Tales From The Blue Carpet

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 10 May 2015.

With our fifth League Championship secured, the main focus before our match with Liverpool – our most bitterest of rivals over the past ten seasons – was on the guard of honour which the visitors were aiming to provide for us. There was also the matter of their captain Steven Gerrard’s last ever game in SW6, but I preferred the focus to be on us, the Champions. Three more games. Three more wins please. I wanted nine points and nine points only.

With time to kill before the 4pm kick-off, I idly spent an hour or so in and around Stamford Bridge, bumping in to a few friends outside the stadium and in a couple of bars. It is a strange fact of my life that I can run in to more acquaintances in half-an-hour outside any stadium where Chelsea are about to perform than half-an-hour in my nearest town centre. I grew increasingly frustrated by the sight of tout after tout crowding around the entrances to the tube station and stadium. I also muttered many uncomplimentary swear words under my breath – and sometimes over it – about the huge amount of people sporting joint Chelsea and Liverpool game-day “friendship” scarves. The most tell-tale sign of a wet-behind-the-ears first-timer, these scarves are stain on the English football scene. If visitors fancy a poignant reminder of their first-ever visit to Stamford Bridge, I would rather they bought a simple match programme. The need for ridiculous adornment leaves me cold.

And angry.

But you knew that.

Outside The Chelsea Pensioner, formerly the Black Bull, visitors were seen to be checking to see if their names were on the match day guest list. How things change. Back in the promotion campaign of 1988-1989, I used to frequent this lovely and perfectly-placed pub on the Fulham Road before games. In those days, my drinking partners were Alan and Gary – as of now – but also Paul from Brighton and two brothers, Mark and Paul, who I have not seen at Chelsea for maybe fifteen years. In those days, there were no guest lists. I walked past the quaint Fox And Pheasant, with drinkers nestling pints as they laughed in the bright sunlight. I took a photograph of several pastel-coloured houses, lined-up in a tight terrace, with the towering roof supports of Darbourne and Darke’s East Stand visible above.

This was a quintessentially Chelsea match day scene. Here was football-life and non-football life existing cheek by jowl. How cosmopolitan. How Chelsea.

Back on the North End Road, I popped in to The Cock Tavern, scene of my first-ever pint on a match day at Chelsea. This pub, much changed and much-gentrified since April 1984, is another lovely pub. We are truly blessed at Chelsea.

In The Goose beer garden, even more faces, even more laughter.

Lo and behold, who should be standing next to Alan and Gary, but Mark from the Black Bull twenty-six years ago. It was great to see him again. He was with his son. I gave Mark a big old hug.

Inside Stamford Bridge, I glanced at Jose Mourinho’s programme notes.

“You supporters, I think you also had some responsibility for my return, so I want to share my happiness and my pride with you all and I want to thank you.”

“I also want to honour a dear enemy: Steve Gerrard. We need dear enemies to be better, to be pushed to the limits, and no one in this country was that dear enemy better than Steve Gerrard – a super player and a good man, for sure.”

In came Filipe Luis, Kurt Zouma, Ruben Loftus-Cheek, Jon Obi Mikel and Loic Remy. Big things are expected of Loftus-Cheek. It was lovely to see him start.

Over in the far corner were the three thousand away fans, but with a few empty seats. Some of those empty seats were not filled the whole afternoon. I spotted some of the balconies had been given a lick of royal blue paint, with the simple words “We Are The Champions” at regular intervals.

And then I spotted a huge – long and wide – royal blue carpet stretched out from the tunnel towards the centre-circle.

“Bloody hell Alan. No expense spared there mate. I’ve never seen such a big bloody carpet. Nothing like rubbing their noses in it.”

Soon enough, the eleven Liverpool players walked out and lined the way for the Champions. This must have been hell incarnate for them. Within only a few seconds, the Chelsea players strode by, led by captain fantastic John Terry. The roar from the home supporters was magnificent. I noted that both sets of players soon veered off the blue carpet, as if embarrassed by the size of it. If something similar was ever done under the chairmanship of Ken Bates, I would have expected stern words before the game :

“Don’t get mud on that bloody carpet, I’m taking it back to the shop on Monday.”

Roman, I expect, can afford carpet.

The first-half was relatively pleasing, with Chelsea enjoying most of the possession. Within a few seconds, a flying tackle by Cesc Fabregas left Raheem Sterling in a crumpled mess on the turf. The stoppage of play allowed the Bridge choir to unleash our favourite Demba Ba song towards the listening Liverpool captain. We were back in the schoolyard once more.

After just five minutes, a lovely Fabregas corner found the leap of John Terry, whose powerful downward header flew past Mignolet and Gerrard on the line.

The place was rocking.

Alan : “ehhh, THTCAUN.”

Chris : “COMLD, like.”

Play was at times overly pretty – from both sides – with many back-heels, self-indulgent dribbles and silly intricacies. Liverpool were not without merit, but we held the advantage.

The MH were in good voice. The serenaded the owner, who waved, in embarrassment no doubt. Then, a cheeky request –

“Roman, Give Us A Song. Roman, Roman, Give Us A Song.”

The sun was out and there was carnival atmosphere brewing.

I whispered to Alan :

“Must say it is lovely to see Liverpool and Manchester United squabbling over fourth place this season.”

An injured Zouma was replaced by Gary Cahill.

Towards the end of the first-half, there was a challenge on Fabregas by Gerrard out on the touchline in front of the West Stand. The newly-watered pitch proved problematic for the Scouse captain, who fell. He quickly scrambled back to his feet, but the moment was not lost on the home support.

“Steve Gerrard, Gerrard…”

There were also songs for our own players of course. The widely loved Willian song has consistently been the most loudly sung ditty all season; ironic, really, because it has taken a while for the typically Mourinho-esque qualities of our combative Brazilian to be appreciated by some. Then, of course, making a late run in our affections over the past two weeks – is that all? – is the Magic Hat song, which was sung with gusto too.

With the songs raining down on the players, we hoped for more goals.

Ricky Lambert, enjoying – or rather enduring – a rare start, was roundly booed for a silly tackle on Thibaut Courtois, for which he was booked. With hardly believable rumours about us buying the Liverpool striker next season floating around the pubs before the game, the Chelsea supporters aired their views :

“What A Waste Of Money.”

It was redolent of the anti-George Graham chants in 1996.

Alas, a Jordan Henderson free-kick down below me in the north-west corner was pumped high towards the far post where the ridiculously unmarked Steven Gerrard nodded in past Courtois.

“Bollocks. Him.”

Gerrard’s celebrations were oddly muted, but the away fans roared.

Had I just photographed his last ever goal for Liverpool?

Who cares?

Level at the break, we hoped for more Chelsea goals to come.

Just after the second-half began, Filipe Luis completely lost his sense of geography, allowing his man to set up a chance for Coutinho.

“Bloody hell, how did he miss that?”

The second-half was rather a disappointment. If I am honest, Liverpool edged it. Coutinho, just like at Anfield earlier in the season, was their best player. Lalana looked busy. We, on the other hand, looked flat. Willian was possibly our best player, causing considerable damage down their left. Eden Hazard drifted in and out. Shots were rare.

With the need for three points guiding him, Mourinho replaced Loftus-Cheek – a fine debut – with the dependable Nemanja Matic. However, we still struggled. Liverpool peppered our goal with a few half-chances. It was hardly inspiring stuff from Chelsea.

As Cesc waited to take a corner below, the MH serenaded him. Although his back was towards us, he seemed to be reveling in the love.

With just over ten minutes remaining, there was one more moment of theatre. There was an announcement of a Liverpool substitution.

As soon as the much-derided figure of Steven Gerrard began walking across the sun-kissed Stamford Bridge pitch towards the Liverpool bench under the towering East Stand, I was surprised to hear – and feel – the immediate recognition of his services to the game of football, and our bitter rivals in particular, through a spontaneous round of applause which seemed to start in the Matthew Harding, but was soon followed throughout the stadium. This was a genuine surprise and I was honestly pleased with this. Despite all of the sarcasm and derision aimed at Gerrard over the years, here was a little acceptance in our ranks of the role played by him for Liverpool and England.

Yes, the own goal in Cardiff in 2005, the back-pass in 2010 and the slip in 2014, but also some heavyweight battle royales – with and against our Frank – over the years too.

I stood and clapped. To be quite honest, I had told a few friends before the match that I was in some doubt whether or not Brendan Rodgers would put the Liverpool captain through the rigours of a game at Stamford Bridge, knowing full well that a certain song would accompany Gerrard all day long. His form has not been great all season; surely there was no need for Gerrard to play. His appearance in the starting eleven surprised me. A grudging respect to them for that; he could so easily have shied away. As Gerrard strode off the pitch, he raised both arms and applauded the home sections, with a quick glance towards the spectators in the Matthew Harding.

File under : “Fackinell. I Never Thought I Would See That At The Bridge.”

Of course, the biggest irony of all is the comparison between this match and the encounter with Norwich City in the last home game of last season. In that match, Frank Lampard, Gerrard’s erstwhile rival and arch protagonist, was replaced by David Luiz at the interval. Therefore, there was no stage-managed substitution for Frank. There was no chance for us to clap him from the pitch. Admittedly, of course, there was a certain uncertainty about his future. But Lampard never played for Chelsea again. He did not play any part in the season’s finale at Cardiff City the following week. His last moments in Chelsea blue involved him sloping off the pitch at half-time against Norwich City. Indeed, at the end of the Norwich game, with a good three-quarters of the crowd either on their way home or on their way to the pub, Frank Lampard meekly walked around the Stamford Bridge pitch in a lap of appreciation with his team mates. With barely 10,000 watching from the stands, there was no great last hurrah, there was no great final round of applause and no great anything. The last ever appearances – the last ever moments –  of Frank Lampard in a Chelsea shirt at The Bridge and of Steven Gerrard in a Liverpool shirt at The Bridge could not be more dissimilar.

Gerrard 1 Lampard 0.

And that hasn’t happened too often.

Cuadrado replaced a quiet Remy. Hazard was moved up top.

The game drifted on. Despite a heart-in-the-mouth moment at the end when a lucky deflection took the venom off a Liverpool shot and enabled Courtois to safely gather, there was little drama. We had edged the first forty-five minutes and Liverpool the second.

A draw was a fair result.

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