Upton Park, East London
West Ham Utd. 1 Chelsea 3
Okay, let’s just get this over with, shall me. Again, I heard we played some decent footy, but Chelsea and Chelsea, and what can one do. So, that—if you’re not paying attention—is four games, no wins, no draws (at least in the Premiership), four losses, no points, two goals for, 12 goals against, goal difference of minus 10. So distraught was I, and I am in London this week, that I went south to the beautiful White Cliffs of Beachey Head and new South Downs National Park. Beachey Head is our Golden Gate Bridge, that is, our number-one suicide spot, and a full team of police and chaplains stand ready to aid the distraught. I have no wish to make a joke of that in relation to West Ham’s chronic start, so I shall not. Our walk ended in the picture-perfect village of East dean, which has a triangular village green, the cottage where the fictional Sherlock Holmes fictitiously retired (although I always thought he fell off a Swiss waterfall while fighting his nemesis Dr. Moriarty, but I could be wrong) and a thatched-roof pub called the Tiger’s Head that sells a beer brewed a mile away called Legless Rambler.
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