Dave’s Ramblings – West Ham United

February 2, 2026 Admin

Doesn’t time fly when you’re having fun? It feels like five minutes ago that we were winning 5–1 at The Formerly Olympic Now Slightly Confused Stadium. Since that August afternoon, the seasons have changed… and so have both of our coaches. Make of that what you will.

We obviously have Liam running the show, they have Nuno Herlander Simões Espírito Santo, which must be at least 150 points in scrabble. That’s about 139 points more than when he joined them in September.

Today, was always going to be a tough one. London derby, they’ve had a full week off to rest, recover, and meditate in silence… while we’ve been doing hard time in Naples, running on espresso, jet lag, and livin’ la vida loca.

And of course, as night follows day, this could only end one way. Our absolute favourite… squad rotation. Nothing says stability like spinning the wheel and seeing who’s playing today. Is it tactical? Is it medical? Is it vibe based? Nobody knows. Not even the players find out until they’re already warming up.

But hey, fresh legs, right? Fresh faces, new combinations, and that familiar feeling of mild panic by kickoff. What could possibly go wrong? Jeez… how many times do I get to say that?!

I genuinely have no idea where to begin, mainly because the first half has wiped several core footballing memories from my brain. Once again, we were treated to the timeless classic. A game of two halves. The first of which should be sealed in a lead-lined box and fired in the general direction of the sun.

To describe those opening 45 minutes as awful is frankly offensive to awful. Awful suggests chaos, mistakes, maybe even effort. What we produced was a daring performance art piece exploring the concept of absence. Absence of urgency, absence of quality, and in several cases, absence of basic awareness that this was a competitive football match.

Passing was optional. Pressing was theoretical. Defending was more of a social suggestion than a requirement. At times it looked like we were trying to lose possession as quickly and creatively as possible, just to see what would happen.

If that first half were a crime, we wouldn’t be “out of jail” we’d still be on trial, with the evidence playing on a loop and the jury openly weeping.

The players trudged off at half time with their heads down, and honestly we were extremely lucky to only be two goals behind. That scoreline flattered us like a dodgy camera angle.

In fact, we were so bad I’m genuinely surprised we didn’t come back out for the second half starting on minus one, just to save everyone some time. I half expected the ref to say, “Look lads, let’s be honest, you’ve earned this.”

And let’s not forget… it was Anthony Taylor. On another day, he’d have booked the kit man, sent off the ball boy, and awarded them a goal for the craic. The fact we escaped at 0–2 felt less like football and more like an administrative error.

Frankly, the half-time whistle was our man of the match.

Of course I didn’t mean it, but at half time (over what was very much a performance-enhancing beer) I said to a mate, “I’m finishing this and then I’m off.”

Somehow, Liam heard me. There is no other explanation. Three changes were made, an emergency response to a man nearing the end of his pint. I’m fairly certain the message was passed down the line: “Sort it out lads, Dave is putting his coat on.”

And just like that, the players woke up. Where there had been no energy, no shape, and no evidence of prior acquaintance, we suddenly looked like a football team. Passes connected. Movement existed. Hope, actual, real hope, briefly entered the stadium.

So the second half starts and Wet Spam very nearly score again. At that point I’m not even angry, I’m just expecting the worst. Luckily, they don’t score, which felt less like defending and more like divine intervention mixed with mild incompetence.

Then, and this is important, we slowly start to take control. Not confidently. Not convincingly. Just… slowly. Like a laptop that’s been dropped once too often but still tries its best.

And then, not far off the hour mark, something genuinely magical happens. A real footballing miracle. Fofana suddenly bursts forward, which already confused everyone in the stadium, including Fofana. He launches the ball deep into the box with the energy of a man who’s surprised himself.

And there, waiting for it, is João Pedro… who sort of heads it. Not a proper header. More like a polite nod. The kind you give someone you vaguely recognise at Tesco. But it goes in. And at that moment we all collectively decide: YES. THIS WAS ALWAYS THE PLAN.

Game very firmly on. Delusion restored. Hope irrationally reignited. Football is back, baby.

Thirteen minutes later, which in football time is roughly three emotional lifetimes, Cucurella, launches himself into a diving header like a man late for his own wedding and somehow equalises.

This all came after Gusto nodded the ball across goal, causing absolute goalmouth carnage. Panic. Limbs everywhere. Defenders appealing for things that hadn’t happened yet. General mayhem.

2–2.

Sudden, beautiful silence from the claret & blue mob. You could actually hear the realisation sink in. “Oh no… they’ve remembered how to play football.”

And that’s the moment it hit us too, not logically, not sensibly, but emotionally. We might actually win this.

With the crowd screaming for blood, we went hunting for a third like a group of people who had learned nothing from previous emotional trauma. West Ham promptly missed an absolute sitter, the kind of chance that gets replayed in your head at 3am for the rest of your life, which felt like the universe briefly apologising to us.

And then… Enzo.

Pedro whipped in an absolutely filthy ball, the kind that deserves its own highlight reel, and Enzo arrives from close range to finish it like a man who’s decided today is not the day we suffer. Goal. Winner. Limbs. Chaos.

And when I say we lost it, I don’t mean cheering. I mean full system failure. Grown adults hugging strangers. People shouting things they couldn’t repeat in court. For a few glorious seconds, society ceased to function.

That wasn’t a goal, that was a collective emotional collapse, and frankly, we would do it all again tomorrow.

And, because football can never just end normally, there was still time for one of their lot to attempt to strangle Pedro like he was trying to silence a car alarm rather than play football. Proper WWE behaviour. Ref looks confused. Players pile in. Everyone suddenly becomes a legal expert.

Cue the lengthy VAR review, during which time several seasons of television were completed. Eventually, out comes the red card and off he trudges, dummy firmly spat out and toys launched from the pram.

Then, just to keep our blood pressure hovering at medical emergency levels, there was still a corner to face. Thankfully, it came to nothing. Final whistle. Game won. Sanity… partially restored.

So yes, tactics matter. Subs matter. But let’s not ignore the obvious turning point. Me threatening to leave the ground and go home. That was the real game changer!

Frankly, I expect my name on the team sheet next week! 😂

My takeaways…

Every time we play West Ham, I’m reminded that whatever we might gain by leaving Stamford Bridge, we risk losing our soul. That’s something that they misplaced somewhere between the Boleyn Ground and an athletics track. Let’s agree, collectively and permanently, to never take that route to hell.

So five wins in six games became six out of seven. Just.

So, just the casual seven changes today… clearly with Tuesday vs ArseNIL in mind, plus our little pasta-and-espresso adventure in Italy. And look, I get it, rotation is a thing, legs are tired, science exists.

But we’ve got to focus on what’s right in front of us. Think Wet Spam, not the next fixture. We absolutely escaped prison today with the keys, the guard’s hat, and a written apology but let’s be honest, that’s not a sustainable game plan.

Jail breaks are fun. Today it felt absolutely incredible. But relying on them every week? Less so. It’s not going to happen.

I could moan a lot about the first half. Especially the performance of a couple of players I will not name. I won’t though, as I don’t want to spoil what was a truly spectacular end to a game that virtually no one at half time thought we would win.

Onwards and upwards. Let’s do the sensible thing and just play our best team on Tuesday. Who knows what might happen…

UTC 💙

Dave M