Guest Post by TeddyBard
I was lucky, though I know it wasn’t great,
but I was born in Forest Gate.
But sadly how that advent came,
as I heard it, the war was to blame.
One Hitler (don’t know where he’s from)
on our dad’s house had dropped a bomb.
And so dad moved in London town
and with his sister settled down.
Then back in nineteen forty six
came my event and one quick fix.
When Harry Holcombe’s little boy
moved to Leyton Green (deep joy)
Anyway, seems I digress
sometimes a life can be a mess;
when I arrived as ever late
the hospital was Forest Gate.
Anyway, as up I grew,
went through four and three and two;
and got to five with no event,
then moaned and groaned with some intent.
For each and every Saturday
dad Jim followed “The Arse” home & away.
Now he was one of several brothers
and each would wind up all the others;
and he had one brother Ron,
who never would be put upon
and often fisticuffs and thuds
for brother Ron supported Spuds.
So on one fateful day
Spuds played The Arse away
and with everyone at Highbury
Uncle Joe came round to tea.
But he came round for tea at noon,
by any reckoning far too soon;
and asked my mum when he came
could he take me off to the game?
And as I followed, for a lark,
he took me to Upton Park.
I don’t remember a lot
about who played, who scored (or not);
for most of it I couldn’t see,
except for Ernie Gregory.
And there amid the crowd
the noise as they all shouted loud
and every now and then
he’d lift then put me down again.
And then at least one mighty roar
when I don’t know who, missed or scored.
Then there a cloud of cigarette smoke
and jostled and pushed on the way home.
The wonderful taste on the lips
of part of his pie and some of his chips.
Then home in the dark, back to me Mam,
one contented life-long Hammers fan.