A strange thing happened this week. Usually when I say I support West Ham United, people smile sympathetically, pat me on the back and tell me with forced cheeriness to keep my chin up. Then they look away, unable to meet my gaze for a moment longer, or comprehend the ineffable sadness of my situation.

Those with no interest in football have a slightly different approach. They regard me with a mixture of horrified fascination and amusement, in the way the Boggs family peered at Edward Scissorhands when he sat at the dinner table for the first time, and always ask the same questions. Why West Ham? Why not someone good? What position are they anyway? Fourteenth? In the Premier League? Well done to you!

This week, however, the response changed when I admitted I support West Ham. Instead of finding myself on the end of a heartfelt hug from a stranger, I was agreeing with his assertion that I must be very happy indeed. “Yes,” I replied, my voice a little uncertain. “I suppose I am – happy.”

Surely I am not the only West Ham fan troubled by the idea of happiness, even though it has been a long time coming. Look through the crowd at Upton Park and you will see facial expressions that have been set to perma-frown after years of watching teams led by managerial titans such as Glenn Roeder and Avram Grant. I have been in the away end when we were 2-0 down to Rotherham United on a freezing December afternoon and a man who looked like Peter Griffin spent the entire game venting his fury at Alan Pardew. I have seen two relegations and a Neil Shipperley winner against us in the play-off final.

We travelled to Cardiff in a limousine that day, the driver left the engine on during the match and the battery was flat when we returned. At least the Crystal Palace supporters had a good laugh at our expense.

My fondest memory of last season was not the three wins over Tottenham Hotspur or Sam Allardyce out-tacticking José Mourinho, but a stoic though doomed 70-yard run by James Tomkins during a dismal 0-0 draw with Sunderland. It yielded a throw-in and Tomkins received a standing ovation; I swear I saw someone throw claret and blue confetti in the air.

Now West Ham are playing good football and challenging for Europe I am supposed to be happy but I am uncomfortable. Football supporters are not meant to enjoy themselves, it is not part of their DNA. They are in their element when they are moaning, because there is nothing to sink your teeth into when your team play well, it is much better if they spend 90 minutes displaying the imagination of a wet towel. Then you can whinge for hours in the pub afterwards.

That anger is always bubbling away under the surface and it re-emerged when West Ham drew 1-1 with West Bromwich Albion on New Year’s Day. It was a gloriously unfair reaction, but that cacophony of boos was music to my ears. Finally, after all the ironic chants about playing Barcelona that greeted West Ham’s ascent into the top four, Upton Park sounded like Upton Park again. It was our first chance to have a good boo since August and it was cleansing – any doctor will tell you it is not healthy for a supporter to keep that bottled up.

Stoke City’s supporters appreciate the value of booing; nothing is off limits. They booed Diego Costa from the whistle when they hosted Chelsea last month, even though his offence was not obvious.

Football grounds are one of the few places where it is socially acceptable to boo – you could try it in a restaurant, but you would probably be asked to leave, and I promise I will cry if you boo this Funny Column. A search for “football supporters booing” throws up 408,000 results on Google. Here are some of the stories on the first page: Arsène Wenger booed by Arsenal fans while boarding train; Cardiff fans entitled to boo – Slade; The Adam le Fondre booing debate. Who knew it was possible to be that furious about Le Fondre?

By now, you have probably been treated to Arsenal Fan TV, a YouTube show in which Arsenal fans are interviewed by a jovial man called Robbie. The star is undoubtedly Angry Claude, powered solely by his own rage at Arsenal’s inertia to the extent that Wenger’s refusal to buy a defender may be a way of trolling him.

The bane of Claude’s life is the hopelessly optimistic Ty, who appears to have been dragged through the Arsenal club shop by Taz. I am Team Claude. If you tried to pull the wool over his eyes after an Arsenal defeat, he would destroy it with his heat vision.

He would understand when I say that West Ham’s attempt to make the jump to the next level will end badly and that while the Olympic Stadium will look resplendent on the outside, inside it will resemble the preposterous tiny house that Homer Simpson built for Ned Flanders, which got smaller and smaller from room to room. One tap and it will all come crumbling down.