When I was considering which university to go to, my number one criterion was that it was commutable to east London, so I could keep my West Ham season ticket. By the time I started university in 2005, West Ham were playing in England’s second tier, known as the Championship, but my love for the club was undimmed.
At the time we played at the Boleyn Ground, or Upton Park. The Boleyn, located on Green Street in E13, opened in 1904 with just two stands and had a capacity of around 10,000. A century later, the capacity of the ground had reached 35,000, impossibly wedged between rows of Victorian terraces and a smattering of high-rise flats.
On match days, the roads were gridlocked and the tube stations were unable to cope with the influx. It was difficult to keep rival fans apart due to the labyrinthine backstreets. The police had their work cut out, especially during the heydays of football violence, of which a minority of West Ham fans were enthusiastic participants.
My dad and his friends would take turns driving us to the ground from south of the river. As we approached the stifling Blackwall tunnel, which was opened in 1897 to cater for horse-drawn carriages, you could smell the pungent odour of the Tate & Lyle sugar refinery.
We would then drive over the Canning Town flyover, turn left and park near the Greengate pub. The Greengate was a typical east London boozer that used to serve free platters of sandwiches, roasted potatoes and sausage rolls on match days. The greasy morsels would sit enticingly at the bar, waiting for anyone brave or drunk enough to overlook the questionable hygiene standards.
From there we would walk the ten minutes or so down the Barking Road to the junction with Green Street, where the Boleyn Pub and the statue of the club’s greatest son, Bobby Moore, lifting the World Cup as England’s captain, reside.
We would continue past Nathan’s pie and mash, which always had a huge snaking queue outside. Nathan’s had an important place in West Ham lore as legendary managers like Ron Greenwood and John Lyall used to devise tactics over pie and mash, using salt and pepper pots to illustrate their plans.
It is also well documented that Bobby Moore used to drink in the Black Lion Pub in Plaistow. These stories might be apocryphal, but they speak to something true: that there used to be few barriers between managers, players and fans.
After heading past Nathan’s, we would turn left, walk through the car garages that sat behind the Bobby Moore stand, where the famous ‘Long Live the Boleyn’ graffiti-ed wall now is. Then it was through the turnstiles under the narrow doorways and to the cramped interior of the Chicken Run (named because at one time it looked like a large enclosed chicken coop.) The noise and the smells were intoxicating, (mostly) men downing pints, seemingly only stopping to smoke or communicate using rhyming slang or swear words.
It was then just a few short steps up to our seats. We knew almost everyone who sat near us, often shaking hands and exchanging some dark humour. We felt a kinship with them, even if the only thing we had in common was that we would partake in the same rituals year after year, sharing in the highs and lows.
The atmosphere was often intense, the noise sometimes deafening. At the big games against fierce rivals, it bordered on mania, and you never knew whether it would tip over into something unhinged. Night games under the lights and the proximity to the pitch made for a magical experience.
To me, especially as a young boy, the whole experience was exhilarating. This was a different universe, a world of outlaws with a different moral code, one that valued loyalty, community, identity and ritual.
The Greengate Pub is now a Tesco Metro, Nathan’s Pie and Mash is gone, and the Boleyn Ground converted to new build flats. West Ham United now rent the London Stadium, an athletics stadium built for the 2012 Olympic Games.
In 2013, three years before West Ham United sold their home and moved to the Olympic stadium, Karren Brady, Conservative member of the House of Lords and recently departed Vice-Chair, promised fans, “a world class team in a world class stadium”. Ten years after moving, on Sunday, 24th May 2026, West Ham were relegated once again to the second tier of English football.
West Ham made a deal with the devil and received little in return. Why? West Ham fans were never given a real choice, and many opposed the move. However, a large number, including me, felt it was inevitable and didn’t campaign against it.
We were told it was impossible to expand Upton Park and there were no suitable sites in east London where we could build a new football stadium. Like council house tenants who were offered their homes at knock down prices under Right to Buy, we were presented a choice between managed decline or a new, exciting chapter.
There have been some benefits to moving to the London Stadium. The crowd now resembles east London in all its diversity. It is more welcoming, feels safer and more family-friendly. At the same time, it is so sanitised that it feels like an extension of Westfield Shopping Centre.
The experience is more like a visit to the cinema where you are watching a screening, rather than an event in which you are participating. Opposing fans often sing “You sold your soul, for this shit hole”, and they are right. They are so right that West Ham fans now join in and sing it at our owners.
In football, as in so many areas of our lives, the ruling class that makes the decisions that impact us so profoundly do not have to live with the consequences. I don’t believe for a second that the owners of West Ham, including David Sullivan and the Czech billionaire Daniel Kretinsky, ever understood why West Ham is special. They do not understand because it cannot be quantified, and what they cannot quantify, they cannot understand.
Despite all of this, I will still go to matches next year. My grandad was a West Ham fan, my dad has had a season ticket for 45 years and now my nephew is a West Ham fan. Some things are sacred and matter far more than success. Long Live the Boleyn!
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