It Is Time To Face Facts- We Are All Doomed

The death knell may have sounded but Hammers will find something to cheer- even on the darkest days
By Russell Brand

From my Los Angeles hotel bedroom window I can see that Hollywood sign thing and the land of illusions of which it is a key signifier provides a necessary tonic from the excruciating fiasco of West Ham's season. Though I didn't go to the Valley of Death for the crucial match against Charlton, my mate Jack was at the scene and reported back that as West Ham deteriorated the away support grew more vociferous. For the first 10 minutes there was tension; when Charlton scored, minutes later added to their tally and after 25 minutes got a third the cry of "you're not fit to wear the shirt" rang out. At half-time there was an exodus - many fans unwilling to bear witness to the evisceration of their dreams.

During the interval, however, consensus was achieved and part two of the bleak saga was undertaken with defiant merriment and touching bluster. By the time Charlton scored their fourth, the Claret and Blue army were lost in ribald incantation - specifically the song, to the tune of "I love you baby": "Oh Christian Dailly, you are the love of my life, oh Christian Dailly, I'd let you shag my wife, oh Christian Dailly I want your curly hair too".

Momentarily the Charlton fans cheered the triumph of their fourth but as the roar died down they discerned with horror that the Dailly ballad had continued unaffected by the goal. Jack says the home crowd looked on with one face of awe, unable to comprehend the unbending faith of the Irons.

It conjures in my mind the kind of relentless foe one encounters in action films who absolutely will not stop; don't turn your back on the apparent corpse of the Terminator. Even riddled with bullets and all but dismembered he'll steel himself for one last push - it's in his programming. What is it encoded so deep in the hearts of West Ham fans that they can shrug off defeat and blithely ignore humiliation?

Some of my best experiences at Upton Park took place when the Hammers have been woeful on the pitch but heroic on the terrace - it's easy to sing when you're winning as the chant suggests but it's characteristically British to celebrate failure in the way fans did at Charlton. For me it brings to mind great emblems of our nation - Falstaff, Dunkirk, Eddie "The Eagle" Edwards. Perhaps that bellicose Norwegian commentator that banged on about Churchill and Thatcher when England lost away to Norway ought to have listed famous losers, although, of course, both Thatcher and Churchill ended their political careers in the way that all such careers must end, in failure. I think that's why I took offence when that berk from the Observer suggested I support Wigan suggesting my success were inflicting some bizarre inverse photosynthesis on the team. It simply isn't done - the lyrics are quite clear: "West Ham till I die, I'm West Ham till I die, I know I am I'm sure I am, I'm West Ham till I die".

The evocation of the idea of death is not frivolous. We are going to die. I will die, Alan Curbishley will die, Alan Pardew will die, Anton Ferdinand will die but through West Ham we get a shot at eternal life. The Claret and Blue army will march on, infantry will come and go generals will depart but the colour and the aim will remain. They are more constant than life, bigger than death. So Shankley's famous maxim ain't so glib - football is more important than life and death - it transcends both.

West Ham are going to be relegated. There, I've said it. But it doesn't matter, nothing matters. Jermain Defoe can score a hat-trick for Spurs tomorrow and I'll just sing - not only because I'll be jet-lagged and every one else'll be singing, though partly. In the main it's because nothing matters. Defoe will die one day - all 22 players will expire.

At West Ham there is a campaign to abolish the Hammer of the Year award due to the team's poor form. Some say it should be awarded to Dean Ashton who's been out injured all season - it doesn't matter, give it Deano or Leroy Rosenior or Alan Devonshire or Tony Cottee -or the fans themselves.

All that matters is that the shared dream lives on. Last time Spurs came to the Boleyn they lost their Champions League place and blamed it all on food poisoning acquired from a dodgy lasagne. I've an inkling that after Sunday it'll be West Ham fans who'll be feeling sick but after what we've swallowed this season who cares? Or maybe we'll thrash 'em and go out with some valour, but I doubt it, it just seems impossible no one would believe it, not even here and I'm writing this in Tinsel Town, in the silvery shadow of that ridiculous sign.

Guardian column