Tribal identity and the Manhattan of Stratford
In Belfast, if you tell someone you’re ‘going to worship’, they usually want to know which foot you kick with. It is a lightly veiled attempt to ascertain your tribal identity – Protestant or Catholic, Prod or Taig. But for a quarter of a century, I’ve been trying to explain that the only cathedral I care about has a view of the London Manhattan that is Stratford, and it serves lukewarm pies and popcorn.
Ending the isolation of the secret agents
When first had the mad idea to start the Belfast Hammers back in ’99, the ‘beautiful game’ in this city wasn’t always that beautiful. For decades, West Ham fans in Northern Ireland were like secret agents. We were everywhere, but we were isolated. You’d have a lad in the Shankill wearing the Pony kit with “Dicks 3” on the back, and a lad in the Falls doing the same thing.
The problem? They were making their own way. They stayed on their own side of the divide. They flew on different planes, drank in different bars, and shared their misery only with their own kind. It was a tragedy, really. Not because of the politics but because they were missing out on the collective trauma of being a West Ham fan. Misery like ours shouldn’t be enjoyed in isolation; it needs to be shared over a pint with someone who understands why we paid £300 to watch us lose 3-0 at home to Wigan.
United by the bafflement of West Ham United
I decided enough was enough. Why should we be divided by peace lines when we could be united by a shared hatred of the away fans’ section at the old Boleyn? I wanted to build a club where the only “green” we cared about was the pitch, and the only “orange” was the tan on the players after a mid-season break in Dubai. The goal was simple: get everyone on the same 6.30am flight, get them into the same pub, and let the sheer, baffling inconsistency of West Ham United do the rest.
Believe me, nothing heals a sectarian divide faster than a 90th-minute conceded goal. When the Hammers concede a soft penalty, you don’t care if the man screaming next to you is from Sandy Row or the Andersonstown Road – you just care that he’s holding your coat while you gesture wildly at the referee.
A journey through the Good Friday Agreement
Our commitment to diversity and inclusiveness didn’t meet with approval from everyone. The early days of “The Good Friday Agreement” were rocky to say the least and even in these days where bullets and bombs seem like distant memories, there are still some who choose to stay in the past. However, we in The Belfast Hammers are proud of playing our little part and a wise man once said: “Each long journey begins with a single step”.
People ask me why I wrote the book; The Only Religion is West Ham. Honestly? It was partly because I wanted to document the history, but mostly because I needed proof of what we’ve been through so I could show a psychiatrist later. The book is a collection of madness. It’s about the legendary trips where we nearly lost members in the London Underground and the “characters” who make this club what it is. It’s about the 25 years we spent proving that in Belfast, you can find common ground – and that ground usually has bubbles blowing over it.
From Pug Ugly’s to Sir Trevor Brooking
We’ve gone from a few lads meeting in the King’s Head to a massive family at Pug Ugly’s. We’ve managed to bring legends like Julian Dicks and Mark Ward over to Belfast without a single riot, unless you count the queue for the bar. It turns out, when you’re a Hammer, you’ve already survived enough stress; you don’t have the energy for anything else.
I’ll be the first to admit, looking at the league table right now is like looking at a bill you can’t pay. It’s grim. The performances lately should come with a health warning. I’ve seen better defensive organisation in a supermarket car park on Christmas Eve. But this is why Belfast Hammers exist. When the current lot are making us reach for the Valium, we look to the gods. That’s why we’re bringing Sir Trevor Brooking over this April. If the current team is the “Old Testament” – full of suffering and plagues – Sir Trevor is the Promised Land. He’s the reminder that once upon a time, we played with grace, style, and won things that weren’t “Fair Play” trophies.
The special madness of the Irish Sea Hammers
Writing the book made me realise that being a Belfast Hammer is a special kind of madness. We are the only people who will willingly wake up at 4am, fly across the Irish Sea, spend a fortune on London prices, and watch a performance that makes us want to cry – only to do it all again two weeks later.
We’ve come a long way from the days of staying on our own sides of the street. Now, we stand together. We moan together. We celebrate the rare wins like they’re World Cup finals. Somehow, through sheer energy, charm, and a community‑building strategy that basically amounts to “you’re one of us now,” we’ve hammered our way into local legend. In a country dominated by Celtic, Rangers, Manchester United, Liverpool and a few others, the Belfast Hammers have gained respect not only among fellow Hammers but in the football mad community in this “wee” part of the world.
So, if you’re sitting at home wondering why you bother. Pick up the book. Look out for our flag or follow our social media ramblings. Remind yourself that you aren’t just a fan; you’re part of the “Only Religion” that actually delivers miracles – even if they only happen once every 20 years. No matter how bad football gets, at least we’re all suffering together. And that, in Belfast, is progress.
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