Since Terry Brown left (and I am not singing his praises, although some would do well to research a little of the man before sending him to the gallows based on the media's crucifixion of him over very many years or buying into the slaughter of him without knowing any more about him other than what is said by those that would put him to the sword for their own selfish ends - I digress) since he has been gone this club has been in turmoil, quite literally.
As a club we are as a shot up Spitfire during the blitz that has been ravaged by the enemy without, as well as those that would sabotage us from within. The brave little fighter is spiralling earthward at terminal velocity, smoke and flames billowing heavenward as we plunge to our inevitable end where we crash and burn. And what do 'we' do? West Ham fans look on and are discussed by our inability to die with a little better flair.
Some have even given Frank Nouble a slagging for his performance in his début for us - is that what being a West Ham fan has become? Burn our own players, our own urban warriors at the stake because of the ineptitude of the owners and board? Slag the 600 who rode so valiantly into the valley of death "cannon to right of them, cannon to left of them, cannon in front of them, volley'd and thunder'd"... as they took the Crossed Hammers forward into battle once more odds completely against them? A little dramatic? That's as maybe, but a suitable & fitting metaphor given the war that is now raging against this West Ham side by it's very own so called supporters. You know who you are - now hang your heads in shame.
Maybe we were unable to die with any flair yesterday - given our realistic position and uncertainty that is crisis West Ham at the moment - that is so very understandable to the loyal; but like the brave Tommy called upon to do his duty in times of hardship by a needy nation, our lads may have died in the oldest and most prestigious football club competition in the world, die we did, but we died with dignity yesterday against a side that is riding high still in with a shout at the top slot whilst we are fighting for our very lives.
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We aren't no thin red 'eroes, nor we aren't no blackguards too,
But single men in barricks, most remarkable like you;
An' if sometimes our conduck isn't all your fancy paints,
Why, single men in barricks don't grow into plaster saints;
While it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Tommy, fall be'ind",
But it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind,
There's trouble in the wind, my boys, there's trouble in the wind,
O it's "Please to walk in front, sir", when there's trouble in the wind.
For it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' "Chuck him out, the brute!"
But it's "Saviour of 'is country" when the guns begin to shoot;
An' it's Tommy this, an' Tommy that, an' anything you please;
An' Tommy ain't a bloomin' fool -- you bet that Tommy sees!
-Rudyard Kipling
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