Tales From The Beer Garden

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bolton Wanderers : 11 April 2009.

Well, this was a strange old game of football, eh?

In my mind, the league is just too far away and so this game represented a chance for us to just keep ticking over – to fine tune ourselves for the two cup games on the near horizon. Things were really subdued on the car ride up from Frome. It was as if the events at Anfield had sapped all of our collective strength.

Nevertheless, Karen made good time and we were soon scoffing down a breakfast in the café. The towns around Frome were represented by eleven Chelsea fans in the café, to be augmented by three more in The Goose. It was a good showing.

This was a really hectic pre-match in Gooseland. Scouser Reg – the landlord – was subdued…wonder why. I found myself flitting in and out of the bar and the packed beer garden…this was our first home game for four weeks and we had much to discuss. I picked up my semi-final ticket and Rob had tales of flights to Barcelona. Mike from New York was already in the beer garden when we got in at 11.30am – he soon handed out “Sporting News” Baseball Previews to the three baseball fans present ( Neil, Daryl and me ). He also presented me with a Yankees fan guide, to whet my appetite ahead of my two games in July.

I noted that amongst the food outlets at the new Yankee Stadium there was one called “Otis Spunkmeyer” ( freshly-cooked cookies ). There, in a nutshell, is the reason why baseball will never make it in England…it just doesn’t translate.

Mike was joined by a few of his NYBs – Curtis, Karen, Keith and Carrie, plus Dave who I last saw in LA ( he was the one trying to get everyone to do the conga at the Galaxy game ). Then we had Dutch Mick too. One of Mike’s friends was introduced to me – Guido, from Berlin, who comes over for about 12 games preseason. He chatted with my mate Glenn who knows Berlin very well. Parky arrived a bit later, with a lad who was at his first Chelsea game…and I believe he “entertained” Carrie and Karen for a while. It is amazing that I had time to drink anything – a season high seven pints at that. All too soon it was time to set off for The Bridge. I walked down with Henry, a guy I met in NYC last June who know lives in England again.

What were we doing twenty-five years ago? Something similar! Chelsea played Fulham at the Bridge and this was my ninth game of 1983-84 and I travelled up by train with Glenn. In those days, we never went into pubs before the game, mainly due to lack of finances. We used to head for the forecourt and just enjoy the pre-match buzz. Even at that stage, we got to recognise a few familiar faces at every game…some of which I haven’t seen for ten years or more. What happened to them? Priced out, I guess. Before this game, I managed to get Pat Nevin to sign my match programme and I even had the briefest of chats with him. It would be my only chat with my hero until we met in Moscow last year. In 1984, it went something like this.

“Hey, I’m taller than you, Pat!”

“That’s not hard.”

During that season, we advanced from The Shed into The Benches and we would always be one of the first ones to get to these unreserved wooden benches. On that particular day, we were right at the back – prime seats – and on the half-way line. I think I may have mentioned before that Glenn had been talking to some lads coming back from the Newcastle game a few weeks earlier. As luck would have it – fate? – these same lads were now sat right in front of us. The crowd that day was over 31,000. How amazing…what were the chances? Those lads were Alan and Paul, friends to this day. I think that they were a bit miffed that they had been shunted out of their usual seats to be honest! In that game, twenty-five years ago, Colin Lee scored after the first attack of the game and the duo of Dixon and Speedie had grabbed a goal apiece to give us a 3-0 lead at the break. My man Nevin made it 4-0 in the second-half. It was an easy victory.

It left Chelsea top, ahead of Sheffield Wednesday and Newcastle United on goal difference, but Wednesday had played two games less. Manchester City were seven points adrift in fourth place.

Back in those days, I lingered long and hard at our potential. If we managed to attract 31,947 for Fulham in a Second Division game, how many would we get in the top flight? To be honest, our support turned out to be quite fickle over the next season with many gates below 20,000. How big was Chelsea? Potentially massive…I hoped. Fast forward twenty-five years and we drew 41,000 for a home game yet again.

I noted the New York Blues flag draped over The Shed wall, next to a Canadian flag – I believe it said “Brantford Ontario” or something similar. Also present for the first time was one of the smaller away flags – “Chelsea FC Pride Of London” which was pinned against the grey wall of the Shed as it abuts the West Stand.

The game followed the Fulham game of 1984…4-0 up and coasting. What happened in the last twenty minutes, I have no idea. We just defended awfully.

Of course, I am sure the fact that Liverpool needs to score three goals, yet we let Bolton score three in nine minutes is not lost on anyone. Maybe it can act as a kick-in-the-pants we need.

The crowd seemed quite subdued, apart from when we sang the usual assortment of anti-Liverpool songs. Of course, Ivanovic got a thunderous reception.

On a closing note, the comment of the day came from Alan. He was getting frustrated with Kalou’s participation in the game and his reluctance to play the early ball…

“Kalou wants more touches than Michael Jackson on a sleepover.”

Tales From Heaven

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Liverpool vs. Chelsea : 8 April 2009.

Cilla Black, Ken Dodd, Lily Savage, Arthur Askey, Bobby Grant, Jimmy Tarbuck, Ringo Starr, Alexei Sayle, Margi Clarke, Phil Redmond, Derek Hatton, John Conteh, Dickie Mint – We gave your boys one hell of a beating.

And I thought last season’s game was good!

My colleague Paul was unfortunately made redundant last week and so I have been working solo this week. I am based at my client’s premises and so I did originally think that I may not be able to go to the game as I might be needed to cover the latter part of the afternoon. However, with a bit of trickery and polite conversations with the client, I was cleared for take-off at 2.30pm. I had been in early at 7am anyway – and work is quiet at the moment. I was sorted.

I don’t need to bore you all to death with details of my drive up the country to Liverpool – God, it’s a familiar one of late. I think I have overdosed on Scouse these past four years. Haven’t we all? I went to the knock-out semis in 2005, 2007 and 2008 but didn’t go to the boring group phase game in the autumn of 2005.

In all the visits to Anfield with Chelsea, I have seen us win there just once – that memorable game in 1992, when I got in free and watched, silently, on The Kop. But that’s another story.

I made good time until Birmingham, but from there on in, the traffic was horrific. There were lots of road works, lots of delays, lots of stopping and starting. Andy had downloaded some of the recent CIA Podcasts for me and from Bromsgrove to Knutsford, I listened to the Ken Shellito and Paul Canoville interviews. I really enjoyed them. Lots of great stories. It occurred to me that the history of Chelsea – thousands of players, millions of fans, characters, cups and disasters – were all behind us and that the game at Anfield would be the next instalment in this story…and I took a great deal of pride and satisfaction in the knowledge that I would be part of it. At the cutting edge of this club as it grinds its way into the future.

We all live for the present to a certain extent, but this notion really got to me. I was being part of it. I thought of the – let’s say – millions of people who would be watching on TV around the World and I would be there at the game, within the cramped claustrophobic stands of Anfield. I briefly pondered that my decision to attend was through my fanaticism but also because my finances and health allowed it.

I was very grateful.

The cloudy skies gave way to blue skies over Liverpool as I began the approach into the city at around 6.15pm. It had already taken me much longer than I had hoped. Thankfully, I wasn’t too tired. I texted my mate Alan that I would be in the ground at 7.30pm. Too rushed for my liking. Believe it or not, until I got to within about five miles of Anfield, I had only seen one Chelsea car and two Liverpool cars en route…and the way I identified them? Air fresheners! As I turned onto Queens Drive, I took my Chelsea and Juve air fresheners down – just in case the locals took exception.

I was parked up at 7pm – I thankfully found a space – and the 200 miles had taken me four and a half hours. Up the hill of Utting Avenue, past a busy pub and a few “chippies” and “offies.” There is something hypnotic about joining hundreds of football-goers on the final approach to a game…it’s a clear link to the past. How many millions have walked these same streets. I marched towards the ground. I didn’t want to be late. I was walking in front of a Scouse couple who were having a discussion about the year in which the two clubs first met in the CL. I found it hard to believe that they were unsure. I turned around and said to the woman –

“It was 2005, love.”

I thought that they were the ones who knew all about history. I tutted to myself as they overtook me.

Chatted to a couple of lads from The Goose – Alan and Nish. There was Lovejoy, as ever, in the middle of it all. Then the two Neils, Sophie, then Alan, Ed and Whitey.

“Alright boys?”

Sam Allardyce walked past – funny, he had been mentioned by Ken Shellito on the podcast, the Bolton game of 1978 et al.

I got inside Anfield at 7.38pm. Just in time. As I walked up the steps, more familiar faces. “You’ll Never Walk Alone” was in full flow as the pitch appeared before me. The usual riot of colour, but with a fair smattering of blue in our section. More scarves than normal. I noted a new Liverpool flag – as we all know, Scousers see themselves as a pretty political bunch – they are red in more than one dimension. The flag said “Scouse Solidarnosc” – after the Polish Solidarity party of around 1981. Quite clever I thought – if you like that sort of thing. I add this, not to make a statement, just to add colour.

I was three or four rows from the rear, just inside the penalty box. A good seat. I stood the entire game.

A terrible start, eh? For the first fifteen minutes or so, our defence were pulled out of shape and a few key errors took place. The midfield were giving the advancing Liverpool players far too much room. I was not alone in my desperate shouts to “close them down!” Ballack – as always – the main culprit. The goal from Torres…horrible. I tried not to watch the home sections leap to their feet, but I couldn’t avoid it. There is some macabre fascination watching other fans go wild at our detriment. Hateful. Before the game – if I was to be pressed – I feared a 0-2 or even 0-3 loss.

“Come on Chels – step up.”

And, guess what? We did.

From the sixth minute, our possession increased and we knocked the ball around purposefully and I was amazed with the movement of people like Malouda. For once, chances were being created at both ends and it was a gripping encounter – so unlike other CL games at Anfield. A Cech save down low in front of us, then two Drogba gilt-edged chances in front of the red wall of The Kop. When the second one was blazed over, we gulped in astonishment…not that he had missed, but that we had almost scored!

“We can do this – COME ON!”

Chances were exchanged. I was getting carried away, but the bloke next to me was trying to reign in my wild enthusiasm. When Liverpool attacked, we did look a bit suspect. A great game.

Then, a corner – into the near post and a blue player headed home…I thought it was JT to be fair, but who cares? Wild celebrations – an away goal! Behind me, a bloke I had sat next to at Watford – we hugged and yelled wildly. Next to him, I noted a West Country accent – a chap from Swindon.

At half time, word got out that Ivanovic had scored. And Barca were 4-0 up. Gulp.If the first-half was good, the second-half was even better. It was all a bit of a blur really – I hadn’t been drinking, but I was getting carried along on a wave of pure adrenalin. I was getting hot in my warm coat so I took it off and stood in my shirt sleeves. After the equaliser, the home support wilted. Whereas in 2005, when 75% of the Scousers stood, only The Kop did so this time.

I took a few photos of a few attacks. Then another corner down below me…I pointed the camera at the melee of players in the goalmouth. I heard Frank strike the ball and I saw players move. I snapped, then saw the ball thunder into the net, on a trajectory aiming straight towards me. Reina was beaten.

We were 2-1 up. Unbelievable. Un – SWEAR WORD – believable. Our fans went crazy and – I don’t know how I do this – I remained steady enough to take a couple of shots of what I call the aftermath…players hugging on the far touchline, with fans’ arms thrusting in the foreground.

This was unbelievable. What a game. Our movement was brilliant. Even Ballack was doing well. Gerrard was quiet…I have to admit, I wasn’t aware Esien was shackling him man to man. Sometimes aspects of the game pass me by. We were dominating. Then a dream move to my right. We stood on tip-toes as Malouda played the ball in and witnessed Drogba arrive to sweep the ball I with a clinical finish.

Too much.

I turned around and looked the two guys behind me in the eyes. We were both screaming, mouths wide open, like an incarnation of Munch’s “The Scream.” We kept our gaze going for a few seconds.

My name is Chris and I am an addict. I am a goal addict.

Oh man – isn’t that why we go to football? That moment when we are just transplanted to another place, when our heads just explode.

Chills just thinking about.

In the last quarter, we could have scored more. Liverpool were devoid of a plan and on many occasions they lost possession…and there was Frank, running the game from midfield, probing away. I have never seen Florent Malouda play better. Big Pete was as good as any.

“We’re Going To Rome – We’re Going to Rome…F Your History, We’re Going To Rome.”

Still more chances, but then – shame! – the final whistle. The home support drifted away and we were kept in for a few minutes. By the time I left – I was one of the last few hundred to leave – the home stands were empty, completely devoid of life. We sauntered out into the night and I hugged a few Chelsea acquaintances, names unknown.

Heading down Utting Avenue, past the Chelsea coaches, I pulled up my coat collars. I gave the thumbs up to some Chelsea fans in one coach, then looked towards the back of the coach as a few lads were banging the window. There was Gary and Ed giving me the big one. I punched the air and smiled the widest of smiles.

The traffic was slowly edging past me and within a few moments, as I headed towards my car, the night fell silent. It was eerily quiet, save for my phone jumping to life every minute with incoming texts from England and various parts of America. I got back to my car at 10.15pm and my mate Glenn phoned me. He is always concerned for my safety in Liverpool. Yet more horrendous traffic leaving Liverpool, but I didn’t care.

I headed out onto Queens Drive. Depeche Mode were on my CD.

“Enjoy The Silence.”

It was tough going on the way home. I had to buy two Red Bulls to fend of the tiredness enveloping me…they worked. I was euphoric, but well aware that I probably felt just as happy after the Riise game last year. Thoughts were of Barcelona and Rome. What a life.

I eventually got home at 3am, knackered but happy

Liverpool?

We murdered ‘em.

Tales From The Sporting Weekend

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Newcastle United vs. Chelsea : 4 April 2009.

This was another of those games that snuck in under the radar.

My head has been full of work and other issues of late – to say nothing of the upcoming cup encounters with Liverpool and Arsenal. Once I had the travel arrangements sorted out, I wasn’t able to dwell too much on the game up in Newcastle.

Of course, the appointment of Shearer as the new Geordie manager upset the apple-cart a little…would he be able to inspire them? I doubted it. Newcastle have been really poor of late.

I set the alarm for 5.30am and set off on the long road north at 6.15am. Alan and Gary were travelling up on the official coaches and Al had to leave his flat in South London at 4am!

Chris – “Wor Jackie Kerouac, Like.”

Alan – “Wor Reggie Varney.”

I again drove up the Fosse Way, the old Roman road linking Exeter and Lincoln. It’s a great road, just as long as you pay attention to the speed cameras. Rather than think about the game at St. James’ Park, or even the cup games, I found myself thinking about the summer beano in America. This will be the ninth year in a row that I have headed over The Pond. I enjoy the anticipation and planning just as much as the actual trip.

The plan, like last year, was to drive to Nuneaton and then my mate Andy would drive up from there. The 640 mile round trip is just too daunting, even for me and my love of the open road. After a quick McBreakfast just south of the town, I was at Andy’s house just before 9am. His daughter Sophie was in the front seat and I made myself comfortable in the back seat. We soon picked up Woody in Atherstone, but then had to double-back on ourselves to collect Lovejoy from his gaff in Coventry. We set off at 10am.

Lovejoy – and his lady – had just got back from Miami. I’m surprised that it didn’t make the news headlines! He appreciated the “sights” on the beach.

“You wouldn’t believe the Jack & Danny out there – talk about taking coal to Newcastle!”

While he was over in Florida, he found himself eating at the same restaurant as Jenson Button, the Formula One driver who had just won the first Grand Prix of the season. We found ourselves listening to “Five Live” – the UK’s best sports radio station…Pat Nevin was on, there was a lot of talk about Shearer’s first game in charge and the Grand National horse race from Liverpool was on at 4.15pm. The Malaysian GP was previewed too – Button was in pole for that…he’s quite a hero as he comes from Frome, my small Somerset town. Quite a weekend of sport – more of that later. There were sunny skies overhead, but also a few clouds.

We had heard that there had been an accident on the A1 just near The Angel Of The North, the huge piece of public art which welcomes drivers to Tyneside. Our plans were to stop off at a pub for a meal and we hoped that the tail-back would have subsided by the time we had finished. We polished off a lovely plate of grub at the Toby Carvery in Washington – splendid fayre and only a fiver.

“A table for five, but food for ten please.”

The pint of lager went down well too. We asked a couple of the bar staff for alternative routes into the town, but ( accent apart ) they weren’t the most knowledgeable of people.

At just before 2pm, with about five miles to go, we set off. Thankfully, the route was relatively clear. The road took us through Gateshead, then Dunston ( the home town of Paul Gascoigne – that most typical of Geordie stereotypes ), then over the River Tyne, with the massive white steel understructure of St James’ Park dominating the city skyline at the top of the incline to the north.

Newcastle United – I don’t mind admitting it, I always used to have a soft spot for them. My first ever Chelsea game was against them in 1974 and our paths used to cross in the old Second Division back in the ‘eighties. When Keegan first took over in 1992, the whole club was re-energised. During the 1992-1993 season, when Chelsea enjoyed a particularly flat season, I even went to three Newcastle away games with my good mate Pete…at Brentford, Swindon and Bristol City. One of my favourite images is of a packed Gallowgate in around 1983, the rain peeing it down on the 10,000 drenched souls, but hundreds of Geordies stood on crush barriers, steam rising off them. It encapsulated the passion of that wild town on the banks of the Tyne.

I have already detailed my trip to Newcastle in 1984 in another report – but it needs re-stating that it was a massive game in 1984. I have never heard more noise from a 36,000 gate at a game in England. Great memories. Talking of 1984…

My next game after the trip to Newcastle was an away game at Cardiff City. Let’s talk about that one.

Saturday 31st March 1984…my eighth game of the season. I had passed my re-taken “A Levels” in the November and was applying to study geography at a few polys…meanwhile, all other energy was devoted to following the team on their triumphant march out of the Second Division. Around about that time, I had purchased two iconic albums…The Smiths debut album and the second Cocteau Twins’ album “Head Over Heels.” For those of you who listened to the Pat Nevin podcast, you will remember that my question to him was about his favourite Cocteau Twins album…it was “Head Over Heels.” Just another example of 1983-1984 coming back to haunt me twenty-five years on.

I had also purchased my first casual garment, a Gallini sweatshirt, around that time. However, it wasn’t really a known name…although I had seen a few Gallini items at Chelsea, it wasn’t on the same scale as the other names of the time. At least it was a start.

I remember the trip to Cardiff so well. We were going by train from Frome and I had arranged to meet Glenn at the Wallbridge Café opposite the station. As I walked in, I scanned the busy scene. Glenn was there with Winnie, a Leeds fan from my year at school, but so too were three of the town’s known ne’er-do-wells…two of them weren’t even Chelsea…they had obviously come along for a bundle.

I met a mate from Frome at the station in Cardiff – he was a Pompey fan who was at college in the “delightful” valley town of Pontypridd. He was lured into Cardiff for the game, but for some reason chose to watch from the Bob Bank, the large home terrace. We avoided going into any pubs as we were sitting targets. We made a bee-line for the ground. As I remember it, I was the first Chelsea fan on the away terrace…I was with Winnie and Glenn. The other chaps from Frome had splintered away from us by then. Good luck to them, I thought.

Well – believe it or not, we played awfully. Cardiff were no great shakes, but they raced to a 3-0 lead. This was not on the cards at all. This was going to be our worse defeat of the season by a mile. There must have been around 5,000 Chelsea in the 13,000 crowd and during the last quarter of the game, the lads in the front were pulling the fences down. I was watching from the rear in the middle. There had been outbreaks of trouble in the main stand too.

With six minutes to go, we pulled a goal back to make the score a bit more respectable. Then Kerry scored a second…game on! The Chelsea support urged the team on and in the last minute of the game we were awarded a penalty.

Pandemonium.

Nigel Spackman slotted it home and our end went mental…hugs, kisses, shouts, screams, arms thrusting heavenwards, our voices shouting and singing roars of triumph.

As we marched out onto the bleak Cardiff streets, we were invincible.

What a team. My team. Nothing could stop us.

On the train back to Frome, we regrouped, but two of our party were missing. Dave and “Gulliver” had been knicked for something or other. It had to happen. They were dressed in boots and jeans – sitting ducks for the Welsh OB…me and Glenn were a bit more street-wise. On that train home, I met Paul ( PD ) for the first time and he was a fearsome sight…real Old School Chelsea…twenty five years on, Glenn, Dave, PD and myself go to Chelsea together.

Beautiful, eh?

Back to 2009. The area around St James’ Park was swarmed with cars parked everywhere – and I mean everywhere…but thankfully Andy managed to find a spare place up on a kerb. By 2.45pm, we had ascended the 140 steps. This season, we were in a new part of the stadium – not in the corner as before, but at the end of the northern section…still top tier, though. Alan, Gary and myself were in Row B, but there was nobody allowed in Row A. That’ll do!

For the last few minutes, the PA boomed out a few Newcastle anthems, including the wonderful “Blaydon Races” but I thought how symptomatic it was of the modern game. In 1984, the supporters would have sang their own songs…they wouldn’t have needed any promptings.

“Howay the lads, ye shud only seen us gannin’,
Passin the foaks alang the road just as they wor stannin’;
Thor wes lots o’ lads an’ lasses there, all wi’ smiling faces,
Gannin alang the Scotswood Road, to see the Blaydon Races.”

As the teams entered the pitch, way down below me, the crowd made a fair din, but I have to say I was sorely disappointed for the rest of the game. 1984 and 2009 simply did not compare. The 3,000 Chelsea fans were in good voice and it seemed that our support was boosted by a few Rangers fans – Rangers were due to play on Sunday. I noted a few home fans with “A Wise move – Shearer’s coming home” T-Shirts. Of course, the Dennis Wise / San Siro song got a few airings!

Newcastle were as poor a team as I have seen this year. We never looked in doubt really. I managed to capture on film the lovely celebrations after Frank’s goal right down below me. It was what we deserved. Frank was the star yet again, buzzing around…however, Essien and Anelka were quiet. For the second year running, Malouda scored the second goal of the game and we celebrated wildly. The game was safe. We could have scored a few more actually. Franco De Santo really impressed me when he came on for Anelka.

It seemed odd to only get inside the ground at 2.45pm and then, barely two hours later, leave to return south. All that way for ninety minutes of football. What does it all mean? Am I mad? I did think that it was all a bit of a dream – too easy, no atmosphere, quite dull even.

The nerve-tingling excitement of 1984 seemed a long way away. Another world.

We inched out of the streets as the Geordie Nation quietly wilted away. I was tempted to call in on the Toby pub and ask the youg lad who had struggled to give directions…

“Sorry mate – was it second left at the roundabout?”

After a few moments in the car, I fell asleep for an hour. We listened to the commentary of the Fulham vs. Liverpool on Five Live – and I squealed when the Scousers scored a painful winner on 93 minutes. That hurt. It spoilt our day.

We reached Nuneaton at 8pm and I dropped Lovejoy off in Coventry on my way home. I eventually drove into my driveway at 11.30pm. With Liverpool away coming up on Wednesday, it would be over one thousand miles following Chelsea in five days.

On this sporting weekend, spare a thought for my mate Pete – my Geordie friend…( who was at that fabled game in 1984 ). Pete also follows Bristol rugby ( they were relegated on Saturday ) and his home-town Scunthorpe United ( they lost at Wembley yesterday – he was there with his daughter )…quite a weekend, all three of his teams lost important games. At least Lovejoy’s mate Jenson Button won again.

Liverpool next!

Tales From N17

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 21 March 2009.

In many ways a lovely day out – great weather, great friends, a close game – but also an awful day out.

I left my Somerset village at just after 9am. The clusters of snowdrops in the hedgerows have now given way to thousands of daffodils in my village. It’s a picture. The weather was beautiful on the drive up to London. This was the first Chelsea game in my new car ( Vauxhall Corsa, black, wheel in each corner ) and I was just loving the drive. I had bought a Juve air freshener in Turin and I now have a Juve and Chelsea one on display. It just looks right. My head has been full of the CL draw, full of our plans to get tickets for the FA Cup semi final and full of plans for the summer tour. I am trying to talk Judy into coming with me. Judy likes the buzz of Chelsea – however, she doesn’t know there’ll be a baseball game thrown in for good measure. I will try and convince her that she’s a lucky girl! Watch this space.

I realised that there was a rugby game at Twickers and so again came in via the M25 and M4. Caught a tube from West Brompton and the warm weather surprised me. I eventually reached Liverpool Street and was soon outside The White Hart with Alan, Gary and Whitey. There are three pre-match boozers at Liverpool Street and the White Lion seemed the less busy. There was a mix of Spurs and Chelsea at The Railway Tavern, but there was a big mob of Chelsea at the Hamilton Hall. We spotted Rosey Cheeks and his colleagues keeping an eye on us all.

I only had time for a small coke before we caught the over ground train to Northumberland Park, just a few minutes to the east of Tottenham’s ground.

Ah, Tottenham…our biggest London rivals. Some would say our only rivals. While Spurs seem to reserve their most bitter rivalry for their North London rivals Arsenal, Chelsea certainly do not get on with Spurs. People tell me that this rivalry became intense after the 1967 FA Cup Final, but I just about remember the League Cup battles of 1972 and of course the relegation battle at Tottenham in April 1975. We lost that day and the Second Division beckoned…maybe oblivion. Two other games stick out…the 1-3 loss at The Bridge in November 1978 when the fighting was intense off the pitch, the football even worse on it. Then the 1982 FA Cup loss really hurt.

However, since then, we haven’t done too badly eh? Let’s never forget that massive long unbeaten league run against them. As if we could ever forget that.

What’s my take on this Chelsea / Spurs rivalry? Until the last ten years, I always perceived Arsenal to be the biggest club in London, but also the most staid and boring, with a predominantly middle-class support. Chelsea and Tottenham, though – at least in my childhood – seemed to be eerily similar…good in cups rather than the league, a mix of hard-nosed working class support but also the “glamorous” angle too with celebrity fans of both clubs. The hooliganism always seemed to be prevalent at Chelsea vs. Spurs games. There has always been that “edge.” I always used to revel in the perceived view that Spurs fans were very fickle back when I was younger. Not like us – not like Chelsea. No cups but rock-solid support! To be honest, I am fascinated by these subtle differences between sets of fans.

Strangely, when I was cutting my teeth as a football fan in around 1971, I used to favour certain players of other teams and specifically I used to like Clyde Best of West Ham, Steve Highway of Liverpool and – rather worryingly – Alan Gilzean and Pat Jennings of Tottenham. I’m sure other fans were the same. How many football fans could have resisted Peter Osgood and Charlie Cooke? Going way back to that era, I used to have a little “football book” of my own in which I used to write down team line-ups from the TV games. I also memorably remember writing Chelsea and Tottenham results over a two month period and hoping that Chelsea would fare better than the lilywhites, as they were known.

So – Chelsea and Tottenham. It goes deep.

We arrived at White Hart Lane just after 2pm. Al and Gary bought some chips and we sauntered towards the away end on Park Lane. We soon saw that something was up – the police had blocked the road as an unattended van was parked on the road. There were obviously concerns that this could be a bomb threat. I wondered that if it went off, it would cause £10 worth of damage. The area around Spurs’ ground is far from salubrious. Both sets of fans stood together, though the Chelsea fans tended not to wear colours. However, we were allowed in at 2.45pm with the news that the game would start at 3.30pm.

We had good seats in the upper tier. Noted a lot of familiar faces, including Gerry Kelly, who Cathy has spoken about. Before we had a chance to get into our game, news came through that Scholes had been sent-off at Fulham and Fulham were 1-0 up. The perfect start, eh?

This was only my ninth ever visit to Tottenham. I have been put off from going throughout “the run” in case I jinxed it. The last time I came away from Tottenham tasting defeat was in August 1987 when about 8,000 Chelsea invaded Tottenham hoping to see us stay at the top of the league. In truth, Chelsea had only ever lost once in the league in those 22 years, that narrow 1-2 loss a few years back.

As Gary said during the game, he can’t remember us ever playing so poorly at Tottenham. Modric bossed the midfield in the first-half and Spurs had the best chances, despite a promising start from us. I was surprised that the Spurs support was so quiet – it has been louder in days past. Maybe their recent couple of triumphs over us has extinguished that fire.

“We won 6-1, we won 6-1, we won 6-1 at The Lane, we won 6-1, we won 6-1, we won 6-1 at The Lane.”

We’ll always have that!

Yes, we were really poor in the first half. The formation was again quoted as 4-3-3, but I thought that Anelka and Drogba played quite close in the first twenty minutes. In that spell, it resembled a 4-4-2. Essien played well, but the rest of the midfield went missing.

It was a steak through the heart when Modric drilled home on fifty minutes. At last the home support showed some life. I was confident that we would push on throughout the remainder. Alas, we only really sprang to life late on. We couldn’t fathom how Ballack stayed on throughout the substitutions – yet another awful 90 minutes from the Number 13. We presumed that Essien just hit a wall and had to be replaced. To be fair, Quaresma and then Malouda ( of all people ) did OK in that last period. We pushed on and had a few half-chances. News of a second Fulham goal made things worse, not better.

Yet again, Frank’s set plays were terrible. Can somebody else please take them? No variance in his corners…always lofted so slowly with back spin. Whip it in man!

The game was on a knife edge, but thankfully Spurs did not score a second. That Gomes save from JT and the Alex header onto the bar just made it all the more frustrating. I was getting wound up, shouting my annoyance, yelling my support, getting more irate by the minute.

It wasn’t to be. The Spurs support roared and I felt sick.

I thought it was going to kick-off outside when I saw a Spurs fan in his ‘forties with brushed back hair eyeballing Whitey and me…

We slouched back to White Hart Lane station – Northumberland Park was off limits – and we quietly boarded a train into London. A day of lost opportunities, no mistake. I chatted for a few minutes with Mark, a mate I have known since that 1983-84 season. We talked about a couple of friends who no longer go and had an impromptu post-mortem on the state of the team and the club. Neither of us could fathom how Ballack and Malouda are favoured by every management team we have. Simply baffling. It was good to chat with Mark – with a smile at our predicament, it was a perfect Chelsea way of dealing with our under-achievement.

I said my goodbyes to the boys and headed west on the central line. I resurfaced at Earls Court and walked past a boozer just as Ireland’s dropped goal won them the Six Nations. I couldn’t care less to be honest.

I called in for a meal at Salvo’s. He was pleased to see me. He had been watching the Chelsea game on Italian TV with three Chelsea fans, then the rugby…he was rather merry, to say the least. A couple of Peronis, some sardines and a pizza later and I was in a better state of mind. I was even able to watch the first-half of the Roma vs. Juve game.

A day completely devoted to football.

What else are you going to do on a Saturday?

Tales From A Sunny HQ

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs Manchester City : 15 March 2009.

Liverpool’s surprising win at Old Trafford set things up nicely for our game against Manchester City.

Four of us – Glenn, PD, Dave and myself – set off for London at 9am. It looked like it would be a very pleasant day. I wore my new sky blue Robe di Kappa pullover, purchased at Turin airport, and I was reminded that Glenn wore a sky blue top for the game at Eastlands in the September sun. Maybe this would turn out to be a good luck charm.

Unfortunately, things took a worrying turn at my place of work on the Friday after my return from Turin. I aired a few thoughts with Glenn on the drive up to The Smoke. Let’s hope that my job is safe for the foreseeable future…at least as far as Rome in May and then America and Canada in July. Maybe I will have to cut back on games next season – I certainly can’t see myself keeping this pace up for much longer. There was an England rugby game at Twickers, so we came in around the M25. I was reminded of a day about ten years ago when we stopped at Fleet Services and I asked some rubgy fans “is there a game on?” just to wind them up.

They bristled with indignation – “Yes. England are playing.”

“Oh, right.”

Ho ho ho. I am not fond of rugby fans as a lot look down their noses at us.

This was to be Farmer John’s ( mgoblue06 ) last game of his stay in England. He wanted to make a special day of it and so I ‘phoned Salvo to see if he could open his restaurant early. We made good time and were able to pop into the Lillie Langtry at about 11am for a livener en route to Salvo’s. We arrived dead on 11.30am. There was seven of us in total – Farmer John, his two Dutch college mates ( Matt, Arnhem and Nils, Groningen ), Glenn, Dave, myself and Larry ( New Jersey, one of the New York Blues ) who was watching his second ever game at HQ. I handed out some photos from my trip to Turin as we ordered some Peronis. Parky was running late and didn’t make it unfortunately.

As the pizzas were ordered ( for me – I made a nod towards my usual pre-match breakfast by ordering a four seasons with an egg in the middle ) I made a toast once again.

“Friendship and Football.”

The green beer bottles clinked against each other.

The pizzas went down well. Larry told a nice story – he was at Newark airport on Thursday and noted a chap talking in a strong Eastern European accent. It turns out this bloke was Eugene Tenebaum’s best mate and Larry had a good chat with him. Small world.

We then raced over to The Goose for two more pints – how I hate these early kick-offs with no time for much of a pre-match. Everything was so rushed. My lot were in the beer garden and we were soon settled though. Dave and Lovejoy had spares which we managed to palm off to two more of Farmer John’s mates. I handed around my photos ( a third of the 275 I took in Turin! ) for Andy and Alan to look at. Al dropped them all and I had to refrain myself from having a “Rainman” moment.

“Oh no.”

I’m a bit obsessive about my photos!

We heard about the two Chelsea lads who were so pointlessly attacked in Turin. One only received surface wounds and was able to see the game. The other was more seriously hurt and our thoughts go out to him. One wonders why this never got any media attention. The pre-meditated attack by some Roma ultras on an Arsenal bus was reported though. As much as I love Italy, some of their fans are cowards. They always have to resort to blades.

The weather was great throughout the game. I arrived a couple of minutes late and so missed the offside goal from Frank. To be honest, I almost missed Essien’s goal. I saw Frank over the ball, looked up at the away fans, then saw the ball flying towards the goal from the “D.” I couldn’t work it out, but who cares? Essien really impressed me so much throughout the first half. He has so much energy and drive. How we missed him. We gave Wayne Bridge a magnificent reception and he clapped us on more than one occasion. He will always be loved by us at HQ. we passed the ball around well I thought, but City were awful…Robinhio especially. Just a bit annoying that we didn’t score more. I noted a lovely “one-two” between Frank and Essien, something that Ballack would never be able to do.

I had to laugh when Malouda came on. Our mate Tom, a spritely 72 year old, said “Ah – the Malouda Triangle…he goes missing.”

The only other high spot, apart from a Belletti shot which hit the post, was a defensive clearance which resulted in the match ball ending up a few feet from me. Glenn got hold of it in his two hands and threw it down to Frank Lampard. I was praying that a goal would result – Glenn would claim that assist for the rest of his life.

So, despite Liverpool winning 4-1 at Manchester United, they are still looking at our arse.

I said my goodbyes to Farmer John outside The Goose. He has certainly packed a lot in to his ten weeks in the UK – he has visited Dublin and Paris and will be off to see Rome, Florence and the French Alps on a skiing trip…but I am sure he will admit that the highlights were his five Chelsea games.

See you in Montreal, John.

Tales From The Game Of My Life

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Juventus vs. Chelsea : 10 March 2009.

“Tales From The Game Of My Life” – what else could I call this?

This was just a brilliant trip to the Piedmont city of Turin. As I sit here with enough memories to last a lifetime, my only concern is getting this report finished before I have to leave to go to the next game.

Let’s get started.

On Sunday afternoon, I re-watched “The Italian Job” ( set in Torino, 1969 ) to get my juices flowing. It was the perfect appetiser.

I left home at 1.30am on Monday morning and made great time heading up to Stansted airport to the north of London. I had only flown from this airport once before – my first ever Chelsea euro away to Viktoria Zizkov in September 1994. On that trip I bumped into Andy and Neil – two Chelsea lads from Nuneaton. I actually began chatting to them on Wenceslas Square in Prague. As fate had it, I had learned that Andy and Neil, plus Jonesy and Jocka, were to be on this flight too. We bumped into each other at the departure gate. Handshakes all round.

Our Ryanair flight to Torino left at 7am. I had already been awake since 12.45am, so tried to nab a little sleep on the plane. As luck would have it, Torino was featured in the in-flight magazine and it highlighted a couple of places I would later visit. Ex-Tottenham manager David Pleat was sat a couple of rows behind. I wondered if he would be visiting Torino’s pavement society. Maybe that would be shrouded in mystery.

Due to high winds, we circled over the hills to the east of the city for about thirty minutes before the pilot getting the nod to land. We caught a few glimpses of the city on a pristine clear morning. We descended and flew over the city from the south and I was able to point out the Lingotto factory featured in “The Italian Job.” We landed at 9.15am and caught a slow moving bus into the city centre. I spotted the roof supports of the Delle Alpi to the west, nestling beneath the stunning snow-capped mountains. To my east, the Superga basilica, high atop a hill, welcomed me to the city once again, like a beacon.

The bus stopped outside the Porta Nuova train station, where I had arrived in Torino for the very first time in 1987. We stayed about 90 minutes in a tiny, cramped bar, drinking a variety of beers, the owner feeding us nuts and crisps. My – it was great to be back. I texted my friend Tullio to say I had arrived. I had collected two tickets at HQ on behalf of Joe from Chicago and he arrived at about 1.30pm so I could hand over the tickets. He looked very happy. Andy and his mates were staying several miles south, but we had time for one more beer in a quiet bar, before we went our separate ways. In those two bars, we spoke about the team, our football this season, our players, our hopes, our concerns…there wasn’t a stone left unturned…a real, intense session, which is quite unlike us really. Towards the end, we chatted about various bands – of our youth – and as I left them at about 3pm on Via Sacchi, Andy bellowed out a Slade song at me.

I walked east over the Po river and located the youth hostel where I was staying for the first two nights. I had stayed there in 1989 for the Juve vs. Fiorentina game, plus one night in 1990 too. I booked in and decided to sleep for an hour. All my mates are experienced euro travellers and we often cat-nap for an hour before hitting the town. I awoke and showered, quite refreshed. I got changed and re-traced my steps into the city. Unfortunately, Andy’s lot had overslept and then took a tram to the wrong station.

“Porco Dio.”

While I waited for them to arrive, I scouted out a good pizzeria and decided to head into the foyer of Hotel Roma on Piazza Carlo Felice. Who should be in there but Dutch Mick plus Paul and Trizia. I had a beer and then my mates arrived. We made a beeline for the restaurant on Via Lagrange. I ordered a pizza with gorgonzola and onions, plus beers and more talk about Chelsea and music. Towards the end of the meal, we noticed a gaggle of Italian men get up from their table, quite agitated ( one looked like Bruce Buck )…we realised that they had spotted Momo Sissoko, sitting quietly with his wife and little daughter. This wasn’t a posh place – my pizza was eight euros – so we were gobsmacked. He had hurt his leg in the Toro vs. Juve game ( il derby delle Mole ) on Sunday, so wouldn’t be playing. Jonesy took a photo of him with me. I said to him “sono tifo de Chelsea.” He smiled and was pleasant and affable. We were drinking some Birra Moretti – who knows the significance of this in the story of Chelsea and Juventus?

At about 11pm, we slowly walked up to the cobble-stoned Piazza San Carlo, Turin’s “Drawing Room, and this is the epicentre of the city…a few neon adverts in one corner, a massive screen in another. The boys weren’t taking much interest in my tour guide comments and wanted some beer. We headed into a very nice pub called “Jumping Jesters” – thankfully devoid of Chelsea. Nice to just be with some locals. The beers were on offer for two for five euros. Bargain. Neil and Jocka were drinking Guinness but didn’t fancy using the “whole in the ground” toilets. It was like a game of human kerplunk! They lasted, despite several pints of the heavy brew, until they got back to their hotel. I texted Cathy, who I knew was arriving late. After a few texts, Cathy and Dog arrived and joined us for a few late night beers. Cathy was full of gorgeous tales from the past, too many to mention.

It felt great – top level Chelsea chat in a foreign city with some Chelsea legends.

We were kicked out at 3am. I dropped into a bar called the “Texas Ranger” on a slow walk back to the hostel. One for the road. Lo and behold, who should be in there but two blokes who were sat in front of me at Coventry, one of whom – Digger – was at Beth’s 50th birthday bash. They were bollocksed. I soon departed. As I crossed over the Po, I phoned Beth and had a boozy chat!

I retired to bed at 4am. I hope I didn’t wake anyone up.

Set the alarm for 9.45am. Game Day! A shower. Thankfully no hangover. Bonus!

I dropped into a café, a familiar haunt from past trips. “Un cappocino, per favore.” How perfect these little cafes are – lots of polished wood, frothing cappocino machines, baskets of Panini and brioche. I was falling in love with the city once again. Alan, Gary, Walnuts and Whitey were coming in from Milano – where they had enjoyed a San Siro tour – and were due in at 11am. I had arranged to meet up with them in their hotel and so hobbled along Corso Vittorio Emanuelle but took a cab from Porta Nuova.

My mate Rob was staying at their hotel too and by 11.30am we had all met up. Handshakes and hugs all round – a special welcome to my mate Walnuts who, like me, has been a Juve fan for many years. The weather was phenomenal – clear skies, the Alps never looking clearer. Rob lead us from the hotel near Porta Sousa through the middle of Torino. We reached Piazza San Carlo, bumped into Chicago Joe and Michelle, saw a few Chelsea dotted about.

Our one aim for the day was to visit the Superga basilica and we caught a tram from Piazza Vittorio Veneto ( the largest square in Europe with no statue, it was hosting the annual Chocolate Festival – the aroma was amazing! ). We reached Sassi, but the funicular railway was shut on Tuesdays. While we waited to catch a bus to the top of the hill, I chatted to a Stone Island wearing Chelsea fan from Halle in the former Eastern Germany. He goes to about 25 games a year – respect!

We spent around 90 minutes high atop the Superga hill. Everyone seemed to appreciate the views, if not the long time it took to reach the summit. We were soon at the site of the Superga air crash which wiped out the 1949 Torino team. The understated memorial, with the script written in Torino burgundy ( or granata / pomegranate to be more precise ), was laden with Torino scarves and wreaths lead close by. I wished I had brought a CFC scarf to lie alongside the other tributes. The air was solemn with respect.

From there, we spent a few minutes taking in the magnificent panorama of Torino below us. The Alps appeared to float above the city. It was a truly wonderful moment. Torino’s grid streets were visible as were a few landmarks including Il Mole Antoniella ( once the tallest building in the world, for which the the Juve vs. Toro derby is named ), Stadio Delle Alpi to the north, Stadio Communale to the south.

My love for Italy is a real story running through my life and it was a joy to be back at Superga. I last visited it in May 1992 and I vividly remember not wanting to leave the summit, a long drive home through France ahead of me. I have that trip on film and there is a real look of sadness on my face as I look out at the city. Seventeen years on, I still didn’t want to leave.

One song was rattling around my head throughout this trip, one by Everything But The Girl, which came out in April 1988, just after I had returned from a month in Italy and it summed up my dilemma at the time. After I had left college, on three occasions I sold football badges outside stadia in Italy. For a while, I contemplated another life, based in Torino, selling badges for a living, but England – or Chelsea – was in my head.

“So here we are in Italy
With a sun hat and a dictionary.
The air is warm, the sky is bright
Your arms are brown, you’re sleeping well at night.
But England calls.”

And so it continues – in moments of quiet contemplation, I often wonder what would have happened if I had decided to live in Italy. Well, I wouldn’t be up to 700 Chelsea games, that’s a fact.

I returned back to the hostel, showered, changed into my game wear, recharged my camera batteries, picked up my ticket and headed out into the clear evening air.

This is it Chris.

As I crossed the Po once again – let’s freeze that moment in time – I realised what a lucky man I was.

“The meet” was going to be at “The Huntsman” near the station, but I heard singing from outside “Café Lumiere.” All of the World and her Dog was there…Rob, Alan, Walnuts, Gary and Whitey had just arrived. I popped in to get a 5 euro beer and noted loads of Chelsea faces, all old school, battle-worn veterans, the old school on tour…I had to laugh when I saw Rosey Cheeks chatting to an ex-Headhunter as if they were the best of friends. Dutch Mick was there. Up Norf Malcolm. Rousey. Stan and Mo. Cathy was throwing crostini at me. The bar had laid on free nibbles. The bouncy was going on in the bar.

By some strange coincidence, the date of the game was the twenty-fifth anniversary of a pivotal game in Chelsea’s 1983-84 promotion campaign, but also a pivotal moment in my life. My good friend Glenn and myself travelled up on the Chelsea special for the away game against Newcastle United on March 10th. 1984. Despite a few away games in Bristol, this was my first “proper” Chelsea away game. My parents drove us up to London – they disappeared off to the Ideal Home Exhibition for the day – and we caught the train from Kings Cross at 9am. This was to be a phenomenal away game – Glenn and myself had been looking forward to it for ages. I always remember walking through the centre of Newcastle en masse, feeling part of something, part of something bigger than I had ever witnessed. Police cars were jammed up against pubs to stop locals getting at us. What a feeling.

Memories of the game? We went ahead through David Speedie and the 5,000 Chelsea went berserk. I was quite near the front and climbed the fence, gesturing my elation towards the home fans, but was pulled down by a fat Geordie copper who pushed me against the fence. I was a bit shaken, but OK. Newcastle equalised through McDermott and the Geordie fans erupted. Never have 36,000 fans made more noise. Another clear memory was of about 100 Chelsea casuals perched on top of that fence, a row of beige Pringle pullovers, yellow, blue and white Tacchini tracksuit tops and many Nike Wimbledon trainers. Wedge haircuts. Attitude. Just brilliant.

The train was bricked on the way out of Newcastle and it broke down at York. However, on the journey south, a very important event took place. I was dozing and Glenn went off to the buffet. He came back, bouncing, and said he had met some Chelsea fans from Brighton.

Fast forward – the next home game against Fulham and these lads were sat in front of us on the benches. Their names? Alan and Paul ( aka Walnuts ). We have been friends ever since. I told this story to Alan and Walnuts and they remembered meeting Glenn and couldn’t believe it was twenty-five years ago.

Just like in 1984, March 10th 2009 threw up another Black And White away game.

I was buzzing. Tullio was on his way and I was so excited.

As he approached, I shook his hand and then we embraced. I turned, opened my arms towards the scene behind me, and said “Welcome To My World.” Tullio was able to meet – and personally thank – Cathy for getting him his ticket. It was in the expensive seats and he was overjoyed. He met Alan and the boys, but it was soon time to make our way to the stadium. We all made our separate ways. Tullio and myself avoided the “Chelsea Coaches” and caught a bus and a tram to the stadium. As luck would have it, Tullio bumped into his Juve mate Mimo, who had been at the game at The Bridge. That was Mimo’s first euro away game since the sadness of Heysel in 1985. Mimo was a typical Juve fan – he came from the South and it was a pleasure to meet him.

At 8pm, we arrived at the ground and we took some team photos. “Ciao” to Tullio and Mimo. I didn’t go straight in, but wanted to savour every last minute of all of this. I headed for the road adjacent to the home end – the old Curva Filadelfia – where I had first sold badges at the Juve vs. Panathinaikos game in November 1987. I bought a scarf. I could hear the Juve tifosi singing inside the ground and I fought away some tears of happiness. Get a grip, man.

A little mob of Drughi were still outside…I edged past them. I noted what appeared to be a pool of blood on the road – there had been a couple of ambulances leaving the scene as I arrived. We later learned two Chelsea had been stabbed. I was blending in though, no colours.

“Axon!”

I turned around and Jocka, Andy, Neil and Jonesy were behind me. They had seen the blood too. Time to get in. No body searches at the gate – I was in at 8.30pm.

The scene which greeted me was spectacular. I filmed my entrance to the Chelsea section on my phone and soon decided to position myself atop some steps at the front of the middle tier. After a few moments, I realised Les from Melksham was near and he came down to stand next to me all of the game. Right down below me, Chicago Joe and Michelle. Cathy and Dog came in and watched right from the front. Chelsea fans brought in a Lazio and a Toro flag to wind up the locals. The fans in the Curva Nord to my right had been issued with Italian flags. At the other end, I noticed two massive sections of green and red shiny mosaics. As the CL anthem played, the tifosi in the home end, got to work, unfurling three massive banners which said “YES WE CAN.” However, much to my amusement, the last flag got caught up and so was never fully exposed. Felt like singing “No You Can’t.” As it turned out, this failed unfurling proved to be a metaphor for the night.

At 8.45pm, The Game Of My Life began – Juventus vs. Chelsea. Just seeing those two words together makes me go all goose-pimply. After a few minutes, Andy and Smithy arrived behind me…bizarrely, Smithy got in without having to show a ticket. This was great as I saw him in Rome but he had been delayed and so missed the game. Poetic justice! To be honest, I thought we were pretty poor in the first period. That opening goal from Iaquinta was on the cards and our World crumpled. Don’t do this to me! My worst fears were starting to come to life. Juve moved the ball around well but we defended OK. We just couldn’t seem to create anything, though. I remember one wild shot from Ballack, who was particularly poor.

The first-half ended in a blur of confusion and then elation. Please excuse my memory, but I may have got these moments all a bit messed-up. With the seconds ticking away, that Drogba free-kick ( ? ) looked to be saved by Buffon, but then a roar, a Chelsea player near the goal with arms raised and we went wild. Much celebration, but then – wait – we saw that the game was continuing. What happened? Dunno. What seemed like a minute after, a scramble in the Juve goal – did it come back off the bar? – and Essien poked it home, but I wasn’t sure it was in.

It was. GET IN. From my viewpoint at the front of the middle tier, I watched as the Chelsea fans in the lower deck ( the more “wild” of the 1,700 ) go amok, running towards the Juve fans to my right…or rather the plexiglass screen. Much singing, shouting, arms pointing. The Juve fans responded with a bizarre mixture of arm signals.

Juve now had to score three to go through. My evening was now looking good, very good in fact. We played better in the second-half, with Frank very busy. Chiellini was sent off half-way into the second period but then Juve seemed to dominate. We were all impressed with the substitute Giovinco. A Belletti handball presented Del Piero with a penalty which he coolly slotted away.

It was now “Game On.” The Juventus fans to my right were at it again. One fan in particular – a man in his late fifties, very much like Claudio Ranieri – was very graphic. In one memorable moment he seemed to suggest that, with a tremendous show of agility with his tongue, that we were all fans of oral sex.

Mate – who isn’t?

The game continued on a knife edge. However, throughout the game, I did find it hard to concentrate on the action. On many occasions, I found myself drifting back to my four previous visits to the stadium between 1987 and 1989. The stadium was 80% all standing in those days and even lie unused from 1990 to 2006. I continually read all of the black and white Juve banners which adorned every inch of balcony space. I found it hard. It was too incredible for words.

Late on, a fine move down in front of me and Juliano found Drogba with an inch perfect pass. Seeing the net bulge was a pure moment of joy. I was filled up, but remained calm enough to take about ten shots of the resultant celebration. The scream, the leap, the players joining in…the Chelsea fans down below me going crazy, climbing the fence, so reminiscent of that game in 1984.

We were in full voice.

“We Are Chelsea In Turin.”

“We Hate Tottenham In Turin.”

“We Are Bouncy In Turin.”

I’m afraid one moment was not met with my approval. A 50 year old old-school Chelsea “face” mimicked the fans getting crushed at Heysel to the viewing Juve fans. To all those that glory in our shared hooligan history, a wake up call. This was not clever.

At the final whistle – relief and euphoria. We were now in great voice. The players came over and we serenaded them. Joe was loving it down below me. We gave Tiago a brilliant reception and he looked visibly moved. He was the last off the pitch. I met up with Alan, Walnuts, Rob, Gary and Whitey just as Dave Johnstone was getting some stick as he tried to sell his fanzine.

“It’s A Euro In Turin.”

“Hurry Up In Turin.”

So – into the last eight and out into the Turin night. We caught buses back to the city centre. Skinhead John was on our bus and was wearing a Torino shirt. He demanded that I help tie up a Toro flag to taunt the Juve fans. He’s quite a formidable character – I wasn’t going to argue. Thankfully the police got it taken down. I was right next to the flag – didn’t fancy getting stoned on the way back to the centre.

A few groups of Toro fans applauded us as we flew through the streets, police car lights flashing.

We regrouped at the same restaurant – a Sicilia pizza with anchovies this time – and were joined by Fiona and Ronnie ( Scooby Doo at the Coventry game ). No Sissoko, but the same gaggle of Italians ( including Bruce Buck! ) were there. We shook their hands as they left. Nice times. We again stayed at the “Jumping Jesters” until 3am…nice and easy, though, nothing mad.

Back to the hostel at 4am again. Phew.

The last day was another perfect one. I breakfasted at my little café on Corso Fiume again, this time with a copy of the pink “La Gazzetta Dello Sport” and tried my best to evaluate the Italian synopsis of the game. I walked over to Piazza Vetorio Veneto and waited for the boys to arrive. I had a gorgeous piece of chocolate cake from one of the stalls of the Chocolate Festival. The boys arrived at about 11.30am and a coffee. Gary, Walnuts, Alan and Whitey soon left for Milano, but I stayed with Rob for the rest of the day.

More blue skies. We sat at the café for three hours, more coffee, a coke, some gnocchi. It was heaven. Ronnie and Fiona joined us, but Rob and myself had one last bit of sightseeing to do.

We visited Il Mole Antoniella and this was a great way to view the city. A lift rushed us up within the shell of the building and we were soon overlooking the red roofs and grid-like streets of the city. Just spectacular.

We then walked – or rather hobbled in my case, my football injury was getting worse – back to the hotel. I stopped off to get some stuff from the Juve shop on Via Garibaldi. Rob was taking a late flight that night, so I wished him well.

“See you Sunday.”

There was one more treat in store for me. Tullio picked me up from the hotel at 6pm and I was soon in his new apartment, to the south near Moncalieri. I met his wife Emanuela again, but also his daughters Sophia and Lucrezia for the first time. Sophia presented me with a Juve scarf. We had a few appetisers as the sun set behind the Alps. Magnificent.

We dropped in to see Tullio’s parents for a few moments – I was just so very pleased to be able to see them again and we spoke of the old times in Diano Marina. More appetisers. Tullio spoke of his grandfather’s love for Juve. He apparently saw Juve’s first ever game at Campo d’Armi, a stadium just to the north of Stadio Olimpico.

Tullio and myself then searched for a place to park before going into a lovely Piedmontese restaurant for a great meal. Talk about work, our families, our plans to meet again. The meal was rounded off with a perfect chocolate pudding.

When in Torino.

Tullio remembers me saying to him in around 1988 that it would be my dream to one day see Chelsea play Juventus. Deep down I knew this was never going to happen. What did I know, eh?

We bade our farewells to each other back at the hotel. We hugged. My last words to Tullio were –

“I’ve seen your team play many times before, for you to eventually see my team play means the World to me.”

“CIAO CIAO.”

After a peaceful night’s sleep at a hotel near Porta Sousa, I awoke early and was soon knocking back some coffee at around 6.45am in the hotel breakfast bar. The hotel radio jumped to life with a song which was coming to its end and it just made me smile. It was Louis Armstrong and “What A Wonderful World.”

Perfetto.

As I walked out to catch the airport bus at about 7am, I just wanted to put my arms around the city one last time. The Alps still looked stunning to the west and there was Superga, to the east, ready to welcome me back next time.

Tales From A Walk In The Park

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Coventry City vs. Chelsea : 3 March 2009.

Coventry.

What can you say about it? Apart from featuring in the opening line of “Football Factory” ( the book, not the film…), what is there to say?

A rather nondescript Midlands town, tagged onto the eastern side of Birmingham, badly bombed during the war, formerly the home to a sizeable automotive industry and formerly the home to a top flight footy team. I only visited Highfield Road about four times with Chelsea…City now play in a purpose-built stadium a few miles north of their former home.

I was pretty happy they defeated Blackburn in the last round as this meant a less-strenuous trip than another awayday in the North-West…it also meant a new ground for me.

I collected Lord Parky from Parky Towers at 8.45am and was soon heading up the old Roman Road of the Fosseway. I last drove along here en route to Hull in November and it’s a great road. Through some familiar towns, the chat never stopping – we spoke about alsorts, but never mentioned the game once.

Chelsea had 5,200 tickets for this game and they went like gold dust. Daryl, Ed, Alan and Gary were driving up from London. The time flew past and we were parked up in an “official park and walk” car-park at just after 11am. What with Parky on crutches and myself limping from my football injury, we looked a right couple of crocks. We decided to head straight into the stadium and get a couple of beers.I made the mistake of paying over-the-odds for a Wimpy burger with cheese…the picture above the counter gave the impression of a mouth-watering treat. The reality was far from it. There was a square inch of lettuce on the burger. Still, more fool me for buying it in the first place.

Into the bowl of the stadium and first impressions were favourable…a nice, clean stadium, spoiled only by the horrible beige paint used in and around the “corporate deck” of the main stand. Why not sky blue? The much maligned Jimmy Hill – player, chairman and TV presenter – put Coventry City on the map in the ‘sixties and made a great deal of the Sky Blue theme running through the club. Why the paintwork did not match the team’s colours seemed strange.

The atmosphere was OK, with 90% of the home support coming from “The Kids In The Corner Bit” to my right. They made a fair din to be fair, but our support more than matched them. Only in the second-half, with their spirits waning did “TKITCB” relent and turn their attentions to making aeroplanes out of the hundreds of sky-blue cards given out at the start of the game.

I had a good seat, right behind the goal.

What a lovely finish from Drogba to give us a 1-0 lead…a trademark goal from him. From there, we didn’t really look back and I never felt troubled. Coventry had a nice shape, but never really bothered us.

The addition of Quaresma added a bit more sparkle to our play and he capped a nice contribution with the pin-point cross which allowed Alex to thunder home.

Braziliant.

On the drive home, I tried my hardest to get the Quaresma name into a Que Sera Sera chant, but failed miserably – something to work on I guess.

Parky and myself listened to the opening exchanges of the Fulham vs. United game on our drive south…no surprises how that ended-up.

Home at just after 6pm, a nice early finish – and Chelsea into the FA Cup Semi-Finals.

I commented to Parky that when we reached the semis for the first time in my memory in 1994, it warranted a pitch invasion and wild hysteria…this was on the day that “The Blue Flag” first appeared at HQ. In 2009, on the final whistle at the Ricoh, I applauded briefly but hardly even smiled. That’s a shame – I should cherish these moments, but it just goes to show how far we have come as a club.

Juventus next!

Tales From The Rear Of The Milton End

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Portsmouth vs. Chelsea : 3 March 2009.

This game almost snuck under the radar.

My head has been full-to-bursting with all of this Juventus / Chelsea stuff going on and we all have the excitement of a first-ever visit to Coventry’s new stadium for the FA Cup game at the weekend. Of course, I visited Fratton Park back in September for the League Cup game – another midweek fixture. With all of these things together, Portsmouth away didn’t really fill me with much joie de vivre, so to speak.

As I set off from work at 4pm, with a black cloud on the horizon, my lack of enthusiasm hit me and I found it quite shocking to be honest. This game definitely had a “heads down, just show up, get in, get out” feel to it. I am usually excited by away games, but as I headed east along the M4 with the rain increasing, the drive to Pompey just seemed to be too much of a tiresome task. The weather was rotten the entire trip. I headed south at Newbury on the A34 and passed through undulating countryside, silver birch trees each side of me. Throughout the trip, and especially near Southampton, gorse bushes seemed to be everywhere. I was playing Morrissey’s new album on the CD player and I had a feeling that this would be the trip that would stick in my mind every time I’d hear the album in the future. Funny how that happens…”Eden” by Everything But the Girl takes me back to travelling through France in 1985, “Treasure” by the Cocteau Twins reminds me of a walk back to South Kensington tube after a game at Chelsea in December 1984 ( see my avatar! ) and there are many other examples of me tieing in albums with places. “Years of Refusal” will remind me of thunderous skies on the way to Pompey I am sure.

I had chatted to Cathy and Lovejoy, while at work, who both had spares for the game. I had tried to entice Farmer John ( mgoblue06 ) along but he had just got back from France, where he had been throwing his arms around Paris…he couldn’t make it, unfortunately.

I was feeling pretty tired as I drove the last twenty miles from Southampton to Portsmouth. I had forgotten to take some coffee, the car heaters were on full tilt to keep the windscreen clear and the rain was teeming down outside. I was feeling tired and weary. My mate Daryl had been visiting his daughter, who is a fresher at Portsmouth University, but was already in “The Good Companion” at 6pm. Daryl used to run a New York Yankees fanzine and it was a full year after our first correspondence that we realised we were both Chelsea fans. I turned off on the approach to Pompey but was then stuck in very slow-moving traffic. As I mentioned in my September match report, Portsmouth flows into Southsea on Portsea Island and the traffic was horrendous. I drove past a large pub to my left – the first one in the city – and who should be out on the porch, phone in hand, but Lovejoy. It was as if he was welcoming us all to the city

Ever the gentleman, Daryl sent me a text –

“Text me when you are 2 mins away, will get you a beer.”

I replied –

“I’m 10 away, can you get me 5?”

I found somewhere to park along a side road and made my entrance in the boozer at 6.30pm, some 100 miles from my Chippenham departure point. It’s a good pub and the clientele was half and half. Gulped down a pint of Becks Vier. Soon spotted Chopper from NYC but he went off to chat to Cathy and Dog, plus Jim and Jane, who I vaguely know from Chicago 2006. Tim from Bristol, with his daughter Georgie, soon arrived…funny, Tim had been working a mile away from me in Chippenham all day. We spoke about our plans for Turin. I went off to get more beers and bumped into my Pompey mate Rick…I did wonder if he had been lurking to see when I was on the way to the bar! He’s a mate from schooldays, but lives a mere mile from the ground now. A bit of chat about a few things, mainly football. Go figure. Just before we gathered enough courage to leave the pub, Chopper reappeared and bellowed out

“The New York Blues are full of booze
The New York Blues are full of booze.
We’ll shag your beer and drink your women –
The New York Blues are full of booze.”

I had played my first eleven-a-side game for ages on Sunday, but had hurt my right knee ligaments again…I think I made a pitiful spectacle as I hobbled my way to Fratton Park, the rain absolutely lashing down. Rick disappeared off into the home stand and I joined Alan and Gary behind the goal. We were three rows from the rear, right next to the home fans. Unfortunately, there was a gap in the stand wall just behind us and the rain seemed to head straight for us. More rain! It never stopped, coming in from the south in massive swirls.

We were somewhat surprised to see Malouda and not Anelka starting. Anelka has been impressing me more of late – his ball retention if nothing else. Malouda started brightly but soon resorted to type.

Chelsea and Pompey exchanged blows in the first quarter, but we then became stronger in the first period. The game was of note for the two or three spills by the Portsmouth ‘keeper. David James – you were good in your time, but I think your days are numbered. The shots reigned in on James, as we got rained on, but our shooting was really woeful in that first half.

It was an average game really. Daryl – who had been getting soaked near another exit – joined us for the second half. The plus points? Frank’s energy, Cech’s amazing saves…Mikel was steady. However, Drogba had a pretty quiet game and appeared disinterested. Ballack and Malouda pretty poor, as always. Kalou began well but drifted. JT made a few errors and had Big Pete to thank when Nugent shot tamely at our great ‘keeper after a JT error. We heard that the Micky Mousers were 1-0 up and we hated it. I expected a few Liverpool texts coming my way.

Our support was alright – nothing special.

The addition of Quaresma lifted us. I can’t say he changed the game, but he did well. I’d like to see him and Stoch used ahead of Kalou and Malouda. But you knew that, right? Into the last part of the game and we looked a bit tired. Thank heavens, then, for that fine drilled shot from Drogba which won us the game and kept us in second place. Our end erupted.

“You are my Chelsea
My only Chelsea
You make me happy, when skies are grey
You’ll never notice how much we love you
Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away

LA LA LA LA LA
LA LA LA LA LA

OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH

Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away

LA LA LA LA LA – OOOOOH!
LA LA LA LA LA – OOOOOH!

OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH
OOOOOOOOOH – OH

Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

At the final whistle, I quickly excused myself and headed out of the stadium. I noticed an elderly Chelsea pensioner, in red tunic, being lead out of the Chelsea section and I had a sudden rush of pride.

I walked back to the car and got more soaked. As I opened the car door and manically took my drenched coat off, the rain turned to hailstones. Great timing! It took a long time to eventually get out of the traffic jam. I was on the M27 at 10.30pm, though. I listened to Danny Baker on “606” and slowly made my way home. I was feeling tired and so stopped for an espresso and a biscotti ( thinking of Turin ) at 11pm.

The loneliness of a long-distance football fan, eh? It’s no problem, I’m OK by myself.

Eventually reached home at 12.15am and the rain hadn’t bloody stopped all afternoon and evening.

Phew.

Tales From A Quiet Stamford Bridge

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wigan Athletic : 28 February 2009.

Thank heavens for our blue brothers, John Terry and Frank Lampard.

Glenn drove up to HQ for a change. Plenty of Chelsea-related chat with Glenn, Dave, PD and Terry from Radstock, whose normal lift was unavailable. I’ve known Tel for about twenty years and last saw him at passport control at Gatwick on the way to Moscow.

We were soon parked up on an overcast morning and were banging on the side door of The Goose at 11am. Bob from California joined us for the first pint of the day, plus an all day breakfast which went down well. I had to rush down to HQ, though, so I excused myself. I got to the area outside the hotel at 11.45am and met a few people…Chopper from New York ( with his daughter’s bloke Shawn ), Rory from Fort Lauderdale ( with three Londoners ) and Jeff from Orlando ( with his brother in law ). I pointed out that Peter Bonetti was in close proximity and so they all rushed over to get photographs and autographs. We had just missed Ron Harris, though. I picked up my Juve away ticket and bumped into Hoss, who was still reeling from the excitement of Wednesday’s game. I stopped to chat to Mark and Dave at the CFCUK stall and Dave wanted me to do an abridged version of my personal journey into Italian football so he could print it in the next fanzine. Cutting 3,500 words down to 1,000 will be a challenge.

Chopper, Shawn, Jeff ( flrr100 ), Mick and myself had quick pint in The Wellington, presuming Cathy would soon show up. However, Cathy was running late and would meet Chopper elsewhere. This was my first ever visit to The Wellington and it seemed fine. We are so well blessed for pubs and bars around Stamford Bridge, you know. Walking down the North End Road and up the Fulham Road alone, you could have a nice pub crawl from the Seven Stars, The Elm, The Oak, The Goose, The Arbiter, The Cock & Hen, The George, Belushi’s, Havana’s, The Malsters, Brogan’s, Bar 6, The Slug and The So Bar. There must be just as many in the King’s Road. We’re lucky – you go to places like Leeds and there are just a couple of pubs near the ground. I had a nice chat and it was good to meet Jeff for the first time – this was his first game at The Bridge in about fifteen years.

I excused myself and headed on back to The Goose for three more lagers. It was another busy one and there was the usual assortment of friends in our corner. I had left Bob my recently-completed photo album of the 2007-2008 season – it’s bloomin’ heavy and full of around 200 Chelsea photographs. I have been doing these for each season since about 1984-85, apart from the 1990 to 1993 period when I didn’t take my camera to every game. I think I would come out in a cold sweat should I forget my camera these days, though I do have a camera phone should that happen. I popped out into the crowded beer garden to have a few words with Dutch Mick. He told me that the Turkish airlines plane crash at Schipol on Wednesday had caused massive flight delays and so he decided to drive from his home in The Netherlands, through Belgium, to Calais and over on a ferry, not arriving to Chelsea until 6.30pm. A fine effort!

I was chatting with Bob and my mate Rob from Essex. For those of you who have not realised yet, we’re all into the gear at football even after all these years. Both Rob and myself were sporting Lacoste polos…for Bob, these past twelve months have been a personal voyage of discovery – and he was wearing a nice newly-acquired olive green CP shirt. Just don’t tell his wife how much it cost. Rob pointed out that there was a flier doing the rounds which was advertising a ( wait for it ) Chelsea versus Millwall golf day to be hosted by Ron Harris and Terry Hurlock. The mind boggles – forty Chelsea and Millwall loons playing golf…let’s hope that the clubs are only used for their intended purposes!

As usual, 2.30pm came around way too fast and it was time to make a move. I walked down past the street market on the North End Road with Bob and we said our “goodbyes” by the West Stand. I’ll see him in Seattle, hopefully, though neither of us has ruled out the chance of seeing each other in Rome in May. That’s beyond our control, though. Our destiny in the hands of others.

As predicted, Wigan’s away following was pitiful – about 300 maybe. They’re still intrinsically a small club. However, never mind that, they gave us a hell of a run-around in the first thirty minutes. We couldn’t seem to get in and amongst them. We were lucky not to be losing in fact. And I was lucky I saw our goal. I had presumed that Frank’s over-hit free-kick was off out for a goal-kick and so I made my way to the gents…I looked up and saw the ball was still “live” so stopped by Gate 10. The resultant corner was knocked out and JT marvellously scissor-kicked the ball back into the middle of the Wigan goal. The finish was a little similar to Poyet’s goal in 1999.

From then until Kapo scored a deserved equaliser for Wigan, we seemed to drift along with no real desire to increase our lead. Is our fitness really that bad? Very worrying. We all enjoyed the mad dribble down below us from The Captain. But, really, a lot of poor performances throughout. Yet another bloody hopeless show from Michael Ballack, always playing the easy ball, never dominating. When he broke though late on with a quick burst down the left wing, I thought it was Lampard and was totally gobsmacked to see the number 13 on his back.

We upped it in the last ten and although we should be grateful that we found that extra spirit to dig deep, isn’t that really frustrating? We should have killed the game off earlier. Steve Bruce was moaning about an alleged push on Mario, but Frank’s leap looked fine to me. The ball looped in and we went ballistic, but I soon settled my nerves to take about five shots of the boys celebrating down below us, fifteen yards away. With both Liverpool and Arsenal dropping points, we are looking good for a second place now. Wigan must hate us – they have given us nine tough games since they came up in 2005.

The atmosphere was generally quiet, but the MHL and MHU was stirred to life in the second-half when the PA asked the fans in the MHL to sit down…there was a barrage of booing and “stand up if you love Chelsea” and the place was bubbling along nicely for about five minutes. We ought to get the same bloke to do this every game! It goes without saying that the Liverpool result was met with roars too.

On the drive out of London, I texted a couple of Liverpool “fans “ ( ten games between the two of them ) and then fell asleep, as Glenn battled the traffic.

Not a great game at all, but another three points nonetheless.

Tales From The Last Sixteen

Posted on July 22, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Juventus : 25 February 2009.

A lovely evening at HQ, but there is still a nagging doubt that our 1-0 lead may not be enough over the two legs.

I had booked a half day holiday. I had a dental appointment first thing and then worked 9.45am to 2.15pm. Well, I say “worked” but it was very quiet indeed. I had been “working” on my account of my personal journey into Italian football for Dave Johnstone’s “CFCUK” and I fine-tuned it in the morning before submitting it. This is my first article for this fanzine and I just knew I had to do it. Just had to share it with the Chelsea Nation. Glad I completed it just in time for the game. “The Game Of My Life” just about sums it up. I submitted this on CIA, too, so that I can refer back to it once I get to write up my recollections of Torino in March.

Parky was collected from the pub opposite and we set off for Chelsea. There was the usual banter flying around on the drive east, but he was quiet for the longest ever time in living memory as he read through my recollections of Italy. We both agreed that the internet is a wonderful medium to share such things with people around the World. I am sure Parky could tell a few tales, so to speak. Best not encourage him though.

Before we knew it, we were parked-up just off Lillie Road at about 4.15pm. This was always going to be a extra special game for me, but I had planned an extra level of enjoyment by arranging for Ohio Silver Lining / Farmer John / mgoblue and a mate, Bob / unagi1 and two stalwarts from across the pond ( Chopper and Hoss ) to meet me for a meal at “Dall Artista” at 5pm. Bob was already settled with a pint in the Lillie Langtry as Parky and myself strolled in. Bob had visited Barcelona since Villa on Saturday. Then two phone calls in quick succession. John was on his way and needed directions. Then my friend Tullio in Torino called, but he was off work with a high temperature. I wished him well and said I would see him in a fortnight.

I met John’s college mate Greg, a guy from Salonika in Greece and a Juve admirer. We sunk the first beer of the evening and I was buzzing. Chopper was on his way too. We walked past Brompton Cemetery which sits behind the East stand and arrived at the restaurant bang on 5pm. A big hug from my good friend Salvo – who has met Teri and Starla – and also a hug from Hoss, who was already there. I first met Hoss in Chicago in 2006 and he now lives in Missouri…he’s over for two games. He told us of a great deal he managed to strike up at the Chelsea Hotel, paying about £48 a night! Introductions were made and the air was full of chat and laughter with everyone chipping in with comments about Chelsea and life…there, that’s profound, eh?

I made the point that if my life could be distilled, with all the nonsense and irrelevancies turned to ether, this is what it would be…sat around a table with close friends, jabbering away like fools about all sorts of Chelsea chat.

“And then, in about two hours’ time, we are going to watch our eleven heroes play for us.”

We raised a toast.

We asked for the menus just as Chopper, his daughter Kelly and her Chelsea-debutant boyfriend Shaun arrived. Happy days. More beers please Salvo. Parky was in good form and we were having a good laugh. Because of the differences in the sense of humour between us Brits and North Americans, I often feel we need to put on a bit of a show for our guests and Parky is my ideal partner for this, full of wisecracks, plays on words and sideway glances to camera! I last saw Chopper in NYC in June and it’s always good to see him. I phoned Beth and was pleased she was able to join in our little party.

I had brought up a few photographs from the ‘eighties of myself with my friend Mario, his parents and some shots of his home town. It is Salvo’s home too and I suppose – in the light of things – it came as no surprise that he recognised Mario’s father Franco. It turned out that Salvo played for the same town football team – Dianese – in the ‘sixties as Mario did in the ‘eighties. We ordered our pizzas – an Americana, how appropriate, with anchovies – and more beer, Salvo! I had to put the brakes on though…four small bottles would be my limit. In a quiet moment, I asked Salvo if he was excited and he said he hadn’t been able to eat all day! Bless him.

Henry, who I met in NYC in June, but was now back home in Blighty, popped in and this was a surprise for us all. Fantastic.

It was 6.40pm and we really needed to move on. We marched down to The Goose and joined the milling throng. Unfortunately, we lost Chopper’s lot but Salvo, Parky, John, Greg, Bob and myself were soon chatting with Alan, Gary, Walnuts, Russ, Daryl, Ed, Simon, Milo, Rob, Andy and Lovejoy.

Bada bing!

At 7.15pm we set off for The Bridge and I called Mario. After meeting on that beach in 1975, here we were talking thirty minutes before the first ever Chelsea vs. Juventus game. We wished each other well. It was lovely to hear his voice.

Then a text from Tullio…”tick tock tick tock.” The game was approaching. We were walking along on a tide of adrenalin as the lights of the stadium appeared. I bought Chelsea / Juventus scarves for Tullio and Mario, plus four programmes. Managed to lose Bob and Parky, but Salvo was close by as we entered the stadium.

“Welcome to my home” I said to Salvo, who smiled. Just as we entered the arena, a red Juventus flag was being carried around the pitch and met us in our corner. Salvo beamed. Into our seats in good time and the Champions League build-up began. John was down below me in the corner. The disappointing thing for me was that La Vecchio Signora were not playing in the famous black and white.

On many occasions throughout the game my gaze was centered on the 3,000 Juventus fans in The Shed. I noted the banners and tried to pick out any slogans. Juventus, like all of the Italian teams, have an array of various supporter groups, which tend to constantly evolve through time. The fan leader Beppe Rossi seems to be the Juve leader of note and I have a book at home called “Il Gruppo” which is a photographic record of the various factions since the first fan group in around 1973. Not all groups are hooligans, but it is safe to say that they are all “ultras”, that Italian definition of rabid support. I have lost count of the many Juve groups, but names include “Vikings”, “Indians”, “Black And White Supporters”, “Fighters” ( I have a scarf ) and the infamous “Drughi” and “Arancia Meccanica” ( literally Clockwork Orange ) inspired by Kubrik’s iconic film. There is an amazing photograph from around 1984 of around 500 Juve ultras at an away game in Milano wearing black bowler hats, in homage to Kubrik’s “horrorshow.” That must have been a spine-chilling sight for opposing fans. Juve, Inter, Verona, Atalanta and – most famously of all – Lazio align themselves to the political right, whereas Milan, Roma and Livorno are to the left…historically at least, maybe not quite so much these days.

The Juve fans made a fair bit of noise. I noted several held-aloft signs showing four silhouetted figures with the word Drughi below. One guy in white was the cheerleader, sitting on the balcony wall, looking back towards the fans and instigating the rhythmic singing. Italians often do this. You see it all over. Fans as an organic body, singing their allegiance. For many fans the world over, this is the real battle.

Never mind the game, just show up, sing and win the battle of noise on the terraces.

The game was a bit of a blur. My mind was racing, trying to capture some nice photographs, making sure Salvo was enjoying himself, trying to get some singing going, trying to make out how the game was going, texting a few friends. After some early pressure, I had my telephoto lens centered on the Shed goal. On twelve minutes, Drogba shot and so did I. I depressed the button and loved it as I saw his strike head towards goal… but was gutted when I realised the camera switch was off. I saw Drogba’s goal through my inactive camera! Not really mixed emotions – I was ecstatic we had scored so soon.

Get in!

I prayed we would be treated to more early goals, thus killing the tie off even before the away leg. I couldn’t be more wrong. Juve tended to increase their possession throughout the game. It turned out to be a fractious, nervy game and I was surprised how quiet the Chelsea support was in the main. I tried my best, but not even I was getting stuck into the singing. Thought Frank was lively and honest, moving the ball around well. Ballack? Another missing-in-action performance. We were solidly sticking to the 4-3-3, but I thought Anelka did OK, rarely losing the ball. It was a pleasure to see players like Nedved ( whose hair appears to live a life of its own ) and Del Piero ( or Bruce Springsteen, as Al called him…I can see the resemblance…he was born to run, too ). Not really sure why Malouda came on and not Stoch. Generally speaking, though, despite the win, I am rather worried for our future in the competition.

Not so much has the Fat Lady sung, but has the Old Lady sung yet?

Gutted to hear Liverpool won away in Europe again. You know the rest!

After the game, I received a congratulatory text from Tullio and we then moved onto “Barbarella’s” where I had arranged to meet my mate Buller. This is the little bar and Italian restaurant where a lot of the ‘seventies players hung out. As luck would have it, Ron Harris was in there…small world…and so I introduced him to Salvo, who appreciated meeting a Chelsea legend.

As we came out onto the Fulham Road, a little mob of around forty Juve ultras were being ushered along by the police. Not sure if we had missed some action or not.

Loads of traffic meant that I didn’t get home until 2am. Parky the Nodding Dog was away in some dream world for most of the journey, no doubt dreaming of more Peronis.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Category Archives: Season 2008-2009.

Tales From The Beer Garden

Tales From Heaven

Tales From The Sporting Weekend

Tales From N17

Tales From A Sunny HQ

Tales From The Game Of My Life

Tales From A Walk In The Park

Tales From The Rear Of The Milton End

Tales From A Quiet Stamford Bridge

Tales From The Last Sixteen