Struggling to get an early drink, a Swedish waitress and easy to get a ticket amongst West Ham fans | OneFootball

As I noted on Sunday in my ill-judged build-up article to the West Ham match, football is one of the hardest addictions to kick. We just can’t help ourselves.

My 19-hour day ended once I had filed a downbeat summary of events on the pitch after it ended West Ham 3 Newcastle 1.

True to form, when I woke yesterday I was already looking forward to visiting the “London Stadium” again next season. Revenge is best served cold.

Away from the thud-and-blunder of Newcastle United’s performance on the greensward, what will I remember of a first trip to this area of East London, which billions and billions of taxpayers’ money transformed from a post-industrial wasteland into the heart of the 2012 Olympics?

The stadium itself is built on an island, bordered by various waterways. Outside this exclusion zone is a mind-boggling array of pubs, microbreweries, cafes, restaurants (some are all four in one). Many are repurposed small warehouses and industrial units, dating from when London was the workshop of the British Empire.

Sundays are still a bit different, partly because alcohol cannot usually be served before midday unless as part of a meal. In a country that has relatively few dedicated churchgoers, that regulation seems as antiquated as the man with the red flag walking in front of an automobile to prevent speeding.

I’ll leave you to decide whether the no-alcohol rule is a charming tradition or a pain in the backside when the match kicks off at 2pm . . .

While waiting for the Howling Hops microbrewery to open, I noticed a vegan cafe. As a pensioner, my duty is to try something new at least once a year. In I wandered, to be greeted by an attractive young Swedish waitress (I asked) who checked that I was happy for my hot chocolate to be made with oat milk. Another first.

If only I had thought to ask whether she had been to the Abba show, a short walk away, we could have struck up a deep and meaningful conversation. Maybe next year. Or maybe not.

I can report that, as in nearly all cafes that serve hot chocolate, it was not hot enough. Probably something to do with Elf & Safety. It was tasty, however. As was the vegan chocolate cookie. And the vegan chick proffering the comestibles. Did I mention her? She was an excellent advert for the “meat is murder” lobby.

Having thus spent a few minutes daydreaming in the heart of Hackney Wick (not a clause I ever expected to write) I met my Spurs-supporting friend outside the boozer. We were first in, first to be served. A day of firsts, perhaps the most remarkable of which was the punctuality of the other two mates in my party, the Whammer and the football agnostic. To say this delightful couple are renowned for their tardiness is an understatement as big as suggesting that Pele bloke could play a bit.

All of the above incidents are by way of apology to Greg McPeake, one of South London’s finest teachers and a frequent contributor to The Mag. Such was the heightened state of excitement in my ageing brain, I forgot we had agreed to meet. My mobile was on silent, I missed his “where are you?” text and, essentially, jilted him. Another reason I’m on the Naughty Step today . . . Sorry, Greg.

Just the one round was consumed (make mine the session IPA) before we started the leisurely stroll south to Britain’s most unsuitable football stadium.

Since Super Saturday in 2012, money has followed money to this part of London. It’s now promoting itself as the capital’s newest cultural quarter, with every justification. Museums, art galleries, outposts of national performing hubs, they all jostle for space in the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park. Sadler’s Wells, the London College of Fashion, the V&A, to name just three attractions. Did I touch on the purpose-built Abba Voyage theatre?

Back to the reason we were there: the football. West Ham fans have been revolting this season, dissatisfied with the board, angered by an apparent lack of ambition. There was talk of a mass sit-in at the final whistle. I doubted this would happen on Sunday, because when we went two or three up there would be the opposite of a sit-in as thousands of home fans headed to Stratford Tube station . . .

An interesting selection of protest scarves was being touted. As well as the familiar “Back the team, not the regime” slogan was an unflattering reference, in words and cartoon caricatures, to David Sullivan and Karren Brady, respectively the club’s chairman and vice-chairman. I cannot type the word here . . . let’s just say this plural noun starts with “d”, has six letters and might cause vibrations. Interestingly, there were few buyers 45 minutes before kick-off. Perhaps the unrest had been exaggerated by the media.

We were all scanned with airport-style electronic devices and had our no-bigger-than-A4-size bags searched at one of the bridges across the water. Time to stroll around to Entrance E, past countless food and drink outlets and a stand doing its bit for the environment. Here you could trade your old West Ham top for a new one, though presumably it was not a straight swap.

As detailed in The Mag, Marlon Harewood was putting on his best impression of a Cockney hawker, with a grin as wide as the Thames. He is a big old unit!

Imagine diving at his feet as he rampaged through on goal. That’s got to hurt . . .

I felt unusually brave. Strength in numbers, perhaps. Idiocy, probably.

“Hello, Marlon, how are you doing?” “Yeah, great, man.” “You look better than Shay Given did the day you tried to remove his spleen without anaesthetic . . . ” “He ran into a wall, man.” “Yes, I can see that. A wall with studs on . . . ”

Did I imagine nervous laughter from West Ham fans in the vicinity?

Thank goodness he took it all in good heart. Thank goodness there was a substantial table between us. He even posed for a portrait.

Beating what I hoped was a dignified retreat, I rejoined my mates and navigated the electronic turnstiles fairly painlessly. Then it was up and up again. Not quite as stratospheric as Level Seven but we were only eight rows below the point where the roof met the outside wall. The top three or four rows were covered in black tarpaulins at various points. We were directly behind Pope’s goal-line in the first half, at least 60 yards behind.

The big screen at the south end must have been more than 200 yards distant. Before kick-off it showed a lot of the goals West Ham had scored against Newcastle. “Not gonna happen today,” I told myself, though I was expecting a tough match.

One of the ways I predict the outcome is to ask: “Which team will be more desperate for a win?” The answer can be important if teams are evenly matched. On paper, however, we were clearly the better team. Eddie Howe likes to say intensity is our identity. West Ham had a shockingly bad defence in games I had seen on TV.

Such positive thoughts were bouncing around my brain at 1.55. How was I to know our familiar identity would be unrecognisable?

The structural steelwork that supports the roof was obscuring half of the big screen, which at least meant the words to the Bubbles song were partly hidden.

More good news: the Hammers are not fans of those ridiculous flame-throwing boxes. Bad news: they instead propel thousands of bubbles skywards as a precursor to the action. Each to his own . . . Perhaps we could release flocks of magpies before kick-off at St James’ Park.

As you probably realise, there was no post-match sit-in. Truth be told, there was not much atmosphere of any sort from the home fans until Botman did his bit to preserve their club’s Premier League status. As ever, the travelling Toon Army made much more noise.

A few reasons for the lunar-style ambiance: the stadium is too big for a club whose traditional support is fervent but far below the stadium’s capacity.

I had no trouble last month buying four tickets in a home section. At pensioner prices, they were £27 each. There were plenty available at £21, though not four in a row behind the goal.

The stadium design is unsuited to football. The massive hole in the roof lets the occasional outpouring of emotion float away like those bubbles. There is no chance of reverb.

My dodgy eyesight told me there was not one supporter within 20 yards of the pitch. We were about 170 from the net into which Murphy fired the first goal, as were most of the official away fans. Perhaps, now Sadler’s Wells is a neighbour, opera glasses could be issued as standard . . .

Joking apart, does the absurd gap between pitch and stands hinder the players? Standing on one touchline and looking across to the other, how do they gauge the distance? Playing in that environment only once a season must be a disadvantage to visiting opponents, it’s so alien to the normal experience.

Despite the dire performance from the Mags, I hope this will be the first of many visits to West Ham’s relatively new home. Next time, our team need to be back to their best.