Special Guest Blogger: Billy Bonds

Famous? Me? That bird who sings about the poker face is famous. I’m just an old docker's son from Stepney who happened to be decent at kicking a bag of wind around a muddy patch of East London. Blimey. If that’s all it takes to be famous these days, the standards have slipped more than a defender on a greasy pitch at the Boleyn Ground in January.
People talk about me playing career. Captain of West Ham for a decade, a couple of lovely FA Cup wins to stick on the mantelpiece, over 800 appearances. Mind-boggling numbers, aren’t they?
I wasn’t pretty. Never have been. Me hair had a mind of its own, and me running style was described by one journalist as like a baby giraffe chasing a runaway lunchbox. Fair enough. But they didn’t call me ‘Bomber’ for nowt. My job was simple, get the ball, and if the other fella was attached to it, well, that was his Lookout. We’d play on pitches that looked more like the Somme than a sporting venue.
Being captain, though… that was different. It wasn’t about being the best player. It was about being the first one to a fight and the last one to leave. It was about looking at young Trevor Brooking, this elegant artist trying to paint a masterpiece on a canvas of cowpat, and thinking, 'Right, son, you just worry about the brushwork. I’ll handle the decorators.' That was our legacy. A bit of silk and a whole lot of steel. We weren’t just famous, we were family. The fans knew that because they’d cheer for a last-ditch tackle as loudly as they would for a forty-yard screamer.
Then they had the bright idea of making me manager. The Guv’nor. Crikey. As if playing wasn’t stressful enough. Being manager is a mug’s game. You’re responsible for everything. The kit, the tactics, the tea bags, and stopping a 19-year-old with more money than sense from thinking he’s the next messiah because he’s scored in a pre-season friendly.
I lost a good deal of me hair in that job. I reckon I could have made a small wig out of what I found on the floor of the office each morning. But was nice to see those kids like Lampard,Ferdinand, Cole and Carrick come through.
My tactical masterclasses, I’ll admit, were… limited. My main philosophy was: 'Give it to the clever one, and if you lose it, win it back bloody quickly.' Not exactly Arsene Wenger, is it?
But it worked. We had a go. We always had a go. That, for me, is what West Ham is all about. Not the fame, not the headlines, but having a proper go, that and bollicking the linesman all the way down the tunnel at full time.