West Ham fans on my train heading to the match, I couldn’t help but tune in… | OneFootball

After boarding the 08.30 from West Worthing, I closed my eyes for a few seconds and was transported back a generation or two to the glory days of the ICF.

Proper East London voices bounced around the front carriage:

“I fancy a score draw today.”

“All he’s gotta do is shore up the defence.”

“Are you going to the Bournemouth game?”

“You still owe me for Old Trafford!”

Opening my eyes to the sound of the plastic wrap on an Estrella multi pack being torn asunder like the Whammers back line in almost every match this season, I was happy to note that the dozen or so West Ham fans heading to (I was going to say ‘their spiritual home’ but who am I kidding?) the soulless athletics arena that masquerades as a football stadium were all the wrong side of 50.

Then I recalled some of my recent meetings with travelling members of the Toon Army, with their ancient tales of punch-ups, banning orders and the rest. Perhaps it would be wise to keep my head down rather than attempt a bit of bantz with these prima facie gentlemen. My bonkers Christmas jumper and days-old all-over skull shave with the No2 clippers might be viewed as provocation . . .

Grey hair is no guarantee of respectability. Neither is a shiny bonce. As for the crossed sledgehammers tattoo on the neck of one fan who stood up to shed his Harrington jacket, that was a definite no-no.

Earwigging in the best traditions of an undercover hack, I detected a general air of resignation among these long-suffering West Ham fans. Resignation, not relegation.

Kicked out of the Boleyn, denied the unique atmosphere of the Chicken Run, unable to rekindle the fervour of floodlit nights now they were forced to schlep to a gentrified former wasteland a few miles east-north-east, these fans were somehow heroic in their devotion to the cause. Almost Olympian.

There is so much wrong with the beautiful game: incompetence from top to bottom, corruption, sterile tactics, disloyalty, pay-to-view TV, rentagob pundits, the power of money, not talking but swearing like a wannabe pubescent yob . . . To misquote Julie Andrews, these are a few of my least-favourite things.

Through it all, however, an unbreakable bond (in this particular instance Billy Bonds) binds together thousands of men on match day. No, not just on match day. Almost every day. Those infernal breaks in the club calendar for international fixtures are a nightmare, depriving the addict of his fix.

There is something of the battered spouse syndrome in the inequal relationship between those who run football and those who keep it alive. However often and however badly the supporter is abused and mistreated, ignored and vilified, he keeps coming back for more. Those lining their deep pockets by exploiting this undying devotion must count their lucky stars that whatever they do to kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, it’s indestructible.

As the Southern Rail service trundled through Sussex towards London, more Whammers got on board. Again I heard the eternal optimist announce again to his tolerant travelling companion: “I fancy a score draw today. We just need to shore up the back.”

Talk about clutching at straws. Or Shaws.

While dying to tell him West Ham would have more chance with Shaw (Martin) Shaw (George Bernard) and Shaw (Fiona) as three centre-backs, I gave a little respect (Erasure, 1988) and kept schtum.

The laughably named London Stadium, which cost umpteen times more than the initial estimate, has shocking transport links. Cars are more-or-less banned from its environs. Stratford is the nearest big Tube station, a mile or so distant. The club’s website warns of apocalyptic delays if you head in that direction after the final whistle. London buses? We all know you wait hours for one; then three arrive at once!

Perhaps that explains the thousands of empty seats on view to TV audiences during the last quarter. Perhaps not . . .

Extensive research led me to head from Victoria towards Tottenham on the Tube, then south-east to Hackney Wick on a London Overground service. A midday rendezvous was arranged at a microbrewery with a Spurs fan, a West Ham fan and a football agnostic. What could possibly go wrong?

Well, Southern Fail did their best, moving slower than Max Kilman. We trundled through Balham, mythical Gateway To The South, according to The Goons. At this rate, my two-change, two-hour journey would take at least three.

At Highbury and Islington station, I asked a West Ham fan, heading to the game with his young son and daughter, if they would win today.

“Doubt it, don’t hold out much hope…Still, it’s the taking part that counts. Not been doing much of that lately, mind!”