Hammers founder on Brighton Rock

Hammers founder on Brighton Rock.

This is neither the time or place for gallows humour nor should there be any talk of guillotines or public execution. West Ham manager Slaven Bilic has got enough on his plate as it is and certainly doesn't need to be reminded of what happened last night at the London Stadium.

There are moments in football when you simply look around you and find that everything is bleak, dark and pessimistic. No matter how hard you try the scenery around you is dull and grey. You wait for one home defeat to happen and then, shortly afterwards, another one comes up when least expected. Once the anger had subsided inside the London Stadium and the dust settled West Ham's glum and disenchanted supporters simply drifted back to Stratford station, walked past the Westfield Shopping Centre and must have contemplated a drop of alcohol to drown their sorrows.

After an excellent draw at Burnley last week and a painful 1-0 victory against Swansea at the London Stadium before the international break, West Ham must have thought their fortunes were about to turn for the better. Instead they slid helplessly into the murkiest of waters only to find that there were no lifeguards around to help them out of their predicament. Nobody knew how to console them because consolation seemed to be thin on the ground.

Last night's horror show against newly promoted Brighton was so appallingly lifeless that by the end of the game, you began to wonder whether any of the obvious excuses would be both plausible and acceptable. West Ham have now had a whole season at their London Stadium home to settle down in and meet the new neighbours and not for the first time the front door was locked, the key had been mislaid and West Ham looked generally disoriented.

In the end West Ham were conclusively beaten and crushed into the ground. Brighton's 3-0 victory was so outright and emphatic that the claret and blue faithful in the 56,000 plus crowd were probably longing for the miserable train home. This is now West Ham's second home defeat of the season and although they may well have considered themselves a tad unlucky against Spurs even damage limitation couldn't come to their rescue against Brighton. The wins against Huddersfield and Swansea at the London Stadium must seem like a classic case of straw clutching. Both games were far from pretty ornaments and West Ham still look a shell shocked team who are neither here nor there.

For much of last night's game against Brighton West Ham looked like sitting tenants in a home that strictly wasn't theirs. During the rockiest of opening exchanges West Ham did admittedly move the ball around with the sweetest of touches but Real Madrid or Barcelona they were not and after half an hour there was a frightening lack of fluency and attacking co-ordination about their football. The ball would be shifted tentatively around like a group of bomb disposal experts nervously defusing a Second World War grenade. They fumbled and stumbled around as if a major power cut had reduced them to candles.

Brighton, to their eternal credit, came to the London Stadium with a well constructed masterplan and carried it out to perfection. The Seagulls have been flying at a reasonable height in their first season back in football's top flight since 1983. The horrible memory of Gordon Smith missing an open goal in that year's FA Cup Final with Manchester United against goalkeeper Gary Bailey must still hang heavy on the minds of all Brighton fans but now the Premier League has given those same fans much to cheer and enthrall.

A number of decades ago Brighton were still languishing in no man's land and were very much caught between a rock and a hard place. The Goldstone Ground had now become enshrined in the club's history books never to re-surface and Brighton slouched around despondently desperately searching for a new home and seemingly trapped at the Withdean Stadium. Needless to say this did nothing to alleviate the blues - or maybe that should be the blue and white stripes.

Still time is a great healer and now under the intelligent guidance of manager Chris Houghton Brighton are no longer Graham Greene's favourite seaside resort. West Ham began like first time swimmers treading water, confidently passing the ball for a quite a while but doing little to suggest that a goal would be forthcoming shortly. It was the same old story and Brighton seemed to sense rich pickings. You began to yearn for the intimacy of Upton Park and the electricity generated during a mid week game in the old First Division. Under such circumstances it was hard to think Brighton would have had everything their own way last night.

But sour grapes for West Ham supporters are more like badly made scrambled eggs and the home side, for roughly the first 25 minutes, had almost lost the game before they'd had to time to acclimatise to their London Stadium surroundings. And then the ground quite literally, seemed to open up for West Ham. After a brief period of ball possession, the wheels came off the claret and blue bandwagon and Brighton helped themselves to a large portion of attacking space on lightning quick counter attacks.

A couple of minutes into the game, West Ham conceded a cheap free kick from deep inside the Brighton half. The ball was swung viciously and directly into the Hammers penalty area and a gaggle of claret and blue defenders froze like characters from an Ealing comedy. Somebody snapped the clapperboard and the whole of the West Ham defence simply disintegrated, a line of West Ham's defenders all running back farcically together and not sure why this was the case. Nobody though had spotted 34 year old Glen Murray in the tiniest pocket of space and Murray headed the ball firmly past a luckless Joe Hart who must now be thinking back to those sunny days of Premier League trophies with Manchester City.

It was only now that West Ham suddenly came to life rather like those spring tulips who emerge from their winter hibernation and then blossom beautifully. There was now a crispness and intent about West Ham's passing, the ball now skimming around the pitch with a much greater purpose and ambition. The ball was now well and truly camped inside Brighton's half and it seemed only a matter of time before West Ham would discover a well deserved equaliser.

Once again though it all became stutteringly to a standstill and sadly lacking in the game's finer rudiments. Chekhyou Kouyate, tall and gangling, strode forward commandingly but failed to get anywhere remotely close to a clarity of mind. Pedro Obiang looks a skilful attacking midfielder but rather like his midfield colleague, carelessly lost possession of the ball in vital areas of the pitch. Both reminded you of those sweat stained country farmers mopping their fevered brows. There would be no Harvest Festival at the London Stadium apart from a couple of muddy radishes and a sorry looking beetroot stuck in the ground.

And then there was a man called Marko Arnautovic. Bought from Stoke City during the summer for roughly £25 million there are those who must have thought 25p would have been much more of an accurate value. Arnautovic, whose goal-scoring reputation at Stoke had so convinced West Ham of his overall worth, roamed about and galloped around like a lost horse. Quite how Slaven Bilic became so deeply impressed with Arnautovic's better qualities is now a source of great mystery. Last night Arnautovic reminded you of a man who'd lost his passport. Wherever he went a yellow Brighton shirt followed and finally the Austrian attacker found himself crowded out of the game with nowhere to go.

But then West Ham's bustlingly aggressive winger Michal Antonio began to turn on the after burners, running at pace and surging towards the Brighton by line like a player in a permanent hurry. West Ham have always been renowned for their wingers throughout the ages and from Harry Redknapp   and Johnny Sissons to the likes of Mark Ward and Bobby Barnes in more recent years the club have prided themselves on their outside rights and lefts. Antonio though seems to be cut from the same cloth and now sprinted past his opponents as if his life depended on it.

Sadly though Antonio, although holding the ball up cleverly and adeptly, frequently lost out on the ball with an awkwardness that must have been enormously disturbing to their fans. Last season Antonio was one of West Ham's most effective and brightest of talents. Now though Antonio looks slightly clumsy and cumbersome and is easily knocked off his feet. When he briefly went down with what appeared a serious injury, West Ham knew they'd lost their way. The West Ham winger was never the same player from that point onwards.

Brighton though still breathed fire and brimstone and although outclassed towards the end of the first half, continued to toil and battle, forever competing on the same level as West Ham. With half time beckoning and West Ham still with a definite spring in their step, the sucker punch was delivered and West Ham sunk to the ground totally dumbfounded.

After a neatly conceived and executed break on the half way line Colombian striker Jose Izquierdo skipped and tricked his way towards the edge of the West Ham 18 yard box. Izquierdo, with a splendid change of feet, a shuffle, shimmy and change of direction, cut inside Obiang and cracked the ball fiercely into the back of the net. Now Brighton must have harked back to those wonderful days when Alan Mullery was in charge and Michael Robinson was scoring goals as if it was something that came perfectly naturally. The Brighton of 2017 now had the most comfortable of two goal cushions and the second half became an assault course for the Hammers.

Just on the hour mark and after repeated huffing and puffing, the home side came dreadfully unstuck. Pablo Zabaleta, so polished up until that point, found the ball at his feet with an onrushing Brighton forward behind him, before rashly lunging out and taking down his man. Once again Glen Murray, who must have thought his career had been left well behind him, stepped up to  fire home the penalty for Brighton's third and clinching goal. Joe Hart had now picked the ball out of his West Ham net for the umpteenth time and the thoughts going through his mind can only be imagined.

So what next for my deeply besieged and troubled football team. For those who are now conditioned to these claret and blue Greek tragedies this is nothing new. There were times during the 1970s when you were never sure what West Ham would turn up for a game. Sometimes even the most devoted supporters were tempted to tear up their season tickets in half before every game. But unswerving loyalty does have its good points and for every shattering defeat there has to be a crowning moment of glory when it does go right. The silver lining is genuinely precious.

At the game's end, with West Ham almost terribly humiliated on their home hearth, the fans trudged their way back to the Westfield Shopping Centre and Stratford no longer seemed the centre of anybody's universe. On their way out they will have taken another second look at that helter skelter shaped object known as the Orbit. The bubbles had floated into the dark, chilly night and all was now desolate and distraught.

Your mind wandered back to those simple, innocent days when Sir Trevor Brooking swaggered, Alan Devonshire, skipped, darted and danced while Pat Holland and Geoff Pike ran themselves tirelessly into the ground. How times and mannerisms change over the years. Slaven Bilic will now spend his weekend mulling over the trials and tribulations of football management. He may find the world can be a very lonely place. Some of us though still believe that an indomitable East End spirit still lurks beneath the surface. Next stop for West Ham is an invitation to the Palace. Most fans will hope that Roy Hodgson has yet to find his way out of Iceland. If Chelsea can do it then anybody can surely.