The start of the football season- another dawn has fallen.

The start of the football season- another dawn has fallen.

As the soft, caressing breezes of summer give way to the plaintive moans of winter with all its moaning, groaning, whistling winds, this may be the time to welcome back the football season in England, Scotland, Wales and Northern Ireland. You may be sure that all the British isles will be feeling distinctly jittery and jumpy as the date of Britain's withdrawal from the EU, aka the European Union, draws ever closer.

Yesterday at the London Stadium it was very much business as usual. West Ham were demolished, trodden into the ground, thrashed, thumped, naturally hammered and then crushed into the East London soil by the reigning supreme Premier League champions Manchester City by the kind of humiliatingly one sided scoreline that the locals must have become accustomed to by now but the feelings of bitterness and resentment remain inescapable.

For the last six seasons ago West Ham have become tiresomely pitted against the top six of the Premier League. Last season they were heavily beaten by Liverpool at Anfield 4-0 and in preceding seasons were undone, unravelled and undermined by both Chelsea and Manchester United away from home. The conspiracy theorists among the more seasoned faithful at the London Stadium must have thought those in the highest circles of the FA hierarchy have got it in for West Ham. But when they come to compile the fixture lists at the end of June this part of London may have to resign themselves to whatever fate throws up at them.

Still, there was an eerie sense of inevitability about a lunchtime afternoon in Stratford where the twin forces of commercialism and uncontrollable materialism meet head on while the claret and blue scarves, banners and flags of West Ham United mingle and jostle on match day quite happily. At the back of their minds are those long, gone nostalgic days of Upton Park when match day programmes were a glorious shilling or two and hot dogs were sixpence.

Some of us hold a soft spot for the close knit intimacy of Upton Park where the steepling terraces of the Chicken Run were an affectionate reference to one side of the ground. The North and South bank of course had always provided a deeply theatrical backdrop to the Boleyn Ground, another historical throwback to the Middle Ages. For those whose veins are now enduringly claret and blue, the sway and surge of the North Bank along with that unforgettable wintry light show that was the striking of a thousand cigarette matches will never ever be forgotten.

We who witnessed the Upton Park experience can still delight in the appearance of a massed brass band outside the players tunnel, the communality of it all, the feeling of togetherness and belonging to your favourite football club, the sense that you were part of something special. There was the woman lugging around the largest monkey nut bag in the world where, quite suddenly, bags of monkey nuts were launched almost optimistically into the 'Chicken Run'. There were the vulgar profanities, the East End charm offensive, the bubbly bonhomie and then those nutritious meat pies dripping with cholesterol.

But now Upton Park is but a fading memory, some distant echo, that faint voice, a tattered chip paper, a forlorn cry in the dark, the past and history. To the fortnightly shoppers in the Green Street market, West Ham United and its association with Upton Park must seem like a tragic episode in a wonderful period drama.

Yesterday the current class of West Ham ran out of the tunnel at the London Stadium in this season's retro claret and blue shirt, light and dark with thin black stripes. There was the rock solid reliability of Issa Diop and Fabian Balbuena combining Paraguyan and French muscle and personality at the back. There was Aaron Cresswell, full of chirpy energy and well intentioned adventure but this was not to be one of Cresswell's more satisfying afternoons. Of course there were the marauding overlaps from full back but against a Manchester City side who were not in the mood to be charitable, poor Cresswell seemed to be overrun, overwhelmed and completely outpaced.

Last season Declan Rice emerged as one of West Ham's brightest of new, homegrown discoveries. Throughout Rice radiated ice cool composure and the calming aplomb of a player much older than his young years. He intercepted passes from visiting attacks as naturally as a man breathing, sleeping, eating and drinking. His positional sense was one of a young player who had been playing his football at the highest level and one who had experienced life and its cuisine from the top table.

But Rice and the usually thoughtful and probing midfield promptings of Jack Wilshere were somehow missing. Wilshere of course is potentially one of the most cultured players English football has produced in recent times but occasionally he looked like a man who had lost his map. That low centre of gravity which enables his body to swerve and then run positively at defences had now deserted him. The alarming tendency to frequent injury for lengthy spells more or less ruined his career at his boyhood club Arsenal but with the advent of a new season, Wilshere must be hoping that West Ham can now give him a new lease of life.

Alongside Wilshere is the beautifully balanced and hugely creative Manuel Lanzini, full of South American trickery, delicious improvisation and witty feet. Lanzini darts in and out of defences with all the artful dexterity of a mischievous pick pocket. He cuts and thrusts, weaving, dodging and forever scheming. Against Manchester City though Lanzini was rather like an archaeologist digging for gold, treasure and ancient coins.Everywhere Lanzini went a black Manchester City shirt was sure to follow.

With the frequently brilliant Felipe Anderson, the Brazilian sorcerer not quite up to the highly demanding standards he may obviously set himself, the ever roaming and wandering Michal Antonio trying desperately hard to out sprint his opponent, West Ham were forever puffing, panting for breath and chasing a lost cause. But new French striker Sebastian Haller at least gave the hint of promise holding up the ball cleanly and intelligently, threatening to score goals by the dozen. But this was not to be West Ham's day and that sense of deja vu  felt by supporters who have seen this all before, all added up to another day of disappointment for the Happy Hammers.

For Manchester City this was just another day back at the red bricked footballing university that is Manchester City's playground. This is the place where the students of Manchester City receive their football education at a very advanced level. They knit and stitch their passes together rather like somebody creating some very elaborate tapestry. Their movement both and off the ball is too breathtaking for words, a wondrous display of instinct and intuition, their one and two touch football a richly gratifying sight that constantly baffled and bewildered.

When the evergreen David Silva linked up with hat-trick hero and now prolific attacker Raheem Sterling moved across the pitch with all the sleekness of a leopard on the African savanna, City were purring, humming and flowing in a way that has now become the norm. We may have seen City at their most frighteningly accomplished and for West Ham five for City could well have been six, seven or even eight.

The power points of City's football though had now generated so much electricity that for those leaving the London Stadium long before the end of the game the shock to their system is one they may have to get used to in the coming months. But then we could be pleasantly surprised because the element of unpredictability that runs through West Ham like a seaside rock could catch everybody out.

And yet there can be no telling what the future may hold for those bubble blowing West Ham supporters where nothing is what it may seem. For almost 40 years now, the claret and blue trophy cabinet has been empty, slowly turning into some dusty attic where cobwebs hang in grim isolation. Maybe one day though our patience will be rewarded and our loyal support given its just desserts. Football supporters will always believe that the impossible may yet become possible. If we shut our eyes and keep the faith perhaps those claret and blue fortunes that always fly will indeed land in the right spot. Oh to be a West Ham supporter!