Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 8 May 2012.
So, the last domestic away trip of this roller-coaster of a season. I had booked two half-day holidays to cover my trip up to Anfield, from 1pm on Tuesday to 1pm on Wednesday. There is nothing worse than getting home from a long drive “up North” and having to get in to work after only four or five hours sleep. Unfortunately, my partner in crime Lord Parky informed me that his knee was causing him major pain and discomfort and he would not be able to accompany me on my long trip to Anfield. Suffice to say, I was sad to hear this news. He had been alongside me for all but two other domestic games this season – the aways at Wigan and Spurs – so he would be missed.
My working day was busy and I left a little late at 1.15pm. I quickly dived into the local “Tesco Express” to buy some provisions – I hate to use the term “junk food” – to keep me going. I chose to drive up on The Fosseway once again, before cutting down on to the M5 motorway at Birdlip. It was a magnificent spring afternoon to be honest. Just before I passed by “The Air Balloon” pub, I had a quick look west and the view was a beauty. The Vale of Severn was down below me, with undulating hills in the foreground and brooding Welsh Mountains away in the distance. The fields were enlivened with the bright yellow of oil seed rape. The sky was dotted with small fluffy clouds. Never has that vista seemed more breath-taking. I wish I could have stopped to take a photograph to share with everyone.
My musical accompaniment for the trip to Liverpool was the new album by Vince Clarke and Martin Gore – following on from the Depeche Mode theme of Wembley – which Parky had gifted me recently. It’s their first collaboration in thirty years and the techno-beats provided me with a perfect musical backdrop as I ate up the miles on the M5 and then the M6. With no Parky in the passenger seat, I was able to let my mind wander through memories of this season and dreams of the future. For once, I was not thinking too much about beer halls and bratwursts in Munich but of the possible joys waiting in store for the summer. Chelsea had – finally – confirmed the full US tour details and I was just finishing off my planning before booking flights. My plan is to arrive in Boston on Saturday 14 July, hire a car and tour New England (which is currently one of the parts of USA that I am relatively unfamiliar), before joining in with the madness of Chelsea in New York and then Philadelphia. I am avoiding Seattle due to financial reasons. I am avoiding Miami due to the need to be back at work on the following Monday. But two out of four ain’t bad. It mirrors my participation in the 2009 tour. It means I that I can also see Mets vs. Dodgers and Yankees vs. Red Sox baseball games, too. Throw in four days of “R & R” in New England and it’s pretty much a dream holiday for me. Oh – and the small matter of meeting up again with some good friends from various parts of the US.
My journey took me past the towns of West Bromwich, Wolverhampton and Stoke-on-Trent. Memories of those three away games this year; a hopeful draw, a hard-fought win and a woeful defeat in AVB’s last game. The landscape of England is littered with similar football memories, eh? I was aware that Ben from Boston was making his way up to Liverpool for his first-ever away game and I told him to check out the supremely clear view of Manchester from the towering Thelwall Viaduct, rising high over the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal. I was making great time and I have to say, even though I was going slightly crazy without Parky’s voice alongside me, I was loving every minute. I know some folks hate driving, but I love it. I love every part of it, from the scenery, to the geography of England, from the road-side sights, to the stops at service stations and the minutiae of a long distance football follower.
It’s what I do.
Working in transport, I have inherited a feverish tendency to check out the names of the articulated trucks which shudder past. I’ve used many of the companies in my job, of course, and I suppose it is only natural for me to relate to these monsters of the road as I travel the length of England.
Gerry Jones Transport – ah, yes, I remember that troublesome tail-lift delivery down in area 38 in France.
P&O Ferrymasters – wonder if he’s heading up to Liverpool on the night crossing to Dublin.
DHL – the rivals, the hated rivals.
Ntex – ah Tony, the operations manager, the Arsenal fan, not so chatty now are you?
Oh dear. The madness was setting in.
As I edged towards the city of Liverpool, thoughts suddenly turned towards the football. There is, of course, a very strong chance that had Chelsea lost the Cup Final on Saturday, this trip to the delights of Merseyside may well have been a trip too far for me. If I had known that Parky was not going to be able to make it, maybe the probabilities would have been further stacked against this trip. Who knows? We’ll never know. All I know is that I reached Queens Drive at around 4.45pm and I was relishing the game; game number 56 in this bizarre season. This represented a record for me in fact. It meant that my previous “bests” of 2007-2008 and 2008-2009 had been bettered by one game. Blackburn will be 57, Munich will be 58. It had taken me until the Queens Drive to witness my first Liverpool shirt of the day. Most strange.
As I approached Anfield, I was in a dilemma, though. After the festering animosity between the two clubs being heightened by the Wembley Cup Final, I was a little more wary for my safety. Stories of lone Southerners getting picked off by gangs of scallies are, of course, the stuff of legend, especially during the dark days of the late ‘seventies and early ‘eighties. There was a reason why hardly any clubs brought much away support to Liverpool in the ‘seventies. It was a tough old city and outsiders sporting different colours were given a notoriously rough ride. The Scousers love of a Stanley knife is well known.
“Have you met Stanley?”
I’ve had a couple of near escapes at Liverpool. I was chased at Lime Street after an Everton game in 1986, for example. I was lucky to get away unharmed on that occasion. Of course, things have generally calmed down now, but I was still wary. I was faced with a choice of chancing free roadside parking around 20 minutes from Anfield or secure £10 parking closer in. It was still only 5pm, so I drove around the block for a few moments trying to decide. My little journey took me past the Anfield Road stand and down the hill towards Goodison Park. For the first time, I noticed the grey murky waters of the Mersey to my west. I eventually decided to go for the safe option; I duly paid £10 and then headed up the hill towards Anfield. Outside “The Arkles” I spotted a police van. I killed a little time outside the stadium, but things were desperately quiet. Ben was now in the city centre, so I decided to head back to “The Arkles” to await his arrival. There was some sort of sure inevitability about me entering this famous old pub on the corner of Arkles Lane and Anfield Road.
“…just like a moth to a flame.”
It has historically been “the” away pub for trips to both Liverpool and Everton, though I am sure it has seen a share of the action in days gone by. Images of scallies running invading Mancunians and Cockneys around the red-bricked terraced streets before during and after games at Anfield in the late’seventies bring a chill to the bone. In those days, The Kop was the home to the fan, the “Annie Road” was the home to the scally and the hooligan element, resplendent in wedge haircut, drainpipe jeans, Adidas Trimm Tabs and Peter Storm rain jackets.
Not to worry, I peered inside the pub and spotted a couple of familiar faces. Dessie was leading the singing, Tom was quietly drinking a lager. Chelsea had taken over the side room and there seemed to be no bother. Outside, I had noticed that the boozer was now guarded by three police vans. Alan and Gary soon arrived, carrying two pints apiece. Ben arrived at about 6pm. Tom and I had spoken a little about the on-going CPO debate; like me, he was present at the two most recent meetings. We both believe that Fulham Council desperately want Chelsea to remain in their borough. The most recent statement by them surely proves that.
The Chelsea songs were continuing and despite a few songs which tested our welcome, Team Dessie thankfully decided not to air the infamous “Murderers” chant. I heaved a sigh of relief. Not to worry, though – the lager was only being served in plastic glasses.
At 7pm, Ben and I decided to leave and I took Ben (rather reluctantly, I felt…) on a circumnavigation of Anfield. I pointed out the spot where I once shook hands with Fabio Capello before the CL semi-final of 2007. Oh, those CL games – how amazing they were. They are, most probably, the main reason why we have developed as massive rivals over the past seven years. To be honest, it felt strange for me to be at Anfield on a May evening and only a mundane league game to anticipate. I lead Ben down towards the chippies on Walton Breck Road, then past the old ship’s mast from the SS Great Eastern which acts as a flag post next to The Kop. Past the impressive Bill Shankley statue, then onto the wasteland where I took an atmospheric shot of a haunted-looking Ben, against a back drop of urban blight and dereliction.
“Welcome to Liverpool, soft lad.”
I did my best to give Ben a guided tour – “there used to be a half-time gate here, the Shankly Gates were forged in my home town” – but I sensed that Ben was uneasy about being surrounded by so many red shirts. As a Yankee fan in Boston, he should be immune to it all by now. We waited outside the away turnstiles for a little. I noted many foreign fans – easily distinguished by the ubiquitous friendship scarves and an overabundance of Liverpool paraphernalia. They love their scarves, the Scousers. It’s not really a Chelsea thing. It’s more of an Arsenal thing in London, to be honest. I suppose that the Scousers feel forced to adorn scarves so that they can take part in the ritual singing of “You’ll Never Walk Alone” before each game. It wasn’t always like this. In the days of my youth, when I used to listen to Bryon Butler and Peter Jones (do any of the expats remember them?) on Radio Two’s coverage of those Liverpool nights in Europe, “YNWA” would spontaneously erupt during the games on many occasions. For a young kid, listening on a small radio under the bedclothes, it was hauntingly beautiful. These days, “YNWA” seems to be part of the choreographed Anfield package; played at the start of the game on the PA, then sung at the very end of the game by The Kop. Wave that scarf high, be part of the Anfield Experience. I preferred the spontaneity of yester year.
Inside the away end, the signs were not good. I realised that hundreds of seats were going to be unused; a complete section of maybe 1,000 in the corner untouched. Elsewhere, I could sense that the mood amongst the home fans was pretty sombre. There was no pre-match buzz, no sense of occasion. In truth, this has been a disappointing season for them and the F.A. Cup Final defeat made their failings all the more apparent. I took plenty of photographs of the Chelsea players in their pre-match routines. Anfield is cavernous; the dark reaches of The Kop go back way in the distance. It held 30,000 when it was in its prime (with no gangways or walkways – when you were in, you were in) but it now holds around 12,000. It’s still pretty impressive. I once stood on The Kop – the old Kop – in 1992 and it was an amazing old stand. It was the day we won at Anfield in the league for the first time since around 1937. What a day – what a game. When I have enough time, I’ll tell you all about it one day.
The entrance of the teams. A last chance for me to look around. Our away following was poor; maybe around 1,200. However, I did note empty seats in the home areas; not many, for sure, but around 2,000 dotted around in several main sections. It was a night when I would be part of Chelsea lowest league away support for years and years. Had we lost the Cup Final, I dread to think how few would have attended.
Our team was a mix of the young and the willing, the old and the tested. Whatever will be will be.
As the teams lined up and then broke, Gerry Marsden did his bit.
What a disappointing game to mark the last away game of the league season.
Despite his poor showing at Wembley on Saturday, Luis Suarez (he of the Depeche Mode song in his honour) was soon buzzing around and causing our entire defence a whole host of problems. After just 7 minutes, he spun clear but shot narrowly wide. A back heel from Suarez but Andy Carroll shot wide. However, the noise levels were pretty low. The away fans taunted the natives with –
“Where’s your famous atmosphere?”
I feared for Torres, marked by Jamie Carragher, in front of 12,000 baying Scousers in The Kop. Sturridge had a run and his shot was deflected wide. From the following corner, Ivanovic almost repeated his goal from 2009, but his header struck the right post.
Then Suarez struck. A run deep in to our box and the ball was played back into the hapless Essien, who could not avoid scoring an own goal. He slid into the goal and held his head in his hands. One of the images of the season. Soon after, another JT slip let in Jordan Henderson who adroitly side-footed past Ross Turnbull. Now the natives were roaring. Thankfully, we didn’t revert to the “Murderers” chant and, instead, sang a new one –
“It’s never your fault, it’s never your fault. Always the victim, it’s never your fault.”
In the circumstances, pretty restrained stuff, Chelsea. Good to hear.
Soon after, Ross Turnbull did well to tip a Suarez chip over, but Liverpool scored a demoralising third when Agger headed in from close range.
“Fcuk off Chelsea FC – you ain’t got no history.”
This was hurting now. Andy Carroll forced a superb save from Turnbull. All around, our players were misfiring. Essien was toiling and it hurt to see him play. Romeu, so impressive when we were playing well, was off the pace in this poor performance. However, a quick break at the other end and Fernando Torres struck the bar from a ridiculously tight angle. If that had gone in, how pleased we would have been.
How pleased he would have been.
A chance for Liverpool now – a lob by that man Carroll, rejuvenated after Wembley – hit the bar. Then, calamity…from our viewpoint, Ivanovic just stood his ground with Carroll breathing down his neck, but the referee Kevin Friend decided that it was a penalty. Terrible decision. JT argued with the referee, while Torres looked ruefully on. Thankfully, Downing’s daisy-cutter slapped against the post.
Half-time. Oh boy. What a shocker.
“I’d take 3-0 now, Gal.”
In truth, it could have been 6-2 at half-time. In this season of high-scoring results between the top teams, I feared the worst.
Surprisingly, we grabbed a goal back on 50 minutes when an in swinging Florent Malouda free-kick was touched home by Ramires. Thoughts of a surprise come-back flickered through our minds, but we showed the same level of ineptitude as in the first half. On the hour, the game was over when a poor clearance by Ross Turnbull ended up at the feet of Shelvey. He took a touch, then drove it straight into the empty goal. It was another goal that I was right behind the flight of this season.
Liverpool 4 Chelsea 1.
If it stayed like this, we would have experienced our heaviest league defeat in 16 years. The previously biggest defeat was a 5-1 reverse at the same ground during the nascent growing pains of Ruud Gullit’s stewardship in the autumn of 1996.
Wait a second. Let’s think about that. Our heaviest league defeat in 16 years. That just goes to show how Chelsea have played since 1996. What an amazing period for us. In recent memory this season, United have lost 6-1, Arsenal have lost 8-2…yet our biggest defeat in 16 years was 4-1? Pretty damn amazing.
In truth, the rest of the game was memorable only for a few bursting runs from substitute Romelu Lukaku and the resilience of Ryan Bertrand at left-back. Elsewhere, we were shoddy and shocking. Lukaku headed straight at Reyna from inside the box. At 4-2, it would have matched our 4-2 defeat against City in 2010. Two more chances came and went for Andy Carroll. A header from Agger flew past the far post. At times our defending was comical, like something that the Keystone Cops would have been embarrassed to be linked with. However, despite the baying thousands in The Kop and the Main Stand, let’s reflect on this game and the previous one; an F.A. Cup win over a meaningless 4-1 defeat every time please.
I wasted no time in hurrying out at the end. There was only a short wait at the car park and I was soon on my way home. For once, I had beaten the traffic – a lot of the home fans had waited behind to see the Liverpool players perform a lap of honour.
Out on the M6, the music was on and by the time I had stopped to refuel with a pasty, a sandwich, some crisps and some “Cokes”, I can honestly say the game was drifting out of my consciousness. I was in cruise control mode now, enjoying the night driving, enjoying the music, enjoying my own company. I drove past the Chelsea supporters coach; Alan and I exchanged texts. The journey south is a familiar route. I must know every bump in the road. I eventually reached home at a fraction before 2am. The rain was now falling and I just wanted to get inside to bed.
It was a bad day at the office. Let’s hope that games 57 and 58 are not similarly bleak.
Bryon Butler : The Voice Of My Childhood.
“Maradona, turns like a little eel, he comes away from trouble, little squat man… comes inside Butcher and leaves him for dead, outside Fenwick and leaves him for dead, and puts the ball away… and that is why Maradona is the greatest player in the world.”
From the days when commentators were wordsmiths.