Loss inevitably changes you, both in terms of how you feel and how you view the world. It may colour or build on your disposition, alter or harden your preconceptions. Whichever applies, the truth remains that loss – a change outside of your self – triggers some fundamental shift inside too. For me, that is all tied up with West Ham, Upton Park, and my Dad.

I have been going to West Ham regularly for about fifteen years, twelve of which I have had a season ticket. I’m not cockney (the closest connection I have is my Grandma being from Bethnal Green) but I inherited this ardour of love and loyalty from my Dad. The family lore has it that my Grandad, who moved over from India in the 50s, took my Dad to various clubs around London and West Ham was the best of the bunch.

This story makes sense to me. There was always something different about going to a West Ham game. A kind of electricity would reverberate from Plaistow, down Green Street, out of the pubs and onto the terraces. Upton Park could be an intimidating place for an away fan, in the same way it could be the best place for a party. I loved everything about it. The smell of fried onions drifting from burger vans, the songs (rude, funny, and clever in equal measure), the swearing, the tension on derby days, the joviality of the last home game of the season when a conga would run along the bottom of the East Stand, even if we had already been relegated.

It also felt like a window into the East London that doesn’t exist anymore. West Ham was the connection back to the area which many had left to move to Essex, and it sustained many of the institutions and traditions people associate with East End culture: pie and mash shops, working men’s clubs, and pubs. A kind of weekly pilgrimage I was privileged to witness.

West Ham, and Upton Park itself, also helped sustain mine and my Dad’s relationship. After my parents split up, regular trips to the football were where my Dad and I spent a lot of our time together. When we disagreed about politics – which was quite often, especially during my years of rebellious teenage radicalism – our shared love of West Ham made it easier to put aside these differences, and there was always football to talk about.

Many of my fondest memories with my Dad are attached to West Ham and to Upton Park. Watching us smash Man Utd 4 nil on a snowy night in the league cup, beating Millwall 2-1 with only ten men, the final game at Upton Park – also against United – where we won the game in the last minute. My Dad and I wrapped our arms around each other as we sang I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles in that place for the final time.