Chelsea vs. Newcastle United : 10 January 2015.
There is something essentially timeless about a Chelsea vs. Newcastle United match at Stamford Bridge. Other opponents engender far greater passions and there are certainly deeper rivalries, but – for me, anyway – I always love it when it is the turn of the black and white hordes to descend upon SW6 from Ashington, Wallsend, Byker, Hexham, Gateshead, Gosforth, Jarrow and Hebburn. As I never tire of saying, my first ever game at Stamford Bridge – March 1974 – was against the Geordies, and that match, plus a few others, are always in my mind when we play them afresh each year. Before the trip to London, I did some investigating, using my 1,000 game plus spreadsheet – you didn’t think I had one, shame on you – and it became apparent that I have seen every single one of the past twenty-two league encounters at Stamford Bridge between the two teams. The game on Saturday 10 January would be game number twenty-three. From season 1986-1987 to this season, I’ve seen them all. All have been in the top flight, but there are a few yearly gaps, as both teams have “missed” each other by doing the unthinkable and getting relegated and playing in the second tier; most recently them in 2009-2010 and us in 1988-1989. However, in many seasons in the early ‘eighties, we were in the second division together, like bosom buddies. There is simply no escaping them. Newcastle United are always there.
They are, in fact, my second-most viewed team at Stamford Bridge. The current totals are –
- Liverpool – 38
- Newcastle United – 33
- Manchester United – 32
- Tottenham Hotspur – 32
- Arsenal – 29
Quick, someone get hold of Liverpool…they’re top of something.
I really admire one thing about Newcastle United; the simple fact that they have always showed up at Stamford Bridge in their first choice black and white kit.
Year after year, season after season.
To be honest, they have only beaten us twice in that run of league games…1986-1987 and 2011-2012…you might think they would try another kit, if only as some desperate measure to reverse their fortunes.
I travelled up to London with LP and PD. My pre-match was rather hectic. Firstly I passed on match tickets to a couple of friends and I then met up with Helena and Iain outside the Peter Osgood statue at just before 1pm. Helena was at the tail end of a fortnight-long visit to London from her home in Nashville, Tennessee, while Iain was visiting for the day from Glasgow. I had not met either before, but it had been suggested by one of my US Facebook pals that I meet up with Helena to give her a little pre-match tour. Helena had bumped into Iain at their local in Nashville while he was over in the US. One or two clicks on a Facebook page, and a meet-up was arranged. I was more than happy to hear that both were keen to join me back at The Goose…
“It’s only fifteen minutes away at the most, but the way a lot of Americans talk, it had might as well be in Neasden.”
As we walked up the North End Road, I mentioned a few snippets of Chelsea folklore. For me to get everything in, we would have needed to crawl to a snail’s pace, but I did my best. It was a busy Saturday lunchtime in SW6. Supporters were milling around, popping from bar to street to bookie, and there seemed to be more than the usual share of touts in attendance.
Inside The Goose, I think that the sight that greeted Helena took her aback; she had probably never seen so many Chelsea supporters in one pub before. And, my, it was bloody crowded. I fought my way to the bar, and it seemed to take an age to get served. Of course, in reality, a relatively small percentage of supporters were actually wearing Chelsea colours; it is something that we, as a club, tend not to do. Apart from PD, nobody in my little band of amigos ever wears a Chelsea shirt. Chelsea fans not wearing Chelsea shirts? It must be one of the biggest head fucks which first time visitors to a Chelsea game are forever asked to deal with.
It seems to me that supporters from Adelaide, Bangkok, Chicago, Dubai and Everywhere apart from the UK tend to cover themselves head to foot in royal blue favours. One presumes that it helps to forge bonds in faraway places. Yet I personally stopped doing this when I was about sixteen, along with many others. I used to wear Chelsea shirts occasionally, maybe a retro one for a Cup Final, but hardly ever over the past fifteen years. Frequent visitors to this site will know how a sea change happened within football subculture in the late ‘seventies, and most of my generation still adhere to these principles.
Less is more.
While I had been roaming the streets of Fulham (head fuck number two – “Chelsea” is in Fulham), the rest of the boys had been diving head first into copious amounts of alcohol. It was time to ask Helena the all-important question :
“How did you become a Chelsea supporter?”
Well, I may have got the story a little wrong, but it seems that Helena had been a fan of football – not many of my US pals call it soccer, thank heavens – for a while and was wondering which team to support. Her then boyfriend favoured Arsenal, but that wasn’t a valid enough reason. After watching a few of our games, Helena plumped for us.
“So you chose Chelsea to piss-off your boyfriend. Excellent.”
“We’re not together anymore.”
There are a regular bunch who show up in Nashville to see our games early on Saturday morning each week. This is tremendous.
As soon as Parky heard that Iain was “fae Glasgow”, Iain had to quickly say that he supported “neither of them, just Chelsea.” There always seems to be an easy assumption that all Scottish Chelsea fans favour Rangers. This is simply not true. Helena was enjoying herself in the pub. I kept telling her that everywhere you looked in The Goose, you would see fans who go week in and week out, home and away, wherever. I think that this impressed her. She was keen to mark her attendance with a team photo.
A rose among thorns could never be more apt.
Daryl and I spoke, wistfully, about the two thumpings that we served to Newcastle in the year of 1980…4-0 in January and 6-0 in October. Daryl was at both, I was at the latter. We agreed that the last time Newcastle played with anything other than a black and white kit was the January game.
The memory of the October game still gives me goose-bumps.
At 10.24, in about the fifth row of the East Lower, my blue and white bar scarf is just about visible.
“This first time football of Chelsea is a joy to watch.”
Last week, I mentioned a Gary Chivers goal…this was it.
Incidentally, listen to the noise of that buoyant home crowd…it makes me yearn even more for those days.
On the walk to the ground, more bloody touts. They had ventured even further out than normal and were looking to buy extras rather than just sell spares. This obviously suggested massive demand. As I have said before, even though our attendance is always around the 41,500 mark, we don’t always sell-out. There are usual empty seats here and there. On this occasion, a sell-out would be on the money.
All £2.5M of it.
Opposite the West Stand entrance, some graffiti honoured those murdered in Paris.
As I was lining up at the turnstiles, I flicked through the match programme and was very pleased to see a long feature on Hughie Gallacher, our star centre-forward, who bewitched and beguiled fans of both Chelsea and Newcastle United in the inter-war years. Those black and white photographs of Gallacher, who committed suicide in 1957, haunt me and fascinate me in equal measure. Gallacher, along with Lawton and Greaves, has achieved mystical and mythical status in my mind. He is a player that I am intrigued with. He is one of many superstars who were lured to The Bridge in that period; there always was an allure to Chelsea Football And Athletic Company, as it was then known, despite the fact that for fifty years we won nothing.
I might be talking nonsense here, but there might be a very strong case for Chelsea and Newcastle United to be the two teams in England with the biggest average home attendances up until the start of World War Two in 1939. I am positive that the Geordies constantly had the highest attendances until the Tottenham boom in the ‘fifties and then the Manchester United boom soon after. Maybe Arsenal might have threatened to be in that top two, but we would certainly be in the top three until 1939.
Maybe I’ll do some further investigating.
Whatever, it is very unlikely that fans of other teams, once we had secured our first piece of silverware in 1955, were ever presupposed to politely enquire :
“Where were you when you weren’t quite so good, old chap?”
Inside – yes – Stamford Bridge was full to bursting. Not so much a Toon Army this time though; as Daryl commented in the pub…”more like a platoon army.”
Not 3,000 this time – nearer 1,500.
And not one single flag. They don’t do flags, the Geordies. Not sure why.
We had heard that Courtois had injured his finger and so Petr Cech was recalled. A change in the middle of the defence too, with Gary Cahill rested and Kurt Zouma taking his place. Elsewhere, we fielded a team with familiar names. And yet it was the away team who carved out the best chances throughout a mundane, from our perspective, first-half. We had much of the ball, but found it difficult to prise open the Newcastle defence. Once we had the ball, our movement was poor. Even Diego Costa was found lacking.
“Move’em about” yelled Alan.
I thought of previous years and previous strikers. I remembered how Gianluca Vialli, especially, was a constant blur, with all of his selfless running, pulling defences out of shape.
And it was bloody quiet too. It was as if the quietness of the Watford game last Sunday had continued into this one.
On seventeen minutes, the away supporters remembered John and Liam, the two fans killed over the Ukraine as they traveled to Kuala Lumpur last summer to watch their team play. Alan, PD and I joined the applause for a few moments, but we were the only Chelsea fans in our section that did. In 2011, I traveled to Kuala Lumpur to see Chelsea, so their deaths certainly hit home. As Alan remarked :
“It could have been any of us.”
Remy Cabella was the main thorn in our side in that worrying first-half period, showing great endeavor and skill, raiding at will and prompting others with fine passes. Only a last-ditch clearance from John Terry stopped the visitors taking a deserved lead.
A Chelsea break, involving the relatively quiet Eden Hazard and Diego Costa petered out when our centre-forward elected to pass rather than fire on sight. The home crowd moaned.
A fine low shot from Cabella produced an equally fine save from Cech, who collapses on low shots so well for a tall man. Then, Sissoko slammed the ball against the upright. We were struggling. Amid the worry, an injured Azpilicueta was replaced by Filipe Luis.
Then, the game changed.
It was all a blur really.
A corner was conceded by Newcastle and Willian reacted incredibly quickly. With the defence half-asleep, the ball was quickly played in to the path of Ivanovic – that most forward of defenders – and he played the ball back for Oscar to thump home. Krul was at sixes, sevens, eights and nines and could only slam the ball into the roof of the net once he had realised what had happened behind his back. The Stamford Bridge crowd roared. But I knew the score; our lead was quite undeserved.
Wor Alan : “They’ll have to come at wo’now,like.”
Wor Chris : “Come on wor little diamonds.”
In the last moment of the half, Krul made amends by saving well from a Willian free-kick.
We were leading, but it had been a poor half. I walked past Gal and heard him say three words which I thought would never pass his lips :
“We’re missing Mikel.”
Soon into the second-half, Coloccini – he of the David Luiz comparison – stopped a ball from entering the danger zone with his raised arm, but the referee waved play on. Maybe it was “ball to hand” but why was his arm raised so high if his intention was not to stop the ball?
Alan : “Who is the referee?”
Chris : “Roger East. Should be Roger North-East.”
We were driven on by the devilish skills of Eden Hazard and the tenacity of Diego Costa, and we stepped-up in the second period. It was a much more pleasing performance. On the hour, a delightful move right in front of me involving Hazard and Oscar, worked the ball in to the path of Diego Costa. He was afforded just a little too much space and he rolled the ball square. Time seemed to stand still, and he took an extra touch – just to be sure – before drilling the ball back across Krul into the corner.
The stadium jumped to life in adoration as our scorer ran, arms outspread, in an arc, with Willian joining his celebratory run, before he joined up with the rest of the Chelsea brothers in blue. I managed to stay as calm as I could and snapped this most joyous of moments.
The game was, now, surely safe.
Newcastle rarely threatened, save for a speculative cross shot from Ameobi, which Cech turned over. As our dominance continued, Matic impressed with his typical shows of defensive prowess and tireless running. Young Zouma hardly put a foot wrong all game and there was something inately reassuring about his simple clearances and strong challenges. A mesmerizing run by Hazard set up Costa, who glided through the Newcastle defence, only for his goal-bound shot to be cleared. News came through that Manchester City had gone ahead, only for Everton to equalise soon after. Loic Remy, sadly underused thus far into his Chelsea career, replaced Costa and his one effort buzzed across the six-yard box.
It remained 2-0 and it was, no doubts, a well fought win.
However, on a day when our play in both halves was as different as black and white, we were to thank our brothers in blue to help us back on to the top of the standings, with no need for numeric or even alphabetic assistance.
It had been a fine day.
Next up – one of my favourite away trips at the moment.
Over the water to Wales. Tidy.