Brown fizz and Green Street is the real thing: Joseph Gobbels would have felt the grooming of a five-year-old to be 'one-sided and prejudicial'
By Russell Brand
Last Sunday I took a friend's five-year-old son to Upton Park to see the Hammers beaten by Manchester United. It was part of a campaign to indoctrinate young Oliver into a life of supporting West Ham and the vehemence with which I undertook his inculcation would be frowned upon by even the most ardent stalwarts of al-Qaida; "Calm down," they might say, "let him make his own mind up."
The first half was goalless and Oliver was sat with his father and was far more interested in Coca-Cola, which he, like most children, unquestioningly regards as some celestial liquor; were he not so stupidly young I would assume that he thought it to contain properties that grant eternal youth – perhaps it does, he does look young, perhaps that's his secret. Somehow Coca-Cola, which is essentially just a brown drink, has successfully convinced a five-year-old that their product is more important than a Premier League clash between the champions of Europe and the most romantic club in the world.
The young man's mind remained enraptured with effervescent sludge through the first 45 minutes and during the half-time interval – usurping even the presence of West Ham legend Tony Cottee, who visited us in our corporate, corporeal box (sorry, it's just you get a cup of tea with crossed hammers on the saucer – who can resist that? Who?). Tony may, in dimensional terms, be smaller than a sexy little bottle of Coke, but he certainly has a lot more fizz, but in the eyes of a child "there ain't nothing like the real thing".
I determined that in the second half I would enthuse the youngster with the prospect of a squandered life of unfulfilled potential; following West Ham is the football-supporting equivalent of glue-sniffing, so obviously the first thing I had to do was separate him from his fuddy-duddy daddy, who was granting the malleable tot all manner of superfluous autonomy and care.
With him safely perched upon my knee I had full access to his brain via his little lughole. I gave him his own whispered, personal, highly partisan commentary which made up for what it lacked in factual accuracy with bone-chilling propaganda, anti-Manc-scaremongering and filthy lies. Here are some exerts from that commentary which Joseph Goebbels would've called "one-sided and prejudicial".
First I had to set up the distinction between the teams – "the ones in white, Ollie, usually they wear red and are called the Red Devils – because they are so evil. In fact that fella way out on the right, No7, juggling the ball, see him? He can only do that as he makes daily, human sacrifices to Satan." He looked up at me with his beautiful, open face: "Really, uncle Russell?" I stared into the perfect eyes that searched my own for signs of duplicity. "Yes." I replied unflinchingly "Usually little boys." He nodded nervously. "The ones we like are in claret and blue, they are brave men and they love children." He eyed me quizzically: "They seem confused – they keep kicking the ball out." "They're just excited," I said.
When Ryan Giggs scored a rare right‑footed goal, I told Oliver that Manchester United win matches because they have more money than us and they cheat. I pointed to Mark Noble and said: "He's from Leytonstone, where you're from – one day you could play for West Ham." I don't know if Mark Noble is from Leytonstone or if Ollie could ever cut it as a pro, but I said it with commitment and I saw that he was beginning to be seduced.
When vocal waves of disapproval went around the ground – condemning the woeful refereeing – Ollie took his hands from over his ears and began to join the mob; I rewarded his compliance with more delicious cans of tooth decay. By the match's end I had entirely brainwashed the innocent – we stepped into the disgruntled, ambulant sea that is post-whistle Green Street while I louchely tattooed the willing youngster with the insignia of the ICF. The process made me question my own inherited allegiance; was I conveying a valuable gift to the next generation or bequeathing a miserable burden upon the progeny of a chum?
Has supporting West Ham made me a happier man? This can never be ascertained, of course, and was only even examined in retrospect, after I'd been into the club shop and bedecked the boy in claret and blue from the top of his head to the tip of his shoes. Having learned the lessons of the carbonated sex-pop company that consumerism is the way to a child's affections, I served up cuddly toys, pencil cases, kits and an alarm clock – all tokens of his new enforced identity.
Richard Dawkins rightly scoffs at the idea of "a Muslim baby or a Christian birth", observing that these attributes are acquired and not innate and that it would be absurd to refer to a baby as a "Stoke City fan" or a "violinist" – perhaps that's why these non-genetic traits are so zealously pushed. As yet I have no sons and thus hope in my dotage, should that ever be achieved, I'll seek comfort as the light dies from a man I once held, amidst a crowd that to him then seemed infinite, and we'll talk of faded dreams in claret and blue.
Guardian Column
By Russell Brand
Last Sunday I took a friend's five-year-old son to Upton Park to see the Hammers beaten by Manchester United. It was part of a campaign to indoctrinate young Oliver into a life of supporting West Ham and the vehemence with which I undertook his inculcation would be frowned upon by even the most ardent stalwarts of al-Qaida; "Calm down," they might say, "let him make his own mind up."
The first half was goalless and Oliver was sat with his father and was far more interested in Coca-Cola, which he, like most children, unquestioningly regards as some celestial liquor; were he not so stupidly young I would assume that he thought it to contain properties that grant eternal youth – perhaps it does, he does look young, perhaps that's his secret. Somehow Coca-Cola, which is essentially just a brown drink, has successfully convinced a five-year-old that their product is more important than a Premier League clash between the champions of Europe and the most romantic club in the world.
The young man's mind remained enraptured with effervescent sludge through the first 45 minutes and during the half-time interval – usurping even the presence of West Ham legend Tony Cottee, who visited us in our corporate, corporeal box (sorry, it's just you get a cup of tea with crossed hammers on the saucer – who can resist that? Who?). Tony may, in dimensional terms, be smaller than a sexy little bottle of Coke, but he certainly has a lot more fizz, but in the eyes of a child "there ain't nothing like the real thing".
I determined that in the second half I would enthuse the youngster with the prospect of a squandered life of unfulfilled potential; following West Ham is the football-supporting equivalent of glue-sniffing, so obviously the first thing I had to do was separate him from his fuddy-duddy daddy, who was granting the malleable tot all manner of superfluous autonomy and care.
With him safely perched upon my knee I had full access to his brain via his little lughole. I gave him his own whispered, personal, highly partisan commentary which made up for what it lacked in factual accuracy with bone-chilling propaganda, anti-Manc-scaremongering and filthy lies. Here are some exerts from that commentary which Joseph Goebbels would've called "one-sided and prejudicial".
First I had to set up the distinction between the teams – "the ones in white, Ollie, usually they wear red and are called the Red Devils – because they are so evil. In fact that fella way out on the right, No7, juggling the ball, see him? He can only do that as he makes daily, human sacrifices to Satan." He looked up at me with his beautiful, open face: "Really, uncle Russell?" I stared into the perfect eyes that searched my own for signs of duplicity. "Yes." I replied unflinchingly "Usually little boys." He nodded nervously. "The ones we like are in claret and blue, they are brave men and they love children." He eyed me quizzically: "They seem confused – they keep kicking the ball out." "They're just excited," I said.
When Ryan Giggs scored a rare right‑footed goal, I told Oliver that Manchester United win matches because they have more money than us and they cheat. I pointed to Mark Noble and said: "He's from Leytonstone, where you're from – one day you could play for West Ham." I don't know if Mark Noble is from Leytonstone or if Ollie could ever cut it as a pro, but I said it with commitment and I saw that he was beginning to be seduced.
When vocal waves of disapproval went around the ground – condemning the woeful refereeing – Ollie took his hands from over his ears and began to join the mob; I rewarded his compliance with more delicious cans of tooth decay. By the match's end I had entirely brainwashed the innocent – we stepped into the disgruntled, ambulant sea that is post-whistle Green Street while I louchely tattooed the willing youngster with the insignia of the ICF. The process made me question my own inherited allegiance; was I conveying a valuable gift to the next generation or bequeathing a miserable burden upon the progeny of a chum?
Has supporting West Ham made me a happier man? This can never be ascertained, of course, and was only even examined in retrospect, after I'd been into the club shop and bedecked the boy in claret and blue from the top of his head to the tip of his shoes. Having learned the lessons of the carbonated sex-pop company that consumerism is the way to a child's affections, I served up cuddly toys, pencil cases, kits and an alarm clock – all tokens of his new enforced identity.
Richard Dawkins rightly scoffs at the idea of "a Muslim baby or a Christian birth", observing that these attributes are acquired and not innate and that it would be absurd to refer to a baby as a "Stoke City fan" or a "violinist" – perhaps that's why these non-genetic traits are so zealously pushed. As yet I have no sons and thus hope in my dotage, should that ever be achieved, I'll seek comfort as the light dies from a man I once held, amidst a crowd that to him then seemed infinite, and we'll talk of faded dreams in claret and blue.
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