Confessions Of A Neutral Supporter Part Six

I hadn’t planned to go to yesterday’s postponed game at Rochdale (given that one of us might have been in the FA Cup today, if it hadn’t been for that pesky Luton), so I haven’t suffered another fruitless journey. To help us avoid football cold turkey, Ted is taking us to West Ham’s FA Cup tie against Arsenal. The game is live on ITV, which probably helps to explain the availability of tickets, even with prices having been reduced from extortionate to only slightly extortionate.
Outside the ground, we bump into Ted’s Arsenal-supporting compadre, Mark, who’s waiting for a friend to arrive with his ticket. They catch up on news and discuss all things space rock until my eyes glaze over, at which point Ted decides we perhaps ought to be getting inside.
The pre-match build-up music is almost preposterously pompous, Guns ’n Roses’ ‘Sweet Child Of Mine’ followed by smug Britain’s Got Talent string quartet Escala’s renditions of ‘Palladio’ (you know the one, it was used on an advert for dishwashing powder) and ‘Kashmir’. By this time, the hairs on the back of my neck are standing up, but that’s only because I’m shivering in the sub-zero temperatures.
We’ve got seats in the Bobby Moore Lower, although we don’t actually end up sitting in them. This part of the ground is where the hardcore Irons congregate, and they stand for the whole match. They also go through a repertoire of chants in the ninety minutes which aim the usual anti-Semitic jibes at Tottenham, declare Valon Behrami’s wife to be worthy of a spot of self-pleasuring and dismiss Frank Lampard as fat (and looking at the spare tyres of some of the men in the seats around me I can imagine their wives and girlfriends looking them up and down and saying, ‘Well, I wish you were as fat as him...’). Most impressively, particularly if, unlike us, you haven’t heard them do it before, they also sing ‘I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles’ to the tune of ‘Chitty Chitty Bang Bang’. I have no idea who first worked out it’s a perfect fit, but it is.
That said, there is discontent in the ranks. Alongside another of those knicker-material flags, a banner fastened to the edge of the stand proclaims ‘Sell the club, not the players’, and we find ourselves next to the angriest man in E13. As far as he’s concerned, Gianfranco Zola is manager simply because he’s a yes man, and they need to get rid of him and find someone who’ll stand up to the owners.
On the pitch at least, Mr Angry doesn’t seem to have too much to be angry about. They’re missing a few players through injury, including Carlton Cole and Scott Parker (or as he’s known in our house, Scotty Parkery), but so are Arsenal. Indeed, it isn’t quite as much of a reserve line-up as you’d expect from the Gunners, who clearly don’t view the FA Cup as much of a priority. First-choice keeper and man who looks like a cross between Basil Fawlty and the contents of a textile recycling bin, Manuel Almunia, may be missing, but the defence is pretty much their first choice and they have promising youngsters Aaron Ramsey and Jack Wilshere in midfield (though it must really be killing Wenger to have that English player in his line-up...). Arsenal make most of the running, and it seems to be a case of not if they’ll score but when, forcing a couple of decent saves from Rob Green. However, it’s West Ham who take the lead right at the end of the half, when Diamanti breaks free of Arsenal’s attempt at an offside trap. One-on-one with the keeper, he still looks like he’s going to muck it up, but his shot creeps in. Cue mass hysteria around us. On balance, West Ham might not have deserved it, but we’ll be quite happy for them to put one of the ‘big four’ out, Man U already having been disposed of by Leeds in the one o’clock kick-off.
Half-time entertainment is provided by a shoot-out between two sets of kids representing West Ham and Arsenal. Now seems as good a time as any to put forward my theory that this is how the finals of major international tournaments shoud be settled – hold a half-time penalty shoot-out between, say, England under-nines and Germany under-nines, and should the game end level after extra time then whichever nation won the little kids’ shoot-out is awarded the trophy. I’d love it, if only to see how viciously the tabloid football journos would lay into a bunch of eight-year-olds if we lost.
Bouyed by the goal, West Ham come out of the traps fastest in the second half and should increase their lead, but Frank Nouble and Junior Stanislas waste a couple of chances, and as the half wears on the whole team begins to show a marked reluctance to shoot at goal, much to the crowd’s frustration. Mind you, Arsenal seem equally reticent. Maybe they really aren’t bothered about progressing. Then Wenger substitutes Wilshere and Fran Merida for Diaby and Nasri, which seems to move them into a higher gear. Aaron Ramsey equalises with a low shot past Green, and while the Hammers are still adjusting to having been pegged back, Eduardo scores Arsenal’s second with a header that Green almost gets a hand to.
Mr Angry is apoplectic, but I don’t think there’s a word in his sweary repertoire I don’t already know. The faithful start sneaking out, even though Ted and I are convinced West Ham will equalise simply to prove you should never leave early. It doesn’t happen. The Arse go through and we go home for a hot cup of tea and to get the feeling back in our feet. So much for that extra pair of socks...