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

The Bow Belles take a Bow

Reichandt and Simic keep a close eye on Nobbs

Having your first game in the big time away to one of the big three was always going to be a big ask. 

Arsenal Women had the X Factor. 

West Ham United Women had the y factor. They were an unknown quantity. Their pre-season had showcased the new talent brought in from around the globe but would be little indication of how they would fare against the  serial cup winners.

In front of healthy crowd  West Ham Women answered any doubts about whether they could compete at this level, and on another day could have maybe got something from the game. No sign of stage fright and no-one fluffed their lines.

Matthew Beard conducts his players

From the off both teams were content just to pass the ball around, patiently looking for openings. Surprisingly Arsenal started using the long pass ( i.e. hoof ) to try to forge an opening for their lightning fast strikers, but these were easily fielded by centre backs Flaherty and Brooke Hendrix (officially the coolest name in women’s football). 

The first real chance fell to Arsenal. Beth Mead pounced on a rare loose ball and hurtled towards goal. As a photographer sometimes you have to try and predict what will happen next to get the money shot. I predicted that Becky Spencer was going to have to make a save, so I focussed on her. Meanwhile out of shot a superhuman last ditch challenge by Gilly Flaherty prevented Mead from pulling the trigger. 

As the match wore on Arenal became more confident and after a sustained game of bagatelle in the Hammer’s box the ball eventually fell to McCabe who drove it past the keeper from close range. 

McCabe scores her first.

Arsenal doubled their lead just before the break with a great move involving a back heel, a cross …and a flying header from Beth Mead. It was a goal to behold. I had to applaud the move even though I was watching with my claret and blue specs on.

Mead heads Arsenal's second

HT 2-0 

Matthew Beard must have utilised his half time twenty minutes well. Or he might have just said ‘Go for it!’ because West Ham came flying out of the blocks with a new belief and a new attacking threat in the second half. 

Leanne Kiernan terrorised the Arsenal full back with insane Usain-like pace and presented me with my next Nostradamus dilemma. 

Van Veenendaal is beaten by Visalli

Kiernan doing her best Roadrunner impersonation sped towards my direction  (I was just left of the goal) and I ‘guessed’ that she would go on to score a magnificent solo goal. So….. I aimed the lens at the Arsenal keeper. Nothing. I’d missed the fact that she had cut an intelligent ball back to Brianna Visalli, whose instinctive early shot from the edge of the area caught keeper Van Veenendaal unawares and all she could do (and me) was to watch the ball nestle into the back of the net. 

Game on!

Another scintillating run from Kiernan left the outrushing Van Veenendaal for dead and from what seemed (and proved to be) an impossible angle shot just wide. There were momentary looks of horror on the faces of the Arsenal defenders, and plenty of oohs and ahhhs from the West Ham fans. Fine margins. If the ball had ended up the other side of the post West Ham I feel could have gone on to win and I would have been waxing lyrically about a famous victory.

Kieran narrowly misses

Alas it didn’t ….and Arsenal managed to underline their win with a fine solo goal by McCabe. 
Becky Spencer pulled off a great one handed save to deny Evans in the closing stages ….and that was that. The spoils belonged to Arsenal, but West Ham Women can take comfort in the fact that they looked comfortable playing at this level and will have learned a lot about themselves as a team.

By the time the important business of the league starts next month manager Beard will have fine tuned his troops, and it looks like it’s a good time to be a Hammer ( surely I must get one prediction right….law of averages and all that…)

Becky Spencer - Not at fault for any of the goals. Solid performance, and played with a smile.

Kate Longhurst - Played out of her normal positition at right back. Brave performance, rushes in where angels fear to tread, but is no fool....

Gilly Flaherty - Captain’s performance, always seems to have time on the ball, an abundance of nous.

Brooke Hendrix - Perfect foil for Flaherty in defence. Fast, strong and good in the air.

Claire Rafferty - Her experience benefited the defence against very strong opposition.

Brianna Visalli - Gets better and better each game. Her height belies her strength and courage. Very skilful performance capped with a goal.

Julia Simic - Workwomanlike performance, excellent distribution and strong in the tackle.

Lucienne Reichardt - Industrious performance…. a thorn in the Arsenal women’s side.

Leanne Kiernan - Brilliant second half, all of the dangerous attacking situations stemmed from her whippet like runs.

Alisha Lehmann - Stylish performance, strong in the tackle and good link up play.

Jane Ross - Held the ball up well, had a few half chances but as a centre forward needed more service.

subs

Esmee De Graaf - Unlucky not to start, added extra quality to forward play after coming on.

Vyan Sampson - Received a warm reception from the home supporters, classy defender.

Ria Percival - Had her first brief appearance for the Hammers.

Matthew Beard may have assembled his team with ‘off the peg’ players but they look like they are ‘made to measure’ for West Ham Women…

Mad Dogs and Englishwomen…..

Charlton Women vs West Ham United Women PSF

West Ham Women's thirst for success

Mad Dogs and Englishwomen…..

The midday sun Sunday was hot hot hot. Too hot for football, although the prospect of seeing West Ham Women pitting their wits against last season’s WPL champions was very mouth watering. The merry-go-round summer of transfer shenanigans had bolstered Charlton’s squad with quality in the shape of Gemma Bryant and ex-Hammers Amber Stobbs and Hannah Wheeler, whilst new broom Matthew Beard had more or less built his West Ham team from scratch in a very short space of time with players from around the world. 

          However the battle of the titans I had imagined in my head on the way to the ground was brought down to earth by the state of the ‘stadium.’ Charlton women have become tenants of VCD Athletic FC. In my opinion it’s a massive step down in their surroundings since stepping up into the Championship. Obviously budget driven, I fear Charlton Women will struggle to play their passing game on what appeared to be a dreadful pitch surrounded by a tin shed for a stand and a housing estate. The long hot summer had turned the pitch into a rock hard uneven brown rectangle with markings so unclear I wouldn’t have been surprised if they’d been made with invisible ink. 

The two teams deserved better. 

For me personally the day was to turn out to be a very social occasion. Forking out four quid was probably not the best start, but soon forgotten after a nice chinwag with ex-Hammer and ‘She Can Play’ founder Kat Clifton. 

It was to get better. I was setting up my camera equipment to catch some shots of the West Ham Women (warming up?) when manager Matthew Beard sauntered over to say hello… which was nice. Next up was Lionesses and West Ham superfan and massive ITK Mark Williams. He’s my mine of information, and we had a quick catch up. The feelgood summer vibes were everywhere. 

Becky Spencer feeling good

My mood soon shifted as I took my first tester photo to gauge the light levels on an extremely bright day. There was a warning. An error message. ‘No memory card inserted’. I’d forgotten to put a memory card in my camera. To all intents and purposes …..I had no film in my camera. The match was going to be starting in ten minutes. I was mortified. Thoughts whirled around my head. 

Do I tell anyone?

Shall I carry on …pretend to take photos… no-one will know.. (I did actually contemplate this)

I could just go and sit in the stand and pretend there’s too much light to get any good shots…

I could make out I’ve had a call and have to return home…

Maybe ask one of the other photographers if they have a spare…. no … that would be too embarrassing.

‘I turned to Mark. ‘Is there a Tesco near here?’  I confessed my predicament and the general consensus was that I should go and buy one. 

As luck would have it there was a PC World just down the road, and thirty minutes and £44 later (lighter)  I was back in the game. ‘It’s 2-0 to West Ham already!’ the chap on the turnstile exclaimed as he let me in for a second time. ‘The first one was scored after just ten seconds.’ Damn. 

Thus my reportage begins from the 23rd minute. 

The team - Becky Spencer Trialist  Brooke Hendrix, Gilly Flaherty, Claire Rafferty; Lucienne Reichardt, Brianna Visalli, Julia Simic,  Alisha Lehmann Jane Ross, Esmee De Graaf

subs - Anna Moorhouse, Kate Longhurst, Rosie Kmita, Vyan Sampson.

Jane Ross and Brianna Visalli had put West Ham Women two up within the first six minutes.

It seems that I had missed the excitement and the two teams were battling out a midfield battle, the hammers shading the skill and fitness stakes. Striker Leanne Kiernan missed the game through illness and her place up front was being taken by midfielder Esmee De Graaf who looked very comfortable in that position. She’s what they used to call a ‘utility player.’ (Maybe they still do…. but I haven’t heard that phrase since those Paul Madeley days)

The Hammers defence was looking as solid as a rock, Kit Graham and new signing Gemma Bryant  getting absolutely no joy at all, and when Bryant did get a rare whiff of the hammer’s goal she was upended (fairly) by not one, but two West Ham defenders. 

After the well earned water break, even though West Ham had quite a few fair haired players in their team, the first ‘blonde moment’ belonged to Charlton’s international keeper Katie Startup ….her left foot seemed to turn into a banana and her parabolic clearance fell perfectly for Swiss Miss Alisha Lehmann who passed the ball into an empty net. I’m pretty sure the powerfully elegant Lehmann will be turning heads as well as defences when the WSL season starts.

Alisha's foot (far left) scores number 3

A minute later West Ham Women won a free kick which was floated into the box. Esmee De Graaf generated immense power with her header, and keeper Startup could only watch as the ball flew into the net.

Esmee De Graaf heads number 4

With a half time score of 4-0 the game was over as a contest. GM Karen Ray came over at the break and answered a few of my footy questions and gave me an insight to life in the WSL and bicycles. After all the comings and goings it was also  good to hear that the gifted Kelly Wealthall is still in the clubs future plans.

And so to the second half. Not much to report, as the searing heat took hold. Becky Spencer made a terrific save from a Kit Graham free kick. Gemma Bryant was lucky not to see red when she saw red and wildly kicked out in frustration at a hammer’s defender. Kate Longhurst came on and is now officially a Hammer. It’s a long time since there was a talented Hurst at West Ham ( Swindlehurst obviously doesn’t count) and she could prove to be a masterstroke signing. We got to get our first look at Julia Simic who did the hard unfussy work in midfield with a smile.

And lastly it was a pleasure to see Hannah Wheeler enter the field of play for Charlton. She was the last survivor from my first ever West Ham Ladies match in 2015. She like many of the other players from last years successful team, was unfortunate to miss out on the WSL adventure but has still moved up a division in class into the Championship. 

The referee blew his whistle after manager Matthew Beard had informed him there had been 52 minutes played in the second half. And that was it. The penultimate chance to fashion a title chasing side before joining the ‘big boys.’ (The ‘big boys’ doesn’t really translate as say ‘man on’ in the women’s game ..but big girls sounded even worse).

There was one last brief encounter to come. Leanne Mabey was my Celia Johnson and gave me an interesting take on her position in Women’s football. After enquiring about her future plans, she told me that she was enjoying not having to get up early to go running and was looking forward to her holidays. After two successful seasons with both Tottenham and West Ham it was maybe time to go easy on her 30 year old body and dodgy knee (her words). I wished her well and I’m sure we’ll see her on a pitch sometime soon.

Next up Lewes Women at the ‘Pan

All smiles at the final whistle

  

The Dawn of West Ham United Women

Photo Avit

¡Viva la Revolución!

West Ham United Women nee Ladies kicked off their pre-season friendly itinerary with a trip to The Hive to face London Bees. There was a buzz of anticipation about the place as the crowd, roughly the same number as a WHUW home game, gathered to see history being made. 

A maiden voyage of sorts  ….. on the ship of Theseus. 

Not one of the fresh faced eager players from last season’s August team photograph had survived the move from the third floor to the penthouse suite of the WSL, but this was still West Ham Ladies. It doesn’t matter who wears the claret and blue, team is everything. 

     Romantics will hark on about past glories and their inglorious past, get dewy eyed about playing over a park with one lino and skidding in dog’s muck or maybe reminisce over their recyclable football shirts (either they had a lot of players called Headley or the Headley shirt was a very popular size).

  The purists would say they would like to see a team evolve and develop by winning titles and proving themselves to be the best in their division.

  However West Ham United Women’s speedy boarding pass had negated the need for any of that and now the teetered on the edge of possibly their most historic/successful season ever in the WSL. 

 As a fan with an uncanny inability to retain players names, I had my work cut out. The starting eleven had eleven new players in it. Ten plus a trialist. The trialists are never named although apparently anyone who knows anything about women’s football would easily recognise West Ham’s trialist number 6. 

I didn’t. 

Unlike the glut of bizarre trying to be trendy promo videos by media teams who’ve just discovered Final Cut Pro X’s special effects menu that have been doing the rounds over the past few weeks the two teams sauntered onto the pitch like everyday people out for an afternoon stroll. No razzmatazz, no fanfares. Just quiet confidence. 

  I tried to imagine what new manager Matthew Beard and his generals would hope for or glean from this first run out. No injuries would be first on my list. Attitude, temperament and communication perhaps. It’s always nice to win but the result would be superfluous. There was a squad of sixteen players. If that was the full squad then their training matches would have only been 8 a side at the most. 

Starting IX   13 Anna Moorhouse              subs  1 Becky Spencer

                     3  Erin Simon                                 2 Another mystery player          

                     4  Brooke Hendrix                         10 Julia Simic

                     5  Gilly Flaherty                             14 Vyan Sampson

                    11 Claire Rafferty                           16 Rosie Kmita

                    18 Lucienne Reichhardt

                    17 Esme de Graaf

                     6  Mystery player (maybe Katie Longhurst but don’t quote me)

                     8  Leanne Kiernan

                    15 Brianna Visalli

                     9  Jane Ross

To almost quote the over used cliche, the match was a game of three halves. Three thirty minute halves to be precise. The first belonging to the Bees as they showed their Championship pedigree and inflicted the first West Ham Women’s goal conceded, a beautiful finish from Taylor OLeary, and some excellent silky skills from their No.4 (sorry ..don’t know name)

The second belonged to the Hammers as Leanne Kiernan showed that she has an eye for goal, slotting in West Ham Women’s equaliser past the Bees' keeper from close range.

The third half belonged to the heat as play slowed, which suited West Ham better and they began to find their WSL  passing range and rhythm. 

Matthew Beard

A solid performance from the West Ham defence where Hendrix was the ball winner and  Flaherty mopped up and spread the ball. Not too much created up front but signs that once they acquire a better understanding of each other the goals will come. A special mention for Brianna who caught the eye and gave an all action performance in very difficult conditions.

Player x

It was also refreshing to see manager Beard kicking every ball and feeling every tackle from the sidelines, whilst barking orders to his players in no uncertain terms with a couple of ‘Oi ref!s’ thrown in for good measure….

                                                                           

Sunday 29th July West Ham United Women vs  Behind Closed Doors United…… COYWI