Having knotted several sets of claret and blue underwear last week with the suggestion that Alex Song may not be the new Trevor Brooking quite yet, I thought it would be a good idea to write about something rather less controversial this time – like why I believe Bobby Moore was actually over-rated; or not only is Nigel Farage the right man to run the country, he should be given overall control at West Ham as well.
In the end I rejected the idea of playing safe (you don’t win a Pulitzer prize taking the easy options) and have instead decided to look at the big issue facing football supporters everywhere squarely in the eye: is a pie really an essential part of the proceedings on a Saturday?
Before you answer the next question I would like to remind you that you are under oath and the penalties for perjury in this country are severe. So, think back, then answer clearly and concisely: when did you last have a pie at a game?
Aha – just as I suspected! So why is there this myth that football and pies go together like Diafra Sakho and Enner Valencia? The idea seems particularly popular with affluent, middle-class supporters who suddenly turned into instant experts on the game when it became fashionable to start going to “footy”. Is it, I wonder, the glory-hunters’ revenge for Roy Keane’s crack about the “prawn sandwich brigade”? If so, this nonsense has gone on long enough.
Just take a stroll down the Barking Road before any home game. Immediately behind the Bobby Moore stand is a row of shops including one that sells pie and mash and another that does fish and chips. They’re two doors apart. Sure, Nathan’s pies are popular, but the queue for the Ercan Fish Bar is reminiscent of the snaking lines of people who wait for days outside polling stations in those courageous countries that have thrown off the shackles of dictatorship and won the right to democracy for the first time. Ably assisted by my son, who has a master’s in computer science, I have done some highly sophisticated analytical research here – namely standing by the nearby programme stall and noting the length of the queues for well over a minute. Trust me, the chippy has got this one wrapped up … so to speak.
Personally, I prefer the brilliant hot food on sale in Priory Road. Anywhere that offers a Mad Dog, a Terminator and a Stevie Bacon burger cannot be ignored by anyone who truly has West Ham in their heart (and cholesterol in their arteries). This wonderful institution simply has to be rebuilt, brick by brick, outside the main gates of the Olympic Stadium when we move.
When I first started going to the Boleyn Ground in the Sixties, I would invariably travel by tube and alight at Upton Park. Had I turned left when I exited the station, rather than go south and head for the ground, I may well have encountered my future sister-in-law, who had a Saturday job in the pie and mash shop that used to be further up Green Street, on the same side of the road. In fact, I might have met the woman I would one day marry, because she sometimes stood in for her. The shop made its own pies, but the example set by the manager to his staff is something that I adhere to now. “Mike would never touch the pies,” says my sister-in-law. “He knew what went in them.”
Now, if I’m not going to have a pie on familiar soil, I’m certainly not going to risk it at away games. Why? Because, as I drive home after a match in some far flung part of the nation which has culinary traditions all of its own, I have no wish to hammer down the motorway with one eye peeled for a service station as my small intestine makes increasingly alarming noises, that’s why.
To be strictly honest here, I did break my own rule by having a Seagull pie at the Amex stadium in Brighton when we were in the Championship. But then I live in Brighton (yeah, yeah, my boyfriend knows I’m here … and I’m sure you can see us holding hands) so for once I wasn’t overly concerned about being struck down with gastro enteritis half an hour after the final whistle. And, just in case you were wondering, no – they don’t put seagulls in Seagull pies. They do, however, charge a fortune for them. A recent survey (journalists just love recent surveys) found that Brighton and Hove Albion ask more than any other club in the Prem or the Championship when it comes to shortcrust shenanigans.
Anyway, to return to my argument that it’s the clever dicks rather than the true fan who is obsessed with pies, I have categorical proof that I am right and everybody else is wrong (as my wife will tell you, this is not always the case).
We are at St Andrews, watching our brave lads teach the Bluenoses a thing or two about how to pass and move. A chubby gentleman, clearly of the Birmingham persuasion, has spent most of the first 45 minutes single-handedly abusing us from the adjacent stand and then decides to beat the half-time rush. As he heads for the exit he is sent on his way with the spontaneous chant of “Home for his dinner, he’s going home for his dinner.” But he didn’t go home – he came back after the interval. And this is where the proof of the pudding, or rather the pie, can be found.
“Only went for a burger, he only went for a burger,” was the greeting from the travelling claret and blue support as our Brummie friend took his seat.
A burger, you will notice. Not a steak pie. Which just goes to show the first thing on the menu that pops into the typical football supporter’s mind doesn’t come wrapped in pastry but is generally found between two slices of some form of bread (in my case, it’s a bacon sandwich – the Great Dane – if I’m in Priory Road). Case proven, I think you will agree.
Perhaps it will all be different at the Olympic Stadium. If the proponents of the move are to be believed, this is the promised land that will not only turn us into a Champions League side but will also offer a half time of fine dining and service with a smile. The queues Sir? Ha-ha, we don’t have those here – they are so Upton Park. This is Stratford.
Come to think of it, I won’t be sorry to leave queuing behind. I will be sorry to leave the Boleyn Ground and everything else that goes with it, though. A pint in the Black Lion beforehand, one in the Denmark afterwards. A bacon sandwich in Priory Road. The programme stall in the Barking Road, the OLAS guys by the entrance to the Bobby Moore stand. The matchday routine is almost as important as the game itself, and it won’t be the same when we move.
As you may have guessed by now, I am one of those grumpy old gits who does not believe moving to the OS is in the best interests of the club I have supported for 50 years. As a lesson in long-term asset management, flogging the family home and then renting a luxury flat leaves a lot to be desired. Still, I suppose there will always be Wonga when the cash runs out.
Yes, I know it’s a done deal and I’ll have just have to suck it up. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.
All I would suggest is that, before we go, you savour every minute of the time left in E13. In particular, enjoy your own matchday rituals – whatever they may be. It’s my guess you’ll miss them when they’re gone.
See – I told you pies were controversial.