Merry Yuletide. May your sack be full and your season well and truly greeted.

I love this time of year. The grotesque advertising, force feeding and drinking our way to an overburdened NHS and sucking the social media teat until our mouths disintegrate into a pussy mess of flesh on the doorstep of history. But less of my household.

As we meander our way along our final season at our spiritual home, my mind begins to swim into the channel of the final straight. The realisation that remaining games will soon be in single digits.

I’ll miss the smell of fish and pee as I walk away from UP station, perusing the wonderful overflowing bins of Green St market, then negating the winding path through the estate of houses whom must so appreciate us on their doorstep.
Then the walk back from whence we came. Avoiding the bush that covers half the path whilst being berated by Police to stay away from the fence.
The more alert among you will have picked up on the fact that I’m not that enamoured with Upton Park. To be more specific, the journey from the tube door to the turnstile.

Once in the ground, however, my heart strings are pulled, wrapped round my head, and yanked from my chest. No other venue in the world evokes feelings in me the way the Boleyn does.
From my first visit in 1984 with Dad and Grandad, approaching the West stand and seeing men high in the air, smoke cigars and cigarettes whilst looking out onto the forecourt before them. The hum of conversation, the smell of alcohol (god bless Grandad) the scarfs and yelp of street sellers, the programme, the smell of the print in your hand. The cranky old turnstile, holding onto Dads hand tightly as the arena developed in front of my eyes like an island appearing in an oasis.
The concrete steps and chipped paintwork. The sporadic outbreak of song, the dirty jokes (god bless Grandad) the laughter, the sight of grown men happy and at home in this place. Knowing there was no other place they wanted to be.
The sighting of the first player running out to warm up. The way the guy standing in the chicken run in the most central spot opposite the tunnel with his coat draped over the stairway would straighten his back and clap. The tidal wave of noise reverberating around the ground, regardless of the player, more in recognition of the claret and blue making its way onto the hallowed turf, as it had done so many times.
The anticipation, more songs, raucous, bubbling bellowing conversations, the checking of watches, the checking of team sheets, the bubble of noise and smoke blurring the senses…..then…..”Bubbles”…….Many will claim their song to be the best. But if a song captures a club better than ours, with more evocative feeling in a few short words, I’ve yet to hear it.
The noise and passion causing my heart to rise and tears swell in my eyes.
The result then means little.
She already has you. For now and forever.
I’ve stood and sat in almost every part of the Boleyn. I’ve loved all of them equally. I’ll miss them similarly.
I look forward by nature, therefore the OS is a wonderful adventure for me and my family. I hope the same journey will live long in my sons memory when they go to the OS for their first game.

Till be different. Like the new Star Wars film, some will be blown away, some will thinks it OK but not as good as the originals, otherwise will damn right loathe it. That’s life my friends. Irrespective of what your head tells you, your heart will drag you kicking and screaming to Stratford. What we therefore must try to do is embrace it as much as possible. Fans made the Boylen what it is, not the other way round, therefore we have a fair old responsibility on our collective shoulders, as the inaugural group to grace this stadium. We need to cheer louder than ever before, to make it as intimidating as possible, an arena of fear. We needs stands to be known and feared, sections of the ground to scare the opposition as we did before. Sure the team need to step up and we need something to hang our hat on. But we probably need to go back to basics as fans too. Think about what makes us so special. Villa Park ’91…..

So as we tuck into some moist flesh over the holiday period (and then consider dinner) think about your happiest memories at the ground. Think about why you go, again and again. Why every other thought goes out of the window when we play (even a friendly) so desperate are we to be with claret n blue.

Then sit back and congratulate yourself, your friends and family. You’re one of the lucky ones my friends.

You’re a Hammer.

Merry Christmas ladies and gentlemen x