Glad rags

Undercover in Stratford’s silent disco

Written by: Rob Conlon
Marcelo Bielsa ignoring a torrent of bubbles

My life as a football tourist was surprisingly enjoyable until Leeds United started playing. We aren’t meant to win in London, so sitting undercover among a group of half a dozen Leeds fans at West Ham felt like a stress-free way to watch an away defeat. Of course, as football tourists, we weren’t sitting with Frodo Baggins and the rest of West Ham’s nawtiest support. Instead, the chance to blag some free hospitality tickets had arisen on Friday afternoon, and by Sunday morning my friend Sam was driving us to a hotel by the Westfield shopping centre, both of us eager to embrace Stratford Syndrome.

Walking to the London Stadium, the biggest threat was not the home support, but the joggers and cyclists circling the ground, competing in their own personal Olympics on ground where London 2012 was held. The privileges of the Premier League were available in abundance. There were overpriced pints of Guinness, poured from a can. There was some celebrity spotting — Mark Wright vaping in the toilets! One of the Dildo Brothers (the little one) that owns West Ham! A bloke I was convinced was Antony Costa from Blue but almost certainly wasn’t! And there was a disconcertingly relaxed vibe as we went to our seats for kick-off to a chorus of ‘We all love Leeds’ from the away end, relieved we could hide on the back row, agreeing it was probably best if we kept quiet for the next couple of hours.

Marcelo Bielsa looked as bemused by the pre-match rituals as we were. As machines began blowing bubbles, it initially seemed like Bielsa was respectfully trying to avoid them as he paced his technical area prior to kick-off, then he turned and calmly burst any that dared cross his path. It became apparent staying quiet was going to be more difficult than we originally thought as the home support shouted, ‘UNITED’. The instinct of call and response kicked in, and we were desperately repressing the urge to reply, ‘LEEDS’.

We went back behind our facade of tourism and the first ten minutes passed peacefully. But then Raphinha was running down the right wing, Adam Forshaw was passing to Jack Harrison, and Leeds were scoring the first goal. Now there was a six man silent disco in the corner of our block. I was jumping all over Sam while trying not to make a sound, unable to stop giggling. When the game resumed, the fun evaporated. Leeds now had three points to win or lose. It felt horrible, but that’s the best bit about being a football fan. Without the feeling of nausea caused by the jeopardy of the result, the Premier League becomes 22 rich blokes with nothing better to do. If that’s what tourists want, London is awash with much cheaper attractions with the same gist.

Our cover had evidently been blown by the time West Ham equalised through Jarrod Bowen. A home fan wearing a flat cap and driving gloves (there was a lot of that, obviously) on the row in front turned around, playfully gesturing for us to stand up in celebration. We were back to stifling our giggles when Harrison put Leeds in front again a few minutes later, while our new friend was staring resolutely into the distance.

Looking back at the scoreline, I’m surprised to see how quickly Leeds replied to West Ham’s two goals. The match felt agonisingly long. Unable to verbalise our collective stress in the stand, we were reduced to a series of nervous squeezes of each other’s shoulders and knees, like Jamie Carragher and Thierry Henry reacting to Brendan Rodgers’ sacking at Liverpool. Perhaps if Leeds hadn’t been playing I could give a more comprehensive verdict on whether the London Stadium is as awful as people make out: it looks impressive from the outside, the weird gaps in the stands really are that strange, and Sam was convinced crowd noise was being piped in over the PA to give the home support a boost on the few occasions they started singing. I have such low expectations of the Premier League it was still better than I imagined, but I’m glad Leeds don’t play in a stadium like that, even if the sight of the away end bouncing to ‘Let’s go fucking mental’ from the front row of the lower tier to the back row of the upper was a thing of beauty. You never got that on Super Saturday in 2012.

By the time Harrison completed his hat-trick, the anxiety was too much to bear. I escaped from the stands to the toilet for a nervous wee. As I was standing at the urinal a West Ham fan walked in, announcing in disgust, “Leeds have scored a fourth.” Keep quiet, I thought, but I was the only other person in there. He repeated what he said, louder, this time directly to me. “Oh, have they?” I asked, failing spectacularly to hide my glee, seeing his face drop upon hearing my accent. I was less keen to hide my celebrations upon returning to the stand, but was just in time to see the big screen announce VAR had disallowed the goal. Then it was back to the anguish of desperately hoping Leeds could hold on: Raphinha hitting the bar; bubble machines sheepishly turned off after an offside flag ruled out a third West Ham goal, after a ridiculous double save from Illan Meslier; Bowen shushing the home fans with a sublime miss when it looked easier to score.

A week after the London press were giddily writing Leeds United off, we were among the last to leave hospitality, drinking in the sweet taste of the most delicious of three points. A steward happily took photos of us standing in the now empty bowl of a stadium, crossing our arms in a Hammers pose. Danny Dyer was leaving when we were, no doubt planning on introducing Bowen, his daughter’s boyfriend, to some of the Westfield’s deadliest men after that miss.

With the emotional exhaustion starting to kick in, the rest of the night felt like a hazy dream. We found a Mexican restaurant to soak up some of the Guinness and began walking back to the hotel. After a day of trying to hide who we support, it was a relief to encounter a group of lads singing Leeds songs. Even though they were muddling up some of the words, they were presumably Leeds fans. They seemed startled when we replied with a throaty, ‘LEEDS, LEEDS, LEEDS,’ and it was only then I noticed the half and half scarves around their necks. Bloody tourists. They don’t know what they’re missing. ⬢

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