We are crossing the concourse towards London Stadium when a man asks us if we want to buy a West Ham scarf. I’m feeling ebullient so I ask him how much. He says, ‘£15,’ which rather spoils my mood, but I’ve already reached for my wallet and decorum insists I complete the deal. He doesn’t want to break my £20, so gives me another scarf – one of those 50/50 jobs reviled by snobby fans like myself – to make up the extra £5. This should feel like a bargain, but since it actually suggests a more appropriate valuation of his wares, it does not.
My son is unconcerned and I tell myself that this impartial monstrosity will at least serve as a fittingly comprehensive memento of his first ever Premier League game. It is, in fact, his first live football match of any form at all. My brother, Dara, has a season ticket and has brought me, my son and my wife’s football-mad parents for a game.
