The Pointless Trip

I'm not going to lie - it was shit. I still sit thinking of redeeming features to the day. But they are few.

A week ago - I was a pretty excited Hammer. Cheap ticket in hand to West Ham's fifth round cup replay against Middlesbrough. Yes - Middlesbrough - a city 217 miles outside London (that's nearly 350km to my metric friends).

It was even more of a shock that my cash-strapped club were offering free transport. I repeat - free transport. Not many things come free in this country - let alone from a football club. As it turned out - West Ham wanted a big crowd to create a hardcore atmosphere. They got their wish - 4800 people boarding 29 coaches for that long journey north.

I go through many emotions as a West Ham fan. Most centre around total disappointment. But I have always been proud of being part of the club and being surrounded by my fellow supporters.

Something about that day to the north changed all that. The coach was nice enough. It had leg room for a start. And in fairness setting off at 10.30am was no real stress considering kick-off wasn't until 8.10pm.

My problem was with my fellow passengers. For years I have revelled in my clubs reputation. Sure I was as embarrassed about the film Green Street as anyone - but I know West Ham have always had the hardcore fan reputation. What can I expect when our most famous fans are Ray Winstone and Danny Dyer?

I sat on this coach as it trudged along the motorway. I sat and I listened. Despite the iPod sitting in my pocket - I stupidly chose to read my paper and hear the on board conversations. Was I becoming a snob? Possibly. Was I entitled to be? I think so.

The conversations were varied. They were colourful. But the common theme was they were bullshit. Jumped up lads trying to out-Cockney each other. Crucifying the English language. Such illuminating topics as "JLS will be appearing at Faces at the weekend"; "I just nicked a ton of crisps from the offie"; "If this coach stops at another services I'm gonna just get a cab".

Man, woman and child - all talking in a way that makes Vicky Pollard sound like Stephen Fry.

The multiple service station stops resulted in mass singing in front of bemused travellers. How they must have regretted opting to grab a coffee at that Welcome Break. Ten Hammers fans can be a handful, but 4800 is nothing short of terrifying.

The police escort arrived as the sun was going down. Flashing blue lights led us to the desolate, bland area where the Riverside Stadium is situated.

A few years ago I went to see West Ham play at this ground - and left vowing never to return. Losing 2-0 and having the length of the country to travel home. I never learn. Just a glutton for punishment.

The game itself was a waste of my time. I have never seen such a pitiful performance in all my years. Nothing went right. Our once decibel destroying mob was reduced to a frustrated, mumbling rabble. The average age of the Boro fans appeared to be about fourteen and they clearly loved seeing our uncomfortable predicament.

We lost 2-0. Again.

Our cup run over and another trophy-less season. Oh joy.

Outside the stadium - chaos erupted. West Ham fans went on the rampage. Turning on the Boro faithful, the police and more bizarrely - each other. Like a segment from the film Football Factory a number of chavs went looking for trouble. What they got in return was an over-zealous Cleveland Police Force battering them with nightsticks. Those police horses are unforgiving and people were trampled.

When things finally got under control - and with everybody suitably depressed - including me as someone had stolen my newspapers on the coach - we all headed back to London.

I slept. As did virtually everyone. No reason to sing. No real reason to discuss it. In my mind the journey was crap. The match was crap. My own fans were crap.

This was truly a hammer to the heart.