My friend and I arranged to meet outside the Boleyn pub, which is on the corner of Green Street and the Barking Road, 15 minutes before kick-off. I was about five minutes late and he wasn’t there.
I had both our match-day tickets, so I couldn’t go in without him. I stood in the pub doorway and waited. If he didn’t turn up soon, we’d miss the start. I should have been gutted about this, because I’d flown across Europe that morning to get there, and he’d only had to come from Clapham, but the truth was I was just happy to be there. Being part of a West Ham United football crowd has been a favourite drug since my father first introduced me to one nearly 40 years ago, when we turned right out of Upton Park underground station and were sucked into a human torrent flowing down Green Street towards the totemic floodlights.
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