Tales From The Fosse

Leicester City vs. Chelsea : 29 April 2015.

The league season was continuing with two away games on the trot. A trip to Arsenal on the Sunday would be followed by a trip to Leicester City on the Wednesday. A win at Arsenal would have set up a championship-decider at the King Power Stadium but it was not to be. This was always going to be an away trip to savour as it included that rare event, a new stadium. It was just a shame that it was now taking place on a midweek evening, when visits to stadia tend to be rather truncated affairs. My travel companions for this particular trip were Parky and Andy, both veterans of previous sojourns to a city that I had only ever visited once before for football, and only twice on any other occasion. I very much felt like the junior member. It is odd that I had only ever visited Filbert Street once – over thirty years ago in 1985 in fact – but I guess it was all down to circumstances. On previous occasions I presume that I was limited by financial constraints.

In truth, Parky was very lucky to be going at all. Due to the club’s cock-eyed decision to let tickets for this potentially key fixture to be sold with no loyalty points system in operation, Parky unfortunately missed out. I needed to ask for a favour from a transport company that I have been using for express loads around Europe for twelve years, based in Leicester, for an extra ticket. Within ten minutes of my call, Tim – the owner – had sorted me out a ticket in the home stand. On the basis that I could trust myself among the home fans rather than Parky, we agreed that it would be circumspect for him to have my ticket alongside Alan and Gary in the away corner. Everyone was happy.

I left half-an-hour early from work at 3pm. I gulped back a tin of Starbuck’s double espresso and we were off, headed north and through some splendid Gloucestershire towns and villages. Very soon in to the trip, I asked Andy a little trivia question.

“Why is the road that we are currently on relevant to tonight’s fixture?”

“Well, we’re on the Fosseway, aren’t we? An old Roman road.”

“Correct.”

“Ah, no idea.”

“Well, Leicester City’s first ever name was Leicester Fosse.”

I think Andy yawned.

Although it was a fine spring afternoon, with the Cotswolds looking resplendent and the sky dotted with small cumulus clouds, there were towering cumulonimbus clouds away on the horizon. I wondered if our trip to Leicester would eventually take place amid persistent rain, and the evening’s game against resurgent Leicester City too. As we circumnavigated round Coventry – by comparison I have seen us play there on five occasions – the weather was holding up but we became ensnared in some slow-moving rush hour traffic. The delays continued on as we headed north on the M69 to Leicester. It was a good thing that we had left Chippenham at 3pm. Any later and I would have been getting deeply frustrated.

At around 6.30pm, we were parked up on Shakespeare Street, around fifteen minutes to the south of the stadium. The Shakespeare’s Head at Arsenal on Saturday and Shakespeare Street in Leicester on Wednesday.

“2-0 or not 2-0; that is the question.”

We chatted about the evening’s game and whereas Andy and Parky were gung-ho about the result, I was predictably more cautious. Parky fancied a 3-1 win. Without Diego Costa, I honestly wondered where our goals would come from. Leicester City, of course, were in the middle of a fine resurgence, winning four crucial games on the bounce. Dead and buried a month ago, they were now looking a lot livelier. Four of their last five games were at home. Relegation was not the foregone conclusion it once was. I had this strange feeling that they might score first. The sun was still shining, but there was a chilling wind. The rain had held off, thus far.

“Fabregas is magic…”

I headed off to meet Tim, his young son Oliver and two of Tim’s workmates Rob and Stuart; nice to meet people that I have spoken to on the ‘phone for ages. They were all, obviously, Leicester fans. We enjoyed a chat and a refreshing beer in a modern pub called “The Local Hero.” Tim, and the others, was very worried that ex-Charlton and Liverpool left-back Paul Konchesky was playing. They predicted that he would be City’s weakest link.

At about 7.15pm, we set off for the stadium. Nearing the ground, I spotted the large electricity pylons and associated electricity sub-station that I had recognised from my visit to Filbert Street in February 1985. The station was just to the south of Filbert Street. It is just to the north of the King Power Stadium; the two sites are very close. I also spotted the new stand roof at Leicester’s Welford Road stadium too. I remember being escorted past that stadium, a very thin police escort at that, after the game at Filbert Street all those years ago.

Some comparisons.

Attendance.

1985 – 15,657

2015 – 32,021

Capacity.

1985 – 29,000

2015 – 32,500

Away fans.

1985 – 4,000

2015 – 3,000

Seat ticket.

1985 – £4.50 on day of game

2015 – £40 in advance

Club owners.

1985 – English

2015 – Thai and Russian

The Chelsea players.

1985 – English, Welsh, Scottish

2015 – Czech, Serbian, Spanish, English, Belgian, Brazilian and Ivorian

Heroes.

1985 – Dixon, Speedie, Nevin

2015 – Hazard, Terry, Diego Costa

Chelsea kit.

1985 – all yellow

2015 – all yellow

I spotted a couple of fellows wearing black and silver magicians’ hats outside the away end.

“He wears a magic hat…”

Another work friend, Sally, had been in contact throughout my trip north but our paths never crossed. Sally would be sat in the home end.

Sally to Chris : “I will be the one front row corner of the kop, tunnel side, going mental if we score.”

Chris to Sally : “when you score.”

I made my way in to the East Stand and quickly found my place. It was a great seat; Tim had done me proud. Not only was my seats “gratis” but it was in line with the penalty spot. I rolled my eyes when I saw a noise-maker waiting for me.

The 3,000 away fans, all stood, were at the far end of the East Stand. It was a neat stadium, slightly larger than its lookalike in Southampton. The teams entered the pitch. I had decided that my modus operandi for the evening would be polite applause for Leicester – and Chelsea if I could disguise it well enough. The Kop to my left housed the more vociferous home support. The corner next to me, with flags of varying quality pinned to the back wall, housed the noisiest of all.

As the game began, the sky was filled with a fearsome, billowing thundercloud. It was difficult to take my eyes off it. As the players scurried about, with the Chelsea kit mirroring the lemon of 1985, huge towers of rain were seen to fall in the distance. The clouds looked ominous. Sure enough, not long in to the game there was a rainstorm. Then, gradually, the sky turned from a mix of light lavender and moody grey to a lighter blue. The sun directly opposite me tinged the sky yellow and then orange and gold. It was a gorgeous sight.

“He could have signed for Arsenal…”

Leicester City definitely edged the first-half. The continual desire from us to maintain possession without real penetration left me frustrated. Soon in to the game, I realised that Cambiasso was their main cog. He stood out. He was very impressive. The home fans were shaking their noise-makers – “Clap Bangers” if you will – and were getting right behind their team. The songs were constant, with Leicester variations of “Cum On Feel The Noize” and “Yellow Submarine” reverberating around me. There was also, typically, “The Great Escape.” Then, a song which scanned perfectly :

“He’s magic, you know – Esteban Cambiasso.”

There were murmurings of pain from my neighbours when Andy King and then Robert Huth were substituted within the first twenty-five minutes. I almost – almost – felt for them. However, we failed to take advantage.

Our key players seemed to be subdued. A fine block from Petr Cech – always lovely to see him get a game in these last few weeks of his Chelsea life – kept us in the game, but Leicester were pressing hard. For once, Dave was getting turned down in front of me. In the last of three added minutes at the end of the first-half, Jamie Vardy breezed past Dave and sent a cross in to the box. Marc Allbrighton calmly swept the loose ball low past Cech.

Damn. I stood, a little later than the rest; I didn’t want to give the game away. I had photographed the goal and I now found myself, surreally, photographing the wild celebrations just yards away.

Chris to Sally : “told you.”

The mood was buoyant in the stands at the break. Ex-Chelsea forward Alan Birchenall, who hosts the corporate stuff at Leicester these days, introduced ex-England legend Peter Shilton to the half-time coffee-drinkers and programme-readers.

I wondered what the mood was like in the north-east quadrant.

I am sure that the noise generated by our supporters in the first-half was up to its usual high standard for away games, but from where I was sat, the noise didn’t appear to be that great. It felt odd to be alone, away from so many mates.

There was an extra zip to our play as the second-half began. More urgency. More pressing. More determination. Just as I was wondering if all of this would continue and indeed amount to anything, Ivanovic clipped the ball in from a good position and Didier Drogba swivelled and swept the ball low past Schmeichel. Not only did I photograph the shot, but the exuberant run and slide from Didier which followed. Now I could hear the away fans. Andy, Parky and I had commented earlier how rare his goals have been this season.

I sat calmly, but I was so relieved.

Our play continued its metamorphosis as the second-half continued. Matic put in a sterling performance and was back to his best, closing space, making life difficult for his foes, and then maintaining possession well. The midfielders grew in confidence, none more so than Willian, who gave that man Konchesky a torrid time on our right. Didier was a new man, troubling the Leicester goal with a couple of efforts. I silently prayed for more Chelsea goals.

“But he said no, fuck that…”

With around ten minutes of play left, a Fabregas corner found the head of Cahill, but the block from Schmeichel fell nicely for none other than John Terry to stab the ball in from inside the six yard box.

I inwardly and silently screamed.

I had again captured the goal, or at least the loose ball in flight before JT intervened, and I now calmly snapped our leader’s delirious run and slide towards the corner. I really was perfectly placed.

“He passes with his left foot…”

Just four minutes later, the ball held up just on the edge of the Leicester City box for Ramires to magnificently slam the ball in to the goal with a perfectly controlled rising drive. Again, on film, and again his celebrations were but yards away and captured on film, though I am not sure why he stuck the ball up his shirt.

“He passes with his right…”

Leicester were now quiet and our support took over. The noise was great to hear. A massive bouncy took over the entire away end. There had been a very loud song for Willian during the second-half, but now one song took over on a repeated loop.

“And when we win the league again, we’ll sing this song all night.”

“Ooooooooooooooooooooooooh…Fabregas is magic. He wears a magic hat. He could have signed for Arsenal. He said oh no, fuck that. He passes with his left foot, he passes with his right. And when we win the league again, we’ll sing this song all night.”

The players, at the final whistle, walked over to the away fans.

Another momentous win and another fantastic evening.

I quickly made my way back to the waiting car. The natives were quiet. I felt their pain. A Leicester City fan wouldn’t let up on the Konchesky talk :

“He was voted the worst ever Liverpool defender, you know.”

After the game.

1985 – Police escort, scuffles everywhere

2015 – Normality

I reached Shakespeare Street. It was 10pm on the dot.

Andy and Parky were not far behind me. There was an immediate rush of pent-up joy as I explained how much I had enjoyed the match. Until then, my lips had been sealed. To be fair, the home fans around had been perfectly fine. There was no noticeable anti-Chelsea nonsense. They just supported their team and I think that they will genuinely stay up, a sentiment that I shared with Sally and Tim.

It was a slightly easier return trip back down The Fosseway, but I still didn’t get home until around 1.30am.

Still, there are no complaints from me.

This has been our season. We have dominated this league from our first game at Burnley in August and now we stand on the edge of greatness.

One more win, boys.

One more win.

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