“You sold our soul for this shithole,” the home fans sang through the dappled late-afternoon sun as David Sullivan sat looking opaque in his VIP director pod – and this is exactly what has happened here, a macro-collapse, a managed alienation, a club that has forgotten what it was trying to be.
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In the event it took 43 minutes for that flame to die. It is rare to hear a genuinely new and surprising expression of emotion. But there was one of those here as news filtered through that Spurs had scored and instantly the energy just vanished from the stands, like watching a blackout engulf Los Angeles. Even the boos at half-time felt like boos by rote, as though the club had employed its own outside hype-booers just to generate some energy.
These are always creepy occasions, ghost games haunted by voices through the wall. The ground had been debilitatingly hot at kick-off, the pitch-side machines pumping out exhausted, heat-sapped bubbles, which sank instantly and expired on the running track.
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Nuno Espírito Santo was out on his touchline from start to finish, something of a relief in itself given his deeply-haunted picture above his programme notes. “There are a great many things we could say about the last few matches,” Nuno had written. “Almost none of them are good.”
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It is no mystery why this has happened. Why have West Ham been relegated? Relentless executive failure. The shameful squandering of resources. A complacent, low-quality management tier that has been completely outflanked by highly competent middleweight clubs elsewhere levelling up in every area, while West Ham have doodled around in their rented shopping-centre annexe.
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West Ham’s entire corporate structure contains nothing but slackness, no exceptional qualities from player production to managerial hiring and firing. This is a hugely mediocre organisation, one that has now expressed those qualities in the hard currency of results. The remaining dinosaurs will at least live to see their own investment value shredded.