[A Few Old Memories](news_archive.php)
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Every year I went back. Just to make sure, you know that it was still there. It gave me a sense of peace, or reassurance, it gave me equilibrium. Balance. The place I used to travel past weekly as a boy. The place that seemed surreal. Magical. It pulled people together.
Once I equated the building, the space, what lay beyond the huge, well I was a small boy, walls, with the game I played with friends in the playground, I saw on television, I heard my family and friends talk about incessantly. Well it was special, before I’d even set foot in it. And, now, that sense of feeling at home. That ritual of making sure that the mystical building, of E13 9AZ, the Boleyn Ground was still there. Still the centre of my universe. The glue that held memories that started as a toddler going past on a bus, to a theatre of joy, tears, unbridled emotions. Where lifelong friendships evolved. Life lessons cemented. Where an extended family dwelt and could be found every match day to give a break from life’s trials and tribulations. Where I felt comfortable, I belonged, I loved to be. Well it’s gone. It truly doesn’t exist anymore. There’s no going back. I’m raking over old ground, old emotions. But now, nearly 10 years after saying goodbye. I now, and only truly now felt emotionally ready to see what now lies there. I’d actually ventured back once. Very soon after we left, a friend who lives in a more picturesque and soothing part of England, wanted to see what had happened. The exterior was largely still there. It was as I say, soon after we left home. Building work was commencing. The lies that we couldn’t go beyond certain heights were evident. But it still resembled my football ground. You could still picture it. It had changed, but it was still kind of there. Now though, it isn’t. Life changes. Things progress. Indeed the Boleyn Ground I first travelled past, the place I first thought was a mysterious centre which made Saturday trips to see my Nan and uncles take longer, as loads of (mostly) men randomly descended, had evolved and altered. But the surroundings, the infrastructure, the essence of east London didn’t. The West Stand may have changed into a cartoon castle behemoth, the North and South Banks altered into different entities. But the pitch remained. The soul of the place. The memories and experiences I’d accumulated since my first game on Boxing Day, 1983. The TV moments brought to life by Messrs Moore, Brooking et al on Saturday night and Sunday afternoons were all banked on that same patch of Upton Park, in the London Borough of Newham. It was finally time to go home. To visit some of the places that had moulded me. For me, personally, life’s dealt a few unexpected cards. The one major constant though has been West Ham. Yes the move to Stratford, the upheaval, the disgruntled affects, the lows, high and lows again have been well documented. Well sounded. Split opinions, a fanbase even. But this wasn’t about that. This was a quest to look back on a journey. The journey I used to make now has to be different. But trying to evoke it as best I could, ambling down Green Street alongside the market and the (very rarely utilised, by me anyway) Queens. It didn’t take long to hit me and the first wave of realism to hit home. Looking beyond, the artist formerly known as Ken’s Cafe used to bring a flutter to my heart. A feeling we’re in sight. Home is here. The school, the sight of fences, the first glimpse of our stands. It’s not there. No longer opening up to expose a theatre of memories. Just a dull, foreboding row of formulaic dwellings where the Walton Road crossing and junction used to fill me with a sense of homeliness. Instead, to my left, where I saw Brooking create, Devonshire jink, Bonds thunder, Di Canio enthral, Payet weave magic, lay soulless, generic and uninspiring homes. This could be have been anywhere. No identity, no character. By numbers modern buildings. London's littered with these. Heck, every built-up area in the country is spawning these. Wandering around the development brings less joy. There’s little evidence of what came before. I’d wager a lot of the inhabitants of what now covers my once sacred place would have little understanding or comprehension of what came before. Titles such as Ironworks Way and Thunderer Street may hint at the past, but beyond that it’s just the reclaimed West Ham badge on the old supporters club, the church and the oasis of memories at the memorial garden plot that only really bring home any semblance of positive emotion. A few moments surveying what had become was enough for me. I sought solace in a pint, some reflection and the sight of the one true memorial to our former memories, the Moore, Hurst & Peters statue. Still a thing of beauty. Tarnished by almost being alien to its new neighbours, it deserves more than to be a mere meeting place and a focal point for drinkers of a less than salubrious nature. The Boleyn Pub is something that has also undergone transformation. It was never my regular port of call for a match day watering hole. I much preferred the warmth and clientele of The Lord Stanley, also a place where getting a drink meant a pint, not being soaked with flying liquid before getting to the bar. The Supporters Club, East Ham Working Men’s Club and The Wakefield were my other choices when a change was sought or necessary. Maybe it’s a sign of getting older and being more discerning, but I like what they’ve done with The Boleyn. Yes it’s infinitely more gentrified, but it still holds the core essence of the days of yore - just with the added bonus of better food, improved toilets and decent beer. Its old school charms are still there. You can still evoke the memories from past visits. But it’s a change which is not only positive, but recaptures what came before. The shock and emptiness of seeing what has become of the Boleyn Ground had the edge temporarily taken off. And a very decent pint lasted a bit longer due to the tears topping it up. Winding my way round to the parade hit home more. Only Ercan's and the Priory Street mural brought cheer. The legendary Cassettari's, the cinema where I watched The Empire Strikes Back. Gone, more chipping away at the memory bank. An area stripped of the lifeblood of what made it unique. To continue my journey I made my through the back streets so that I may revisited the aforementioned Lord Stanley. It too had undergone an outward spruce-up. Inside familiar layouts, a familiar face or two even. But there was something missing, something not quite right. Maybe I was expecting too much, but after seeing the aftermath of our former home i didn’t quite get the sense of solace I sought in another familiar environment. To conclude my journey, I made my way back towards Plaistow Station. Then up towards Stratford, taking in my former primary school West Ham Church, through the parks I used to play, where I used to live, where my cousins and friends lived and hung out. It all seemed like a virtually different world. Most strikingly, what used to seem so large and expansive now felt claustrophobic. Compact. Alien. Rather than stirring happiness, it stirred more feelings of anger and regret. Never go back, someone once said. These are wise words. Certainly don’t go back to look for our former home. It’s not there. It’s not celebrated. It’s a mere footnote in the ever-changing face of London. Charlton Athletic once shared our home, but we have more in common with Charlton Heston at the end of Planet of the Apes. "Oh my God. I'm back. I'm home. All the time, it was... We finally really did it. You Maniacs! You blew it up! Ah, damn you! God damn you all to hell!"
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