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Authors: Brian Williams
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revise his plans when Billy Jennings waded in and retrieved possession. His shot was blocked, but the ball went out to Graham Paddon, who dinked it back in for Taylor to prod home from a yard out.
The West Ham fans in the Arsenal end surged forward – there were thousands of them. At our end, the isolated groups of ecstatic Hammers celebrated, too – none more so than our merry band, conducted by Claire. The Gooners surrounding us looked as thunderous as the sky above.
The pitch really was disgraceful – there were pools of water everywhere. It had the appearance of a paddy field (perhaps that’s why Rice liked playing there – sorry, I’ll get my coat). A back pass from Billy Bonds came up short in the quagmire and Radford nipped in thinking he would score, before West Ham keeper Mervyn Day took him out in spectacular style. Everyone knew it was a penalty … except the referee! Had Arsène Wenger been there he would have spontaneously combusted with rage.
Despite the conditions, Brooking was imperious. He seemed to float across the sodden ground. Every time he got the ball I felt we could score again. Eventually, following a cheeky nutmeg, he played the killer pass that put Taylor in for his second goal and secured the victory that nobody – except perhaps Claire – had predicted. And during this exceptional display it just came to me: ‘Trevor Brooking walks on water, tra-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!’ No sooner had it left my mouth I realised what an idiot I must have sounded. My singing voice is so bad I was asked to mime in assembly at school, and there were 1,500 kids at my comprehensive. But that wasn’t what worried me most: when you sing at a football match you have to do it as a collective; there’s no room for solo artists. I expected withering looks from the lads who had gathered in our part of the stand. Instead they took up the song and belted out another stanza of ‘Trevor Brooking walks on water, tra-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!’ Perhaps the fact that Claire was unaware of the social conventions that surround these things and joined in with such gusto helped. Whatever the cause, we soon had up to thirty happy Hammers singing as one. Embarrassed? I was as proud as Punch!
I hoped other groups of West Ham supporters nearby would follow our lead, but I don’t remember it catching on that day. In fact, it wasn’t a song you heard all that often at subsequent games, if I’m going to be totally honest, but it did get wheeled out from time to time – more often at away fixtures where the travelling supporters always have a greater repertoire than at home. And whenever I heard it (I was never brave enough to try to instigate the singing again) my heart swelled with pride.
I have always been intrigued by the singing and chanting at afootball match. In church it is led by a priest. In a soccer stadium it is far less clear-cut who calls the tune.
At West Ham we have some songs that are unique to us. How were they composed in the first place?
Take a particular favourite, still sung in praise of a goalkeeper who last turned out for us in 1998:
My name is Ludek Miklosko
I come from near Moscow
I play in goal for West Ham
And when I walk down the street
Everyone that I meet
Says: ‘Hey – big boy
What’s your name?’
My name is Ludek Miklosko…
Leaving aside for one moment the small geographical error that Miklosko was actually born in Prostějov in the Czech Republic (which is about 1,000 miles from the Russian capital), this is an absolute West Ham classic and, unlike my effort, it could not have happened spontaneously. Who wrote it? And how did they get the people around them to start singing it? They don’t hand out hymn sheets at Upton Park. (But if they did, perhaps they could include the correct words to ‘Bubbles’. It’s ‘They fly so high, nearly reach the sky’ not ‘They fly so high, they reach the sky’ – please can we all try to get this right in future,
The West Ham fans in the Arsenal end surged forward – there were thousands of them. At our end, the isolated groups of ecstatic Hammers celebrated, too – none more so than our merry band, conducted by Claire. The Gooners surrounding us looked as thunderous as the sky above.
The pitch really was disgraceful – there were pools of water everywhere. It had the appearance of a paddy field (perhaps that’s why Rice liked playing there – sorry, I’ll get my coat). A back pass from Billy Bonds came up short in the quagmire and Radford nipped in thinking he would score, before West Ham keeper Mervyn Day took him out in spectacular style. Everyone knew it was a penalty … except the referee! Had Arsène Wenger been there he would have spontaneously combusted with rage.
Despite the conditions, Brooking was imperious. He seemed to float across the sodden ground. Every time he got the ball I felt we could score again. Eventually, following a cheeky nutmeg, he played the killer pass that put Taylor in for his second goal and secured the victory that nobody – except perhaps Claire – had predicted. And during this exceptional display it just came to me: ‘Trevor Brooking walks on water, tra-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!’ No sooner had it left my mouth I realised what an idiot I must have sounded. My singing voice is so bad I was asked to mime in assembly at school, and there were 1,500 kids at my comprehensive. But that wasn’t what worried me most: when you sing at a football match you have to do it as a collective; there’s no room for solo artists. I expected withering looks from the lads who had gathered in our part of the stand. Instead they took up the song and belted out another stanza of ‘Trevor Brooking walks on water, tra-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la!’ Perhaps the fact that Claire was unaware of the social conventions that surround these things and joined in with such gusto helped. Whatever the cause, we soon had up to thirty happy Hammers singing as one. Embarrassed? I was as proud as Punch!
I hoped other groups of West Ham supporters nearby would follow our lead, but I don’t remember it catching on that day. In fact, it wasn’t a song you heard all that often at subsequent games, if I’m going to be totally honest, but it did get wheeled out from time to time – more often at away fixtures where the travelling supporters always have a greater repertoire than at home. And whenever I heard it (I was never brave enough to try to instigate the singing again) my heart swelled with pride.
I have always been intrigued by the singing and chanting at afootball match. In church it is led by a priest. In a soccer stadium it is far less clear-cut who calls the tune.
At West Ham we have some songs that are unique to us. How were they composed in the first place?
Take a particular favourite, still sung in praise of a goalkeeper who last turned out for us in 1998:
My name is Ludek Miklosko
I come from near Moscow
I play in goal for West Ham
And when I walk down the street
Everyone that I meet
Says: ‘Hey – big boy
What’s your name?’
My name is Ludek Miklosko…
Leaving aside for one moment the small geographical error that Miklosko was actually born in Prostějov in the Czech Republic (which is about 1,000 miles from the Russian capital), this is an absolute West Ham classic and, unlike my effort, it could not have happened spontaneously. Who wrote it? And how did they get the people around them to start singing it? They don’t hand out hymn sheets at Upton Park. (But if they did, perhaps they could include the correct words to ‘Bubbles’. It’s ‘They fly so high, nearly reach the sky’ not ‘They fly so high, they reach the sky’ – please can we all try to get this right in future,
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