It's just all been a little too much for me, this past week; in fact I could almost thank our misfit club for pushing me to the edge and having it large.
Firstly Villa, what in all honesty was a great game. We were dead and buried and then alive again, the joy around me and in me was just too much. I didn't see Di Canio make love to his penalty, as Sky's web site described it, but I think there were 20,000 of us that would have had his babies after he equalised. He's mad, he's eccentric, but to be fair to him he does stand up to be counted. Then the penalties, my first ever West Ham shoot out - nailbiting, what with Trevor missing and of all of the players I think he deserved to score.Then Wright skying it for Villa, it was just tense wasn't it, liquid energy. I could hear it and feel it, even see it. The moment Southgate walked up, you could see he wasn't going to score, it was in his eyes. But it was the celebration from within the Bobby Moore Lower that excited me - it was like Daniel walking into the den, with the Christians knowing his fate, but this time with our Roman we were stronger.
I felt sorry for Southgate and I hope he doesn't do it again, there were plenty of other players there who should have stood up. If he wants to take another one, let him take the first.
I buzzed all the way home, how I wanted to be with fellow Hammers celebrating last orders as if it was infact Millennium night. I made do with a glass of wine when I got in, I must re-stock the fridge with beer.
I can't really remember Thursday, too excited and full of cup tales.
Friday I hit town with a few work colleagues and generally drank too much, got back and opened the port, I must re-stock the fridge with beer. I didn't wake until 1.15pm Saturday and my plan of drinking with the Cambridge Hammers that get the train down was ruined.
The car got me to the ground though and I even managed to find a place to park. I just made it to my seat as kick off started - I wish I hadn't, not until the Martians, or even the blurbs had given us back our team.
It was sublime and rediculous. Manchester United looked awsome, with both Giggs and Beckham flying down our out of shape and misplaced 442, whcih was simply awful. Why was Margas on the bench, Ruddock shouldn't have been on the pitch - he was simply awful (too), I don't think he'd make it into the local pub side the way he played.
However, once we got our team back it was quite exciting, I could have quite happily sat through 90 minutes of slaughter with us looking like we might never get it back, but to be robbed by a fantastic player, by our best player on the day was too much for me. I wish he'd (Di Canio) squared it to Lampard, who (I might add) left it to Foe to hold our midfield.
I guess though to be a striker you have to be greedy.
If I'm honest, too many dreams fading and dying for me in one week. I left the ground when they got their 4th - I was totally crushed, as I'm sure we all were, but perhaps when I've done 60 seasons not 6 I'll get used to it.
Pissed off I drove to a mates in Sarf London where I was introduced to his mate from Manchester who was a Red. The rest of the night, once I had a few beers in me, was fantastic and I can truly say that the Saturday night to Sunday evening bender I went on was of the highest order. I made some new friends, a couple who I hope I'll know for a while, because: a). they know nothing about footie and b). perhaps they have re-unleashed a side of me I'd forgotten existed.
The rest of this week has for me been hedonism central, much ribbing from the Red sections of life and much drinking with the rest and now it's Christmas Eve, I've had a successful lunch and shopping trip - must be time for the pub eh.
Happy Christmas/New Millennium, one and all.
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