Since adulthood, finding a group of people to slot into hasn’t come easily. Probably the last time I fitted in anywhere without friction or anxiety was 41 years ago, in 1981. Nine months working nights in a vacuum flask factory, telling jokes and swapping endless stories.
In the interim, I’ve become warier, harder to please. Groups are often dominated by a handful of individuals, typically long on voice, and shorter on listening skills. I want the intimacy of good conversation, back and forth. With space for everyone.
And yet, about two weeks ago, I was happy to find myself ‘belonging’ to a very, very large and highly unsubtle gathering. Deep in the heart of London’s East End, on the evening of 17 March. The occasion was West Ham United Football Club’s most important game for many years, against Spanish side Sevilla. My first live game for over 6 years, in company with my son, Rory. And 60,000 others. Under the floodlights at the London Stadium in Stratford.
A dynamite of anticipation was in the air, poised to explode. Cockney and Thames Estuary accents resounding around the stadium bars, primed and ready for the action. A pre-match schedule of lager, lager, piss, lager.
Then up to our seats, where lone shouts and group chants of ‘aye-yans, aye-yans, aye-yans’ rung around the terraces, for the club that started life in the 19th century as Thames Ironworks FC. And is still a proper working class club, 127 years on. It’s in the air, the wit, the clothes, the body language.
The ‘Irons’. The ‘Hammers’. The ‘Claret and Blues’. Come on you Irons! COYI!
‘Aye-yans, aye-yans’
The ref blew his whistle and off we went, hurtling down a tunnel of partisan noise designed to help the Irons win the Europa League knock-out tournament.
I was born a Londoner, in Edmonton. More pertinently, my father grew up in the East End neighbourhoods of Bethnal Green and Homerton. I first joined the ‘Irons’ tribe 56 years ago. Dad took me to see West Ham play Newcastle in 1966. The noise and sights stirred something that never left me. A past blog (https://thebiscuitfactoryonline.com/2018/10/24/41-come-on-you-irons/) attempted to convey some of that.
A seam of cockney bluntness runs through most subsequent ‘Irons’ memories. A guy standing behind us epitomised it. “That fucking referee is a cunt. Nine out of every fucking ten decisions go against us. He’s a fucking twelfth man for these Spanish cunts. There he goes again….that weren’t a fucking foul. You fucking blind cunt. Ah what a fucking cunt he is. A cunt with a whistle and fuck all else. Ah it’s a fucking joke. I might as well talk to the fucking ceiling for all the good it does.”
Rory and me were grinning from ear to ear.
For over two roisterous hours, I had no need to explain myself. No need to think. I joined in the singing, and the mesmeric, thunderous clapping. Music gig meets football match for loud sex. An ear-shaking wall of noise, arcing out, wobbling, and boomeranging back, An uncensored maelstrom of one-way intent, obliterating my existence as my father’s carer.
After riotous final whistle celebrations, the feeling of bridging the years continued as Rory and I walked back to Stratford railway station, jammed in a slow-shuffling crowd. The mood was euphoric. Cries of ‘aye-ans, aye-ans, aye-ans’ cutting the night air in salute of the 2-0 win. And the progress to the tournament’s quarter finals.
A group of police walked past with a bloke in handcuffs, and the naughty boys and men around me erupted in various songs about ‘rozzers’ and ‘filth’ and ‘pigs’. Rolling back the years.
By the time we boarded a train home, post-coital calm was upon me. With each stop further out into Essex – Ilford, Seven Kings, Goodmayes, Chadwell Heath, Romford, Gidea Park, Harold Wood – the conversation quietened and I slowly returned to my usual self. Reflective, listening, distanced.
Did I rejoin my tribe for a night? It was a delicious moment. But a transient one. Tribes are 24/7 affairs.
The Biscuit Factory 
As a season ticket holder for Sarfend, the home of Essex Thames Side football I understand your emotions and childhood memories, I recall an off the cuff chant in response to the fans of the opposition who came from somewhere north of Watford chanting we have all the goals, a slowly building cry of, We have all the jobs, can’t remember the date but it was followed by a rousing We Are the North Bank raising our team in Sarfend fashion. In those days 13000 fans on a Saturday was our Norm, Once a Shrimper always a Shrimper.
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I used to visit Roots Hall in the days of Billie Best, Gary Moore, Bill Garner and Dudley Tyler Ed. Good memories.
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I can confirm that Kev’s euphoric state lasted a few days! COYI!😁
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COYI
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Didn’t understand MANY words (lol) but still got the gist and felt like I was there.
Sounds like a forever memory, Kev. And I always enjoy your restrained pathos.
The one baseball game I saw at Yankee Stadium in the mid-90s was much like your outing, being swept up in the energy and atmosphere. It’s emblazoned in my mind. 🙂 🙂 🙂
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I felt like I drew a winning lottery ticket Stace. Surely no follow up could ever be that good?
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Our Kevin spent many years away from the influences of the now multi cultural East End of London improving his cultural behaviour enjoying the library of the City of Chelmsford (my family seat) where profanity died out with the Victorians. Alas taking the man out of Hackney does not take Hackney out of the Man, long live your heritage Kev.
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And long live yours Ed. May the letter S reign triumphantly. Shrimps, salt, sand and Southchurch. Sealife, shells and SUFC. (Sleaze, strippers and sex?)
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Tribes ebb and flow, I think. 🙂 … some last longer than others, thankfully. 🙂
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One way of looking at it is that, although I’m not tattoed, the sole tattoos I would consider are my wife’s name and the letters of WHU! 🙂 🙂
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Qatar World Cup, I can see it now Kevin, you showing the soles of your feet to a Referee having made a bad decision not realising he was a Muslim and getting arrested 😳
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Changing topic Ed, how is your illness? Are you keeping it at bay?
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Hello Kevin kind of you to ask, my mind set is things wear out with use, my heart is nothing but a pump, a very poorly designed pump with a use by date of 70 years. Now I look at it as I would a car made in Dagenham and mine was a Friday afternoon job.
Going uphill it slows up a bit, getting to football is achieved with the help of much younger friends (they only 70) who’s replacement limb parts are not as old as mine. Gout has put paid to a good beer festival, regardless to all above my glass is falling full.
In other words I’m fine. Bet you wished you never asked.
Edward
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Glass is half full, how’s dad.
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His glass is three quarters empty Ed. He is very weak, memory is almost non-existent. His 95th year isn’t turning out well. But there are some big bonuses to be had from forgetting things. Every day is a clean slate. He cannot remember the many things worth worrying about.
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So my thoughts now turn to yourselves, your loyalty and caring ways are more than money can buy, please don’t be offended by my biblical quote, as you sow so shall you reap. Clearly a family of good stock.
God bless you all, Edward
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Thanks Ed.
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Outstanding and 101% relatable even though I just blogged something quite different RE tribes, audiences… my reachable tribe is quite small, yet I know there are 1000s of kindred souls out there. Very glad u recaptured and shared a magic moment in time under a big tent housing a very unique band of bros…
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Bros…..for just a moment in time Jo. But out in the push and pull of ‘real life’, very different qualities are required of kindred souls. Worth a blog when a a new, suitable moment in time arrives.
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