was sure that he was too well groomed to tell me to ‘eff off.’  ‘Maester Luwin?’ he unconfidently offered. I shook my head slowly and gave him a blank look. The only thing I knew about Game of Thrones was that my first schoolboy crush Diana Rigg was in it. “Have you acted with Diana Rigg?’ I asked, steering the conversation around  to something I knew (a bit) about. ‘Not in that series, but in the past I have played the role of her husband,’ he formerly informed.
I couldn’t resist.
‘Well.. the next time you see her could you tell her that I really fancied her when I was fifteen (she was thirty)?’ ‘Certainly not’ he replied without an ounce of humour. A couple of pounds of irritation maybe.
We then swapped our first match experience stories, mine versus Arsenal 1968, his, versus Spurs 1950. I decided (before he did) to leave it at that and let the  septuagenarian thespian enjoy the rest of his evening.
The Romford Drum and Trumpet Corps were on the move. It was touching to see such a mix of age groups all getting together to keep the tradition of the marching band going. It did make me wonder though, how come they are allowed to march all over the pitch in their size nines before a very important game, and yet when I took a short cut across the pitch the day I was on media duty, I got blocked for wearing shoes.
Mob rule strikes again.
Anyway, the band played a beautiful rendition of ‘Abide with me,’ to accompany a video ‘in memoriam’ of deceased ex players and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
Then they trampled over the pitch a bit more before making their exit.
  We were tannoyed information that the kick off was to be delayed because of the bus kerfuffle. The tension was building. We were running out of things to say. ‘If those fireworks go off wrong we’re fucked,’ the chap to my left said to keep the conversation going. ‘Glad that bloke with a bird’s nest on ‘is ‘ead ain’t playing,’ came from behind.
Battle was about to commence. I’d never heard ‘Bubbles’ sung so loud. And with such passion. The atmosphere wasn’t electric. It was much more than that. Nuclear. The ref’s whistle was drowned out by the emotional rendition of our anthem. The game was set in motion. They were off.

Fortune had favoured the brave. We were brave. We had won. And won well.

We were promised an exceptional show after the game. It was ok. Anyone who had been to Disney wouldn’t have been impressed with the fireworks, and anyone who had been to a rock concert or a Tomorrowland festival wouldn’t have been impressed with the light show It was baffling that so much time was given to interviews with ‘ok’ players. Anton Ferdinand. Carlton Cole. Really? Most of the former ‘Hammers of the Year’ had something in common …. they’d all buggered off to Tottenham or come here from there past their peaks. The taxi cabs carting them around were doing more damage than my shoes but no-one said anything. Too much was made of Di Canio’s goal. I would have liked to have seen footage of quirky things that have happened over the years that maybe had been hidden away from the memory. And where was Carlos? Joey? Peter Eustace?
The rain was unrelenting. The heavens had opened up and left a tap running. The evening was taking on the feel of a school reunion. Razzmatazz shouldn’t have been on the evening’s agenda. It was a night for heart and soul. For a lasting longing look at the past. The team had given us a glimpse of the future. A bright future.

And so to the finale. A faux pas of epic proportions. A punk band in their 50’s. Murdering Bubbles.

A video depicting Sir Bobby turning the lights off and the stadium reduced to darkness was a great touch. It’s a shame he couldn’t have pulled the plug on those noisy oiks a few minutes earlier.

And that was it. Well nearly it. I had to visit the gents before my return hike up the Barking Road. At the end of the toilet there was a wall mounted trough with two happy hammers relieving themselves and joking about their game of ‘Piss Jenga.’ The trough had a blockage and it was only surface tension that was keeping them both dry. ‘I reckon one more ‘Jimmy’ and the geezer will cop the lot,’ one jested. It was definitely time for pastures new.

                                                          Definitely.

 PS. The first thing I did when I got home was to google Maester Luwin. The actor’s name was Donald Sumpter. He has a list of credits as long as a orangutan’s arm. One of them was The Bill!
He kept that quiet. I didn’t feel so bad about accusing him of Casualty now