It was an extraordinary era. James Blunt was top of the charts. And if that wasn’t bizarre enough, the England cricket team were in the midst of a titanic (and ultimately victorious) battle with their all-conquering Australian overlords to regain the Ashes. Meanwhile, in deepest east London, something equally unlikely was taking place.
West Ham United were doing good business in the transfer market.
The last few years had been a boom-and-bust cycle of new arrivals. To this day, I’m still scarred by how Harry Redknapp set fire to the £18m we received for Rio Ferdinand. Harry has had the occasional scrape with financial authorities, but in my eyes spending £5m on Titi Camara and Rigobert Song was worthy of a national inquiry.
Alan Pardew’s reign had been a revolving door of signings. Each one felt like the toss of a coin. For every Marlon Harewood, there was a Sergei Rebrov. For every Bobby Zamora, a Darren Powell. But it had been enough to scrape us back to the Premier League, and that’s all that mattered. Barely had the champagne corks popped at the promotion party before the gaffer was sat in front of his fax machine building a squad for survival.
First through the door was Paul Konchesky for £1.5m from Charlton. Every time I’d seen him play, he was solid. And his form for the top flight’s perennial over-achievers had even earned him two England caps.
He was followed later in the day by a double signing from Cardiff. Welsh international centre-backs James Collins and Danny Gabbidon arrived in a £4.5m double swoop. I’d been impressed by both the previous season. Gabbidon was fast, strong and had intelligent positional play. Meanwhile, you could throw a block of cement into the penalty area and Collins would head it away from danger.
Three British signings. Three internationals. So far, so good.