West Ham Till I Die
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Stand Up If You Vaguely Dislike …

It will not have escaped your attention that our most recent games have been against Sheffield United and Southampton. These clubs have two things in common, and I’m now going to give the pub quiz fans among you a couple of moments to work out what they may be.

Okay, that’s long enough. The first connection is easy enough: both play in red and white stripes. The second may have escaped some of you – it is that each of them are on an ever-growing list of clubs that I once had nothing against at all, but now can’t stand the sight of.

I’m not talking about the long-established enmity we reserve for traditional foes such as Millwall and Tottenham. What intrigues me is how you can grow to dislike so many teams who you once thought would never give you cause to complain.

I didn’t have a problem with Sheffield United until they kicked up all that fuss over Carlos Tevez. Now, they are one of many clubs with whom I have an issue.

Perhaps it’s the red-and-white-stripe thing. I never forgave Stoke for stealing Geoff Hurst, and that was more than 40 years ago.

While we’re back in the Seventies, this might be a good time to explain why Leeds are still one of the teams I love to loathe. Don Revie. That’s it – he’s the explanation. The man who set out to win at all costs, convincing talented players they would be better off kicking their opponents instead of kicking the ball in such a way it might actually be considered entertainment.

One particular moment still gives me the shudders all these years on. Leeds are pressing in front of the South Bank and a speculative cross comes into our box. It’s only ever going to be the keeper’s ball, but a white shirt goes for it anyway – knowing full well that pain and misery will inevitably follow. Bobby Ferguson is at the top of his leap when the Leeds player clatters into him, causing the Scot to come down like an Olympic diver performing a double twist with pike. Only Ferguson wasn’t throwing himself into a diving pool – he was about to land head-first on the ground. Hard, unyielding, ground. Which he did – put there by the hard, unyielding style that Revie demanded of his teams.

A witness remembers our bonny Bobby lying motionless for 10 minutes. It seemed much longer. I don’t believe there was a single person in the ground who didn’t fear he had broken his neck. Back then, they didn’t quiz managers after a game in quite the same way as they do now, so we never got to hear Revie’s thoughts on the matter. It’s my guess he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid if Ferguson had left Upton Park in a wooden box.

I realise it’s a giant leap from grievous bodily harm to artificial pitches, but join me by the long jump pit as I begin my run-up. As I recall, four clubs had the drastic plastic: QPR, Preston, Oldham and Luton. I suppose I should despise them all equally but, hey, no one said life is fair. It’s you, Hatters, that really gave me the ache – somehow the beach ball effect at Kenilworth Road seemed even more laughable than at any of the other grounds. I’m not putting you in the same league as Don Revie’s hitmen, you understand – but I won’t be buying one of your Luton Lotto tickets any time soon.

And where do you think you’re going, Bristol City? I still haven’t forgotten the way you came up with a 10.30am kick-off with the sole objective of dissuading the West Ham support from travelling to Ashton Gate. Nice try! In the event, 5,000 of us bombed down the M4 and saw Frank McAvennie come off the bench to score in a 1-1 draw. The only trouble with starting a game at this time is that it gives a lot of thirsty supporters a chance to adjourn to the local pub afterwards (soft drinks only for designated drivers, of course). And not every city wants to entertain a bunch of chirpy Cockneys when they’ve got a few sherberts inside them. You won’t make that mistake again in a hurry will you, Bristol?

Then there’s Oxford United. How can anyone fall out with them? Well, I managed it after a rather unpleasant disagreement with one of their supporters following a game at their place. I won’t bore you with the details, but I think it’s a reasonable guess that the young man with whom I debated the various merits of our respective teams was not an undergraduate at the university which provides the dark blue crew in the boat race.

I never thought I’d have a problem with Coventry – not after they beat Tottenham in a Wembley final. Then, in the Championship at the Ricoh, we had a whole load of nonsense about who broke the minute’s silence for the city’s wartime bombing victims, and now they’re on my list too.

I could go on and will, because I haven’t got to Notts County yet. My lack of goodwill towards them goes back to what used to be known then as the second division. The only consolation on missing out on the Cup final, courtesy of our old friend Keith Hackett, would have been to have gone up as champions. Only Notts Co spoiled that particular party with one of the most negative displays seen at Upton Park in years. The fact they later appointed Paul Ince as manager only goes to prove my initial judgment about them was spot on.

There is, I know, a slight chance that I am beginning to sound like a cantankerous old curmudgeon who bears a grudge. As my wife and children will testify, nothing could be further from the truth. Rather, it is that I have a strong sense of justice, which is hugely satisfied by seeing the likes of Luton, Leeds and Sheffield United flounder in the lower leagues.

So why Southampton? I hear you ask. There was a time I had no problem with the Saints whatsoever. The whirling arm of Mick Channon when he celebrated a goal; the one-club loyalty of Le Tiss; the 1976 Cup final underdog-win against Man U – what was there not to like? Then we met them under lights in the Championship.

Yes, Matt Taylor was stupid to get involved after we were awarded a penalty. And he shouldn’t have raised his hands to an opponent. But Southampton’s Billy Sharp went down like he’d been decked by a heavyweight boxer in what was clearly a cynical and deliberate attempt to get a fellow professional sent off. The football they played afterwards was no great shakes either, and – like the bottle of over-priced Irish cider I had at half time – the entire evening left a very nasty taste in the mouth.

That particular date was on Valentine’s Day. But they behaved so badly I’m not talking to them again until they call to apologise – with chocs and flowers thrown in, I may add.

Which team, other than the usual suspects, do you really dislike? We’d love to know. But be warned: anyone who says Tottenham, Millwall or Chelski will be required to report to the headmaster’s office, where Mr Dale will be supervising all detentions personally.

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