I took my afternoon run last Sunday. Well, I use the term ‘run’ very loosely. It’s more of a very, VERY slow jog. In fact, my old gym instructor used to say that I was so slow it looked like I was running backwards. Nothing like a bit of moral support to boost your confidence! But at least I’m making an effort right?? Anyway I digress, as I was fast-walking round Chingford, passing all my old haunts: the church where I went to Brownies, the garages where I had my first fight at 11 years old with the school bully; the alleyway where I had my debut sneaky cigarette that I’d craftily snaffled from my mum’s handbag; our old home, that the local kids used to call the Adams’ family house (whilst singing the theme tune at me) because it was ancient looking, creepy, dilapidated & covered in dark brown peeling paint with a front door that wouldn’t shut properly and would weirdly swing open of its own accord (it’s ok we had less-than-nothing to steal anyway); my primary school, my secondary school where the deputy head told me I’d amount to nothing in life; the park I hung around in as a moody teenager, swigging 20/20; the council house we ended up in after the previous monstrosity was repossessed (it had no carpet, just the floorboards, but I was over the moon with it because it had double glazing and a kitchen that didn’t look like it came with rats); instead of wallpaper I was allowed to graffiti on my bedroom walls and the Chingford to Liverpool Street train line ran right the way through our back garden. You got used to the rattling noise after a while.
Now I’m not saying all this as some kind of woe-is-me, Monty Pythonesque “There-were-a-hundred-and-sixty-of-us-living-in-a-small-shoebox-in-the-middle-of-the-road” life story but that’s the way it was. I’m not ashamed of it and I don’t feel sorry for myself. I never have. I had a tough childhood. We heard things and saw things that no child ever should. My dad had MS, a debilitating and devastating illness that ravaged his body slowly and cruelly over the years until he eventually gave up on living. My step-dad was a compulsive gambler who struggled for two decades to fight his addiction. More often than not he failed. Men were always banging on the door demanding money owed, threatening all sorts. We got good at hiding behind the sofa. My mum worked three jobs to support four kids and later battled alcoholism. Them’s the facts.
So the reason I’m inflicting my painful history on you is just that…it’s not painful anymore. In fact we laugh about some of the stories now. As I dragged my reluctant body around the streets of my youth I had an epiphany of sorts. I realised how far I’d come. And I don’t mean the 5 miles I hobbled through that day. I’m not that self-conscious, shy, uncomfortable, oft-melancholy girl from the poorest family in the school anymore.
I’m not the same person who stood in the corner of the playground, with my free school uniform on or waiting awkwardly in line in the canteen for my free school dinners. The huge cardboard-like collar of my shirt from Henry Taylor’s of Walthamstow restricting blood flow to my head; the hideous and scratchy polyester-viscose mix cardigan with holes in it and the appalling A-line acrylic skirt I had on that was so stiff it wouldn’t move when I walked. I was quiet because I felt embarrassed…inadequate. The mean-girls at school took it for aloofness. They thought I was haughty because I didn’t say much but held my head high. We didn’t get on well. Probably partly the reason I immersed myself in the world of football. There were no females. There was abuse on the terraces…but it wasn’t aimed at me.
But hey…that’s not my life anymore! I got out! Wooooo! “Didn’t she do well??”
I’m not patting myself on the back here. Far from it. Yet it was this realisation on Sunday afternoon that made me draw parallels with life as a West Ham fan. So when do we start believing in ourselves? When do we start believing we can really achieve something here? Without the fear of falling flat on our faces. Or, as one charming football fan put it on Twitter to me on Saturday night, going back to the gutter where we ‘belong’. After two more wins, three, four? Or is it in May? Or beyond?
I grew up knowing I could do better, but never truly believing I would. I worked hard. I got my grades, my degree (first in my family if you don’t mind), my job. But there was always the deep-seated feeling that I wasn’t good enough. Someone at my work experience at the BBC told me I didn’t have a future in broadcasting unless I changed my Cockney accent. In my youthful pig-headed arrogance and misguided East End pride I swore I’d never change. But unfortunately he was right. It held me back for a long time. Plus the fact I was a woman in a male-dominated industry. I used to be referred to by another person in power at Sky as ‘the Essex girl’. It wasn’t a term of endearment. It was a dig and I knew it. Eventually I realised I had to soften my estuary tones. They haven’t disappeared completely but I conceded defeat on that score. But however you say it, with whatever accent you like, I’ve broken a few barriers. Especially as a woman (and a Londoner to boot) in football.
West Ham are also breaking records. Breaking new ground. We’re enjoying our best start in the league for 15 years. We’re 4th in the table, the highest we’ve been since 2008 and Sakho has scored his seventh goal in eight games, six in six Premier League starts – only the 2nd player in history to do so.
We are preparing to enter a new era. We’ll be plying our trade in a super stadium soon enough. But we’re constantly told (and telling ourselves), don’t get carried away, it won’t last, it’ll all end in tears, it’s only West Ham.
Always looked down upon in the top flight by our London-based Premier League neighbours (no disrespect but I’m not referring to Palace). Laughed at. Ridiculed. No money. The poor relation. The cockney working class rogues who have nothing to their name but the West Ham Way (it’s no myth thank-you-very-much Sir Alex!) hoping against hope to rise above their station. What happens if the Downstairs want to come Upstairs? What happens when Del Boy finally becomes a mill-yon-aire?
Southampton fans are also enjoying their moment in the sun. They don’t seem to be questioning it. Despite their recent lean years they have an inherent sense of entitlement. They are the ‘haves’ and their noisy neighbours, the ones who are always ‘playing-up’ are the ‘have-nots’. They’re not uncomfortable in their lofty place. Nor do they have nose bleeds. Whereas, we can’t believe our luck and are wondering where and when it will all end.
I’m not saying we should adopt delusions of grandeur and expect Champions League football but when do we start looking up instead of down? How long do I have to wait before I’m allowed to start believing that this club can rise above its humble beginnings? What do we need to do to deserve, and more importantly, believe we deserve the luxury of our new mansion in Olympic Park? Why shouldn’t we emulate the likes of Everton, a club which, on a relatively small-ish budget consistently finishes in the top six or 7, has decent cup runs and experiences European football beyond the Inter-toto cup?
I’m not getting ahead of myself. This should be viable. If they can do it on a regular basis so can we. Surely a billionaire oligarch isn’t compulsory for success! I don’t want to be a yo-yo club anymore. We have the manager (nay-sayers be damned), we are far more secure financially than we’ve been in years, we have a new mega-home to look forward to and “gawd-blimey-strike-a-light-guv’nor” we’ve got the makings of a bloody good team. And no mistake.
Ok so my tongue is ever-so-slightly placed in my cheek here…but I call for no more tugging of our fore locks! Cast off the inferiority complex. We’re not just the pride of the East End we’re the pride of London! We’re doing it the hard way and we can be more and do more than everyone thinks. It doesn’t happen overnight. It takes graft. And dedication. It’s an evolution. It takes time and energy but you get there. You just have to believe.
I should know….
Having said all that I’d take a point on Saturday haha! Come on you Irons!!
B x