The day had started in a typical Bishop situation, with a horse clattering through Morrison’s as I collected the day’s beer tokens, with one rather pissed of Polis being sent to sort it out. It was probably the horse I’d picked in the National.

West Ham. I don’t know if I love them or I loathe them. Proper working class club, London’s closest to Sunderland in terms of what the fans do, and they used to bring the managers through the ranks. It worked for years, then they decided to go all continental, and it went all wrong. Zola’s a lovely bloke who deserves better than SuGo (Sullivan & Gold), but he’s decided to manage what used to be a decent club and he’ll get what comes along. In nearly forty years of visiting, I can only bring to mind three wins, but today was surely a chance to end the mathematical possibility of going down. After the Spurs performance, surely we could produce some decent play in East London and bring three points home. The Hammers had ended a horrible run with a draw at Everton, so surely there was a game of football in there somewhere. They needed the points, we had a point to prove.

After the usual (compulsory?) dash from Upton Park Tube to the ground, and the away section that seems to hide along more backstreets every year, I just managed the kick-off. Disappointingly, we didn’t score in the first few minutes as is our norm, but still looked patient enough to come away with at least a point. All of the football came from us, as we sat back, allowed West Ham to give us the ball, and passed the ball around.

After all the concern about Turner’s hamstring and Hutton’s availability (and fitness), Brucie named an unchanged side. Fair enough, For the first half hour, we played with patience and composure and looked in control of the game. West Ham had, though, done their homework and doubled up on Henderson to such effect that the Lad could not get to the line and produce his usual killer pass. Bent lobbed one onto the roof of the net after a great through ball, and Richardson always looked likely to break forward. He had the measure of their right side, and always had them on the back foot. For all the patience and possession, it became evident that West Ham had done their homework. Cole gradually worked out Turner, and spent the last hour making the most of that knowledge as he jockeyed and twisted into decent positions. Gordon was caught in a rotten situation and was booked for handball outside the box, but we managed to keep out the home side.

No score at the break, and we were the fans thinking that we’d take the second half by the scruff of its neck and win. My pre-match prediction of a 3-1 win didn’t look to far from reality, but when the ref decided to make Turner run 50 yards to be told off on behalf of a ream-mate, we new it wasn’t our day. When the free-kick came in, Cole’s flick was tucked away at the back post by Ilan on 50 or so. While we’d played the more patient stuff in the first half, once their goal went in it always looked like they’d be the winners. Catts fired a yard wide from the edge of the box, and then Jones came on for Meyler, who’d had a couple of warnings from the ref. Within a minute, Kenwyne was amongst the action as he won the ball and found Bent on the edge of the box, As we prepared to celebrate yet another goal, Darren’s feet gave way on the edge of the box, and the chance was gone. A pox on blades, get some proper studs in. Joking apart, that was the game’s pivotal moment. Had Bent stayed on his feet, he’d have scored and we’d have won, simple as that. West Ham produced little in the way of good football, but they’d worked us out. Hassle, close down, deny space, break the game up and don’t allow us to play. We brought on Zenden for Meyler, who’d worked hard, and then in the last minute Benjani for Da Silva. The four minutes added time brought a corner, for which Gordon came up, but it was cleared and we were beaten.

We’d tried to play football, and probably managed more of that than the home side, but what they did was more effective. They knew what they had to do, and they did it. Little football, but enough grit and determination to get past us. They did what they had to do, and we couldn’t cope with it.

At the end of it, we couldn’t complain at the defeat. I could moan about the red being fussier than my aunty Eva, and making a big thing of everything, but that would be unfair and picky. West Ham wanted it more, simple as that, They might not be able to play really nice football, but they chewed away, won the ball, and did the necessary. We didn’t. I’ve been doing the West Ham trip for best part of 40 years now, and I’m usually disappointed when I get home. This time, our day was summed up by our fourth unsuccessful attempt to watch Inglorious Basterds. I got back to Bish to find the only Claret and Blue town waiting in ambush, which was a bit of a sickener.

We didn’t really capitalise on our early dominance and patient play, which was a bit of a bugger, as we’d have won easy-peasy had we got Benty’s usual really early goal. West Ham simply wanted the game more than we did, had us worked out, and let us get nothing. No matter where you are in the league, the win is the immediate target, and we should have been able to want it and work as hard as them. A real disappointment in terms of style and effort, but they’d had the better chances.

Man of the Match? As the only person who defended well and broke forward with purpose, I’ll give it to Richo, although Da Silva kept his head when all around threatened to go radged.

Keep the Faith

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