Tales From The Black And The Blue

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Barcelona : 18 April 2012.

There is a delicious irony in Chelsea’s recent love affair with the Champions League over the past ten years. Way back in 1955, just after our first ever Football League Championship, Chelsea could have been the very first winners of the inaugural European Cup which was played during the 1955-1956 season. However, for whatever reason, the out-of-touch octogenarians in the English F.A. strongly advised the club to forego participation. Instead, Real Madrid won the first ever European Cup (and the second, the third, the fourth, the fifth) in 1956 and Chelsea had to wait until 1999-2000 to participate again. There have been few games which have produced the same “buzz” of anticipation than that first ever game against Milan in September 1999; a pulsating 0-0 draw at The Bridge was a classic.

If only we knew then what we know now; we have since taken to the competition like the proverbial duck to aqueous solution. We reached the quarter-finals in that first season before losing to (guess who?) Barcelona. Since then, we have been one of European football’s top performers in the World’s premier cup competition. Our semi-final against Barcelona this season would be our sixth since 2003-2004. These have been heady days. Spring time at Chelsea has recently involved football on multiple fronts. It’s a beautiful period in our history; breath it in, let it fill up your senses, these days will not last for ever.

…but oh, the memories.

2004 – a defeat by AS Monaco, fresh on the heels of that game at Highbury in the previous round. Claudio Ranieri at his infuriating worst, tinkering to distraction, just to prove a point to the club management who had already hinted he would be leaving the following season.

2005 – a nauseating defeat to Liverpool. The result of Mourinho not “going for it” in the home leg, the result of the Luis Garcia “ghost” goal at Anfield. We were the best team in Europe that season, having discarded FCB in the quarters.

2007 – another hateful defeat to Liverpool, this time on penalties at Anfield after Joe Cole and Daniel Agger goals gave both teams 1-0 home wins. Again, Mourinho failed to attack Liverpool sufficiently. Would we ever get to the final?

2008 – joy unbounded as we drew 1-1 at Anfield and then won 3-2 at a pulsating Stamford Bridge on one of the most emotional nights that English football has ever witnessed. Frank Lampard inspired us and we were on our way to Moscow.

2009 – a resolute performance by Chelsea at Camp Nou and a 0-0 draw. A despicable performance by a certain Norwegian referee at The Bridge. Michael Essien scored his best ever goal, but Iniesta equalised with virtually Barca’s only shot on goal. Pure, unadulterated sadness.

Our record in the Champions League semi-finals is therefore 1-4. Throw in our ridiculously close defeat in the final in 2008 and has ever a team come closer to winning the World’s greatest club competition, yet failing, than Chelsea?

During the day, I pondered our chances for 2012 against the mesmeric talisman Lionel Messi and his Barcelona team mates. Not even our stupendous win against Tottenham on Sunday could dispel many of my very real worries and concerns. My biggest fear was that of humiliation. This has been a strange old season; our team was creaking under Villas-Boas, but has been rejuvenated under Roberto di Matteo. Our form has returned, yet we are still an old team in transition. In my mind, there was a real chance that this would turn out to be one game too far for the battle-scarred veterans. After our fortuitous refereeing decisions against Wigan and Spurs, I was also aware that all of our Lady Luck Tokens had been used for this season. And yet, I can easily recall a conversation that a few friends and I had in The Goose before that 2000 game against Barcelona; we had performed miracles during that CL season and we decided that we were realistically not going to progress further. That Barcelona team, including Figo and the like, was a class act. What did we know? On that incredible night we stormed into a 3-0 lead and produced a breath-taking performance. A late Figo goal took the edge off the night, but it had taught me not to write off Chelsea Football Club.

I hoped for a similar response in 2012. However, I was still uneasy. In an email to some friends, I summed-up our chances on the night as follows –

Barcelona win 50%
Chelsea win 25%
Draw 25%

I added that I thought that we had a 20% chance to progress to the final over both legs.

These were my thoughts before the trip to London.

I pulled out of Chippenham at 4pm. Parky and I were headed east once more. It was a drizzle-filled Wiltshire evening. I wondered if the extra zip to the pitch in London would assist Barcelona’s quick passing.

As I approached Reading, my thoughts on the night’s game were waylaid; my friend Rob, who had been tasked to collect my ticket for the away game in Catalonia, called me on my phone. He was very agitated and told me that the Chelsea box office had no record of my purchase.

“What?”

Surely I applied for my ticket last week?

“Oh fcuk.”

For thirty minutes, I tried to recollect if I had bought the £73.50 ticket. It has been a busy old spell, with many match tickets needing to be purchased; maybe I had, indeed, forgotten to get one? I tried to call the box office, but they were closed. I mulled over my options. I realised that I could pop into the internet café opposite The Goose and apply there. Rob confirmed that the box office would be open for thirty minutes after the evening’s game for collections. I could relax.

Phew.

I parked up at 6.45pm. By 6.55pm, I had purchased my away ticket and Parky had bought me a pint of Peroni in The Goose. I thanked Rob for his efforts and he handed me back the form I had filled out detailing my travel details; I would need that to claim my ticket. I met up with Alex, a work colleague, who had asked me if I had the chance of getting him a ticket as soon as we had beaten Benfica. Alex works for one of the hauliers that my company uses to move our client’s products in Europe; he is from Vienna and has been working in England for a year or so. We had spoken on the ‘phone, but had never met before. He has no team in Austria; Chelsea is his team. He is typical of the new type of supporter our club has attracted of late; not from Ashford, but Austria, not from Cheam, but from California, not from Gravesend, but from Germany. He was clearly ecstatic to be able to see only his second ever Chelsea game. He was off back to Vienna in May. It was great to see him so happy.

I was in a rush to head down to The Bridge as I wanted to get some banners up in good time. I was in so much of a rush that I sped off with Parky’s match ticket still in my bag. He caught up with me, but then disappeared into The Maltsters for “just one more pint.”

Alex and I rushed down to The Bridge; the half-and-half scarves sellers had been busy. I can understand the allure of a friendship scarf for European games; in fact, Parky often gets one for Jill. The St. George flag on the FCB badge always looks great in my mind. Monday is St. George’s Day, of course, and a few Chelsea fans will be celebrating our patron saint’s day deep in the heart of Catalonia.

We reached our seats at 7.35pm just as Neil Barnett announced “the anthem”; the recording of “Blue Is The Colour” by an opera singer. I personally wish they would stick with the original 1972 recording to be honest; this new version is slightly too slow, slightly too forced. Alex and I scrambled up to the back row of the MHU and we pinned my two banners up.

“Vinci Per Noi” dates from the summer of 1996.

“Peter Osgood” dates from March 2006.

The blue and white flags had been handed out once again and were being waved furiously as the last few bars of “Blue Is The Colour” gave way to “The Liquidator.” Then, the two teams strode out onto the wet turf, past the Champions League flag, on to the west side of the pitch.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v…type=2&theater

What a rushed pre-match. However, as I took my seat next to Alan and Tom, I took off my jacket and tried to settle down just for a few moments. I worked out who was playing for Chelsea a few moments into the game. The only surprise was Meireles; this just signifies how far Michael Essien is off his game.

Chelsea were in blue, Barcelona were in black.

In the far corner, the 3,000 away fans presented a vivid and varied scene. Not only were the FCB colours of blue and claret represented, but also the Catalonia colours of red and yellow. Lots of replica shirts, lots of scarves, lots of colourful banners draped over the balcony wall.

Let battle commence. Let the nerves be tested. Let us play. Let us pray.

Despite our wishful thoughts about us “taking it” to Barcelona, it soon became apparent that the away team simply took over the game, strangling us with possession, for us to enjoy any real periods of dominance. All eyes were on Lionel Messi, the World’s greatest footballer, who was there in person, no more than twenty yards away from me at times. I was transfixed by this little man – quiet, unobtrusive, walking around the pitch, head low. How could such a benign looking figure have the potential to cause us so much heartache? It all seemed to be about him. I followed his movement in and amongst our players, his movement at times no more than a slow walk. We would have to stifle his every move. Elsewhere, there were familiar faces, all equally-placed to cause anxiety to defenders and fans alike. Xavi, Iniesta, Fabregas.

The Barcelona players pushed the ball around at will and the passes were usually inch perfect. Short passes were common, but even cross-field balls were inch perfect. In contrast, Chelsea chased and harried, closing down space, avoiding rough tackles. I got the impression that we were being slightly too reverential. I longed for a 50-50 challenge – not a dirty foul, no need to draw a booking – but a hard, strong tackle that would let Barca know we were serious. It would also help to involve the crowd. When I play five-a-side, I am not great a great tackler – I am more a nibbler, someone who can get a toe in to rob the opponent of the ball, someone who can read a pass and intercept.

However, when the need arises and I can sense a pure 50-50, there is no greater feeling that hitting the ball and player’s leading foot together with a strong tackle.

Slam.

I longed for Chelsea to do the same.

The first chance of the game fell to the men in black. Andres Iniesta picked out the on-rushing Sanchez, who nimbly beat the offside trap and delicately lobbed the ball over the ghostly figure of Petr Cech.

“Here we go” I thought.

We waited to see where the ball would end up – time stood still, that old cliché – and were mighty relieved to see the ball drop against the bar. Soon after, Messi’s first real involvement took him in to the penalty area with one of his breath-taking runs, the ball seemingly no more than six inches from his toes throughout. A Chelsea challenge could easily have sent another Barcelona player tumbling, but to his enormous credit, the little Argentinian stayed on his feet. He passed to Iniesta but his close-range shot was wonderfully parried by Cech. The rebound seemed to take Fabregas by surprise and we sighed again.

On 19 minutes, a rare Chelsea chance resulted in Juan Mata slashing over the bar.

Soon after, Barcelona were awarded a corner down below me. As Messi slowly walked towards the corner flag and stooped to collect the ball, more than a few Chelsea fans in the MHU clapped his appearance and I was suitably impressed. We don’t usually do this sort of thing in England – apart from inside cricket grounds where opposing “boundaries” are often clapped by opposing fans – and this was a sure sign that the Chelsea public recognised talent when they saw it. Messi – so young, but so great – is already knocking on the door of Pele and Maradona.

As Barcelona’s possession mounted, I really wondered if we could keep up this constant defending for ninety minutes. Barcelona’s away support was relatively quiet; the only three chants I heard were “Bartha, Bartha, Batha”, “Meeeeee-si” and the club anthem which ends “ Bartha, Bar-tha, Baaaaaaaar-tha.”

Drogba was putting in a typical performance; strong in the air and winning defensive headers one minute, rolling around like he was the victim of a sniper’s bullet the next. He was clearly disrupting Barca’s flow, though whether he had been told to do this by club management is a moot point. I suspect not; I suspect it comes natural to him. I had hoped he could channel the frustration he felt after the 2009 “it’s a fcuking disgrace” game in the right way. However, despite his physical strength, he wasn’t a threat offensively and we were getting a little annoyed with his antics during the game.

The sky filled with misty rain as Barca passed the ball at will. The otherwise dependable Mikel lost possession amidst growls of discontent and the mercurial Messi set up Fabregas. His goal bound effort flew past Cech but slowed slightly, allowing the excellent Ashley Cole to back-pedal, re-adjust at the last minute, and hack the ball to safety with his favoured left peg.

Phew.

At 8.30pm, I received this text from Del, a Liverpool fan from work –

“Be nice to see you nick one. Reckon your boys have set up pretty well, great shape and rode your luck a couple of times. Only downside is that useless prick up front – twenty two and a half minutes on the deck, the other twenty two and a half offside.”

Within twenty seconds of receiving this text, Lampard robbed Messi on the half-way line and quickly pushed the ball to the rampaging Ramires. This was our chance and we knew it. I snapped a photo as the little Brazilian switched feet to play in a ball towards the six yard box. That man Didier arrived to sweep the ball in to the net, just missing the despairing dive of Valdes and we were 1-0 up. Despite a rush of blood, I remained calm enough for five seconds to snap the ensuing huddle down near where Parky resides. After, I bellowed a euphoric “YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSS!”

And then, at 8.32pm – a text to Del.

“You were saying?”

Oh boy…one shot on goal, one goal, one delirious Stamford Bridge.

At the break, Jimmy-Floyd Hasselbaink was on the pitch, and Journey were on the PA.

“Don’t Stop Believing” is a totally incongruous song to be played at a football ground in England; it certainly says nothing at all about our life as UK Chelsea fans. But I can understand why the club chose to play it.

“Don’t Stop Believing” indeed.

The second-half performance by Chelsea will go down in the annals of our club as one of the most resolute and brave performances the spectators at Stamford Bridge has ever seen.

Barcelona began again strongly. Adriano drew a superb save from Cech. Sanchez shot inexplicably wide of Cech’s post. Alves blasted over. Block after block – Cahill, Terry, Mikel – stopped Barcelona’s goal-bound efforts. Despite his detractors, even Meireles was putting in a solid shift. The only player under-performing was Juan Mata, but he is not built for defensive duties and can hardly be blamed for the game passing him by. Barcelona enjoyed several centrally-placed free-kicks, but shots were either blocked (Messi) or ballooned over (Xavi). This was proving to be almost too difficult to watch; it was certainly too tense to enjoy. I was still in my shirt-sleeves. I avoided putting my jacket on as I superstitiously thought it would jinx things.

“We scored with my jacket off, let’s leave it off.”

When I was a kid, watching games with my parents, I had the same superstition with chewing gum. If we were winning, I’d keep the same piece of gum in my mouth. If we were losing, I’d discard it.

Old habits die hard.

The noise levels grew throughout the match as the crowd sensed that the boys needed our help. “Amazing Grace” was re-worked once again and this Proper Chelsea classic provided the backdrop to the second-half master class in defending –

“Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.
Chelsea – Chelsea – Chelsea.”

The crowd did the boys proud. We didn’t neglect the watching Tottenham fans at home, either –

“We won 5-1,Wembley.”

“Harry For Tottenham.”

I was amazed how quickly I felt the time was going…60 minutes, 65 minutes, 70 minutes. The manager replaced Kalou for Mata – fresh legs. The Barcelona pressure continued. Our only chances in the second period involved a Frank Lampard corner, whipped in, but avoiding the trio of Chelsea players at the far post and a break involving a great pass from Drogba finding Kalou who dinked over Valdes’ bar.

Tick…tick…tick…

Another Messi free-kick with five minutes remaining. He chipped the ball in towards Puyol, who flicked the ball on with the deftest of touches. I was right in line with the flight of the ball as it bounced up towards the goal. It was surely the equaliser. Out of nowhere, Cech scrambled across to turn the ball away for a corner.

Superb. The save of the match.

Bosingwa on for the magnificent Ramires – more fresh legs.

The assistant linesman signaled just three minutes of time to be added on. I looked at my phone and it was 9.33pm.

9.36pm and we’re halfway to paradise.

Time for one last agonising moment as Messi moved the ball out to Pedro. He was well outside the box, at an angle, but his low drive avoided all players in the packed penalty area and struck Cech’s far post with a dull thud. The ball rebounded out to Busquets, who ballooned it high into the Chelsea fans in The Shed Upper.

It was 9.36pm.

The referee blew.

The Bridge roared and Alan, Alex and I smacked each other’s backs. I, for one, could not believe it. I had just witnessed a miracle. Of course, we had ridden our luck, but what a gutsy performance. I lost count of the number of blocks which our defenders used to thwart Barca. I was breathless and almost light-headed as the players clapped the crowd from the centre-circle. There was no overblown triumphalism from the team at the end. They knew we were only half-way there. But we have a foothold in this tie and we will, I am sure, go out to Barcelona with a plausible reason to be optimistic of our chances.

“One Step beyond” got us all bouncing.

I skipped past the Peter Osgood statue – I made the point of touching his leg as I passed – and quickly joined the line of around 100 fans collecting Barcelona away tickets. With great relief, I was handed my ticket. I met up with Steve from the NYBs, who was close to tears with emotion.

“That’s the best noise I’ve ever heard at Chelsea.”

The London night was now dirty and wet with rain, but inside our heads we were drugged-up with Chelsea. We met up with Parky and Jesus in The Goose to let the traffic subside. Rob and Les from nearby Melksham were enjoying “one last pint” and these two scallywags will be on the same 6.55am flight from Bristol as me on Tuesday.

What a beautiful night in Catalonia that could be.

Tales From A Perfect Sunday

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 15 April 2012.

The stakes were high. Chelsea versus Tottenham in the semi-final at Wembley. In our lives as Chelsea supporters, they really do not get much bigger than this. There were sub-plots aplenty for this game, but the simple truth was that revenge and retaliation was in the air. With our dominance over Spurs in the league since 1990, it is hard to believe that there is any revenge left to seek, but scratch the surface and there is plenty.

Let’s talk about the F.A. Cup Final of 1967; the first (and incorrectly dubbed) “Cockney Final” and a 2-1 loss. Of course, none of my friends were present at that one, but the memory is there in our collective psyche. There is 1982; the Quarter Final this time. Chelsea were a struggling second tier team and Spurs were the F.A. Cup holders, full of top players and swagger. A Micky Fillery goal gave us hope before the break, but the visitors agonisingly came back to beat us. I remember listening at home to the action on the old BBC Radio Two, staring at the swirls on the living room carpet, living every horrible minute of Spurs’ gut-wrenching come-back. It was as horrible a defeat as I can remember. And then there was 2008 and the Carling Cup Final defeat. This match was horrendous; a Drogba free-kick against the run of play, but then the eventual Spurs comeback and a 2-1 loss. Spurs out-sung us completely on the day; and it is that memory that haunts me. I actually hated vast swathes of our support on that Sunday afternoon. It left me wondering about my connection with the club, the fans, the whole nine yards.

How can I support the same team as so many Chelsea supporters who simply don’t live by the same rules?

I was up early – just after 7am. The sun was out, there was a slight frost. There was an incredible air of anticipation.

This seemed like the F.A. Cup final itself.

I collected Young Jake and then Lord Parkins by 10.30am. Stiff Little Fingers were the band of choice on the drive to London. The volume was cranked up and the raucous rasp of Jake Burns was knocking the cobwebs out of our bodies. I saw SLF in Bristol a few weeks back; still churning out the post-punk tunes of yesteryear, still tugging at my heartstrings, still taking me back to my youth. Songs about teenage angst, songs of rebellion, songs to make your blood bump. There was every danger that my vocal chords would be ruined even before I reached London, let alone Wembley. The words to “Roots, Radicals, Rockers And Reggae” were yelled at the passing traffic on the M4 –

“I said don’t fight against no colour, class nor creed.
For on discrimination does violence breed.”

“Equal rights and justice for one and all.
Cos only through liberty freedom shall form.”

I wondered if the Stiff Little Fingers’ mantra could be suspended for a few hours as we renewed hostilities with Tottenham.

We safely parked near The Lillee Langtry at West Brompton and caught the tube to Edgware Road. We reached The Duke Of York at about 1.30pm and a few of the lads were already there. We stayed three hours. We have been frequenting this corner pub since that Carling Cup game in 2008 (the defeat obviously didn’t deter us) and we usually sit outside, soaking up the sun’s rays. On this occasion, we were all inside; there was a bitter chill to the air. I limited myself to two pints of Kronenburg and found it hard going. I have driven to all but one of the games this season and I had reached frustration point; I longed to be able to free the shackles and dive in to more lagers, but knew I had to limit my intake. The F.A. had set the 6pm kick-off time and I had a long night ahead. As the others gulped their lagers, I sipped mine.

The chat swirled around me and more mates arrived. We talked briefly, and fitfully, about the game. There wasn’t a mood of optimism in the camp. Ed was realistic; the game could swing either way. Rick Glanvil, the respected club historian, briefly appeared and mentioned that a couple of Spurs mates were equally sombre about the game. This was reassuring; it reminded us that they hadn’t been performing as well as earlier in their season. Daryl mentioned that Tottenham had lost their last five F.A. Cup semi-finals and this brought a further moment of cheer. However, we spoke about the Barcelona game too; there was not a glimmer of hope for that one. We all knew it. We’re not stupid.

We set off at 4.30pm and caught the 4.55pm train at Marylebone. The train was packed with Chelsea, arriving from the south, and the carriage was soon rocking with noise.

I had a few moments to myself outside the stadium. The skies were clear and the sun lit up the shining steel of the stadium. I walked around to the front, underneath the Sir Bobby Moore statue. I took the inevitable batch of photographs of the glinting steel arch which dominates the surroundings. The Chelsea and Tottenham fans were boisterously walking up towards the stadium from the Wembley Park tube station to the north. This was our tenth visit to the new Wembley and we were allocated the east end for only the third time; again memories of 2008.

I ascended the elevators and was met with a packed concourse doing “The Bouncy” amid a sea of beer. We had seats behind the goal, just two rows from the rear. The stadium took an age to fill up, but what a sight it was. The tiers rose up to the sky and the pitch seemed ridiculously small. The new Wembley lacks something though; I can’t put my finger on it. Maybe it just lacks charm.

To my right; Parky, Milo, Simon, Rob, Daryl, Ed, Alan and Gal.

The tickets only cost £30 – no complaints there.

To my left were Steve and Darren Mantle. Mick the Autograph King was in the row in front.

As the kick-off time approached, I surveyed the scene. To my annoyance and embarrassment, it was clear that we hadn’t sold all of our tickets. A large block of around 300 were completely empty down to my left. There were odd areas dotted around the Chelsea section unused. This sickened me.

Again, I conjured up thoughts about our size as a club. Steve and I chatted about Chelsea and Spurs. When I was growing up, Arsenal and Spurs were the two biggest clubs in London. Despite our in-roads of late, I would still contend that Arsenal have the biggest fan base of all the London teams. Whereas I think that Chelsea have a bigger global name than Spurs (we have ridden the internet at a key time), I still think that Chelsea lag behind Spurs in the south-east. The evidence in front of me could not be ignored.

I received an email recently from the club asking about my opinions about a few topics, but the questions were quite clearly hinting at our thoughts about a move to a new stadium. What a surprise. Well, I fully expect that the club will announce shortly that – “following a random sample of season-ticket holders and members” – the majority of Chelsea fans back a move to a new 60,000 stadium. Excuse my cynicism, but that would be a nimble piece of marketing by Chelsea, pushing through more propaganda in their desire to “up sticks” from our beloved stadium. Well, I will say one thing; it is a shame that more of the same fans couldn’t be bothered to fill 31,500 seats at Wembley.

Not many Spurs flags. More Chelsea ones.

Dare I mention the silence for the Hillsborough victims?

Notwithstanding Liverpool’s wish to avoid playing on the 23rd. anniversary of Hillsborough which then forced the F.A. to schedule us at a ludicrous time on the Sunday before a CL semi-final against the best team on the planet…notwithstanding all that…there was simply no reason for a few fools to besmirch the memory of the 96 fans who lost their lives all those years ago.

I glowered at two imbeciles in the row behind me, faces contorted with drunken rage, shouting obscenities.

Now is not the time to write about the events of that horrific day in Sheffield in 1989 – and Liverpool fans were not without blame – but it truly saddened me that a minority of Chelsea fans behaved in such a way in 2012.

Jose Bosingwa in. Didier Drogba in. Mikel in.

Let’s go.

The first-half was played out in front of a fading sun, with Chelsea only occasionally breaking into strong positions. A few players were soon the target of a few mates’ ire. Gary is not backward in coming forward in moments like these and his caustic comments brought a mixture of anger and mirth to the occasion –

“Fcuking ‘ell Kalou – your boots are worth more than you are.”

Of the two sets of fans, Spurs seemed more audible, though not up to their 2008 levels. The dirge-like “Oh When The Spurs” echoed around the west end, but we couldn’t respond. Our little group of mates, ably supported by a few others in the vicinity, tried our damnedest to get things moving, but we were met with opposition.

There were only a few chances in the first quarter for both teams. We were sounding each other out. I feared Modric, but also the pace of Bale and Lennon. Drogba was booked for a senseless challenge and I wondered if we would rue this later. Kalou broke on the left before playing in Juan Mata, but his weak effort was easily saved by Carlo Cudicini, the much-loved former Blue.

A Van der Vaart header was cleared off the line by John Terry down below us. In a nervy few minutes, Spurs ought to have gone ahead when a Van der Vaart ball towards the lurking Adebayor bounced up and rebounded off the far upright. Cech was beaten. Had Adebayor reached the ball, we would have been behind.

The Chelsea end eventually warmed up and our little gang of rebel-rousers initiated a “Carefree” which rolled around the upper tier; good work, boys.

With half-time approaching, the ball was played up to the previously subdued Didier Drogba in a central position. In a piece of classic Drogba action, he spun the ball past William Gallas and pushed the ball to his left. He unleashed a devastating shot past Carlo and the net rippled, sending us into a state of euphoria. Only Drogba could do that. How he loves Wembley. How we celebrated.

Miraculously, we were winning. Good old Chelsea.

More “Bouncy Bouncy” in the concourse at the break, but I wondered why the same fans felt so inhibited inside the stadium.

The second-half began with a flurry of Chelsea chances. Juan Mata soon forced a superb save from Carlo Cudicini and the ‘keeper parried a Luiz header from the corner which followed. There then followed a moment of infamy which will be talked about for ages. The ball bounced back towards Juan Mata who prodded the ball towards goal. The ball seemed to hit a cluster of players on the line and before any of us reacted, Mata celebrated and the referee was running back towards the centre-circle. I quickly glanced towards the linesman, but his flag was not raised.

Goal.

More manic pandemonium in the upper east end. Oh you beauty. We could hardly believe this. I noted that more than a handful of Chelsea fans, enjoying half-time refreshments, had missed this goal; fools.

Within what seemed like a few moments, Spurs had pulled a goal back. A ball from Scott Parker, the scowling former Chelsea midfielder, played in Adebayor. A clumsy challenge from Petr Cech but the ball rolled out to Bale who neatly turned the ball in to the empty net. The west end roared; that was more like it Chelsea, things were going too bloody well.

Unfortunately, David Luiz, who had been reasonable, had been injured during his attempt to block and was sadly stretchered off. Gary Cahill replaced him. Chelsea then enjoyed lots of the ball, moving the ball very well and keeping possession.

“That’s it boys, tire the fcukers out.”

The midfield were great – pass, pass, pass. We stretched them out if we could, Ramires especially doing well. Cahill did ever so well to track back and put in a sublime tackle on the raiding Bale. This was clearly a great game now. I watched on with a nervous resilience.

Juan Mata spotted Ramires’ fine run and, as Carlo advanced, the little Brazilian dinked a gorgeous chip over the advancing Number 23. The ball dropped in to the goal and bodies all around me were flying everywhere.

Get in!

Soon after, Gallas (yes, him) fouled his nemesis Drogba and Frank Lampard placed the ball. From my viewpoint, the distance seemed too far for a shot on goal, but I had my camera at the ready in any case. Surely he wouldn’t go for goal?

Frank took a swipe.

Snap.

The ball flew past Carlo and we were 4-1 up.

Yes, 4-1.

More mayhem.

Thousands of Spurs fans left en masse and I couldn’t resist taking many photographs of this perfect picture postcard scene; the scoreboard plainly stated Tottenham 1 Chelsea 4, the setting sun was disappearing behind the upper reaches of the west end and with it, Spurs season. The west end turned red.

We were roaring now…”Your support is – well, you know…”

Florent Malouda and then Fernando Torres came on as late substitutions and more chances appeared as we caught Spurs flat-footed at the back again. In the fourth minute of extra-time, with the Spurs support down to around 2,000, further joy. That man Mata, below his best these past few weeks, clipped the ball through for the onrushing Malouda who calmly stroked the ball below the hapless Cudicini.

Tottenham Hotspur 1 Chelsea 5.

It was almost cruel now…

“One di Matteo, there’s only one di Matteo, one di Matteo.”

“Who the fuck are Barcelona? Who the fuck are Barcelona?”

We – of course – couldn’t believe it. This was as an unexpected win as I have ever known in over 38 years of attending matches. Before the match if someone had said that the result was going to be 5-1, there is a very strong chance that I may have expected a Spurs win. I was not present at the 6-1 win at 3PL in 1997, so this represented the biggest ever Chelsea win against Tottenham. Oh boy.

We said our goodbyes – “see you Wednesday” – and we joined in the songs on the triumphant walk down the many flights of stairs.

“We won 5-1, we won 5-1, we won 5-1, Wembley – we won 5-1, we won 5-1, we won 5-1, Wembley.”

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There was a definite case of “we don’t believe it” as we exited the stadium, shaking hands and hugging friends, almost delirious with glee. The joy continued as we slowly trudged along Wembley Way. I kept looking behind to see the illuminated arch lighting up the darkening sky. This was a lovely sight, witnessed by myself for the first time – I have not been a fan of new Wembley – but this iconic sight struck a chord.

The clear night sky, beaming Chelsea faces, the cold April evening, the arch towering over all.

Superb.

Parky, Jake and I headed back into town. I was absolutely starving as I hadn’t had anything to eat all day long…we ended up, predictably, at Earls Court where Salvo entertained us with the perfect denouement to the day’s action; an Americano pizza with extra anchovies and a single ice cold Peroni.

I eventually reached home at 12.45am – it had been a magnificent day in London. Easily one of my top ten favourite matches of all time. For Tottenham, it was their sixth consecutive semi-final defeat. I joked with Parky on the way home that even though we sing “we hate Tottenham”, I am sure that they hate us more.

Let’s keep it like that.

We now play Liverpool at our second home on Saturday 5th. May – our fourth F.A Cup Final in six seasons.

Tottenham, meanwhile, look wistfully on.

Us.

1994 – Luton Town – won
1996 – Manchester United – lost
1997 – Wimbledon – won
2000 – Newcastle United – won
2002 – Fulham – won
2006 – Liverpool – lost
2007 – Blackburn Rovers – won
2009 – Arsenal – won
2010 – Aston Villa – won
2012 – Tottenham Hotspur – won

Them.

1993 – Arsenal – lost
1995 – Everton – lost
1999 – Newcastle United – lost
2001 – Arsenal – lost
2010 – Portsmouth – lost
2012 – Chelsea – lost

Tales From Sixth Place

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Fulham vs. Chelsea : 9 April 2012.

It was Easter Bank Holiday Monday 2012 and the Fulham versus Chelsea derby game was due up in the evening. Normally, I would try to do something of note during the day, but I awoke with an annoying headache and sore throat. As Parky had been rough with similar symptoms over the past week, I soon blamed him. Since 1979, my village has hosted an Easter Fair on every Bank Holiday Monday and I intended to spend a little time amongst the attractions. However, as the morning drew on, the weather deteriorated with an increasingly blustery wind and worsening showers. I saw a few visitors heading into the centre of the village; coats buttoned with hats and scarves to the fore. They didn’t seem to be enjoying the bracing wind or rain. However, I decided to brave the elements and strolled down, past children’s fair rides, food stalls, arts and crafts stands, hog roasts, bric-a-brac stalls and trade stands. I made it as far as the village shop and picked up a few items of food for lunch. I soon realised that my cold-like symptoms were getting worse. By the time I had returned home, my jacket was soaked.

Great.

The time soon passed and I reluctantly gathered my things together ahead of the drive to London. I will admit that there was a certain element of drudgery about all of this. I threw some headache tablets down my neck and battled the elements as I headed out to the car. As the centre of the village was closed off to vehicular access, I had to head out to the west rather than the east. What a dreary day. Heading past Faulkland, past the village green with the stocks, then past the Tucker’s Grave Inn (one of the last remaining scrumpy pubs in the area), the weather was truly awful; a lifeless sky and incessant rain.

I reached Parky Towers at just after 3pm. We were both coughing and spluttering in unison as I pulled out of his road. Parky and Jill had visited the village fair last Easter – when the weather was much more enticing – and so I soon chatted about my grim walk through the wet streets a few hours earlier.

“It was pretty pathetic mate. It wasn’t too bad for me I suppose, because I live in the village. But I have to wonder why people would want to travel over especially and traipse about in the rain…”

My voice trailed off. I soon realised what I was saying. I was mocking the people I had seen at the fair, but here we were, the two of us suffering with colds, about to drive 100 miles to watch a game of football.

I recognised the irony and chuckled to myself.

Why was I going to Craven Cottage? I guess the £49 ticket was burning a hole in my pocket…especially since we missed the game just after Christmas last year when we both felt ropey. There was some vague notion of “duty” to the team I suppose, but neither of us has to prove anything in our support of the boys. I suppose, the reason was straightforward; it’s what we do. I guess the question never really needs to be asked, let alone answered.

I pulled into Melksham for a coffee and I immediately felt chirpier. My mate Steve texted me to say that Frome Town (aka the Mighty Dodge) were drawing 0-0 down on the seaside in Weymouth, but the weather was cold and blustery there too. If truth be known, I was pretty dismayed that I was missing Frome’s game against the biggest club in their division.

As we headed east, we listened to the exploits of both Newcastle and Tottenham on the radio. We were both elated to hear of Spurs’ 2-1 loss and we were soon chattering about us finishing up in fourth place at the final whistle at Craven Cottage. On Friday, the gap was a massive five points. Later in the day, we could be level.

Easter weekend is a long time in football

Parky threw a Stiff Records compilation on the CD player as I headed into The Smoke. I especially enjoyed the thunder of “Destination Zulu Land” by King Kurt, a song I hadn’t heard for a good 25 years. As we zipped through the twee side streets of Barnes and Putney, songs from The Pogues, Tracey Ullman and The Belle Stars sent us down memory lane. We left Memory Lane and parked up just a few hundred yards from the River Thames. Good news from Weymouth; Steve texted me to say The Dodge won 3-0.

We strolled into “The Duke’s Head” bang on 6pm and settled down alongside the stalwarts Alan and Gary, plus Mike from NYC and his son Matthew. Within a short period of time, Matt from NYC joined us and then Jesus and his cousin Darlene; she had just flown in to London and the Fulham vs. Chelsea derby game would be her first ever footy game. They have tickets for the F.A. Cup semi-final on Sunday, too, and Jesus has been teaching her a few songs. The less said about those the better…wink. By the time of that game next Sunday, Jesus will have added Paris and Amsterdam to his list of European cities visited during the past three months.

Alan and Parky exchanged jokes and the Heineken was going down well. A few familiar Chelsea faces were spotted at the bar. Mike and I spoke about the massive game against Tottenham at Wembley, but we both expressed dismay and concern that our 31,500 tickets sold so poorly that during the last window for sales, both season ticket holders and members alike could buy an additional two tickets. This suggests to me that our fan base as a whole is not as “up for it” as it should be. Surely the Spurs’ followers will take up their 31,500 more readily. Worrying signs…

“Another pint, boys?”

I can well remember a conversation that a few of us had on the pavement outside this pub ahead of our game with Fulham in March 2006. This was, of course, during the closing stages of our second championship season under Jose Mourinho; there was a certain amount of pomp in the way that our club was perceived by the media at the time and we were seen as almost unbeatable domestically. Looking back, they were the very best of times. And yet, the five or six of us on that Sunday lunchtime were far from happy; we had noticed chinks in our armour and were not completely happy in the way that we were playing of late. Question marks were raised about manager and players alike. The fact that we lost the game 1-0 added a little gravitas to our typically pessimistic appraisal of the team six years ago.

Why do I mention this? It just proves that football fans, in general, are never happy. We were soon to be crowned English champions for the second successive season, but there was still room for improvement in our collective minds.

We left the boozer at 7.15pm and wrapped ourselves up against the cold before walking over the exposed Putney Bridge, with the bright lights of Craven Cottage shining like beacons to our west. We hurriedly walked through the park which abuts the river and were soon outside the red brick turnstiles of the Putney End. The others entered the away end, but I spent a few moments taking a few photographs of the relatively new Johnny Haynes statue. However, the rain was falling and the light was poor. The photos weren’t great. I didn’t even bother looking for the allegedly hideous Michael Jackson statue. True Fulham fans must hate the presence of it outside the Johnny Haynes stand.

I wouldn’t mind a Raquel Welch statue outside The Shed though; it would be, at least, somewhere to shelter in the rain.

Underneath the away stand, I soon stumbled into Darlene, Parky and Jesus supping “one last pint.” Craven Cottage is a lovely stadium – one of my favourites. Its setting is unique. I love the façade of the main stand. Top marks. However, it does contain the infamous “neutral area” alongside the 3,000 seats officially allotted to away fans in the Putney End. Once inside the seats, I soon realised that my seat – on the aisle – was right on the boundary between the “away” and “neutral” zones. I chatted to Alan about this; if truly neutral, one wonders if it would be appropriate to encounter Liverpool, Leicester City, Leeds United and Lincoln City shirts amongst the neutrals. It is truly a weird concept. I quickly spotted a few Chelsea shirts and scarves in this area, but also some Fulham ones.

Bizarre.

It was noticeable that the 3,000 away fans stood for the entire game and provided some of the most vocal singing of the season so far. In contrast, the 3,500 fans in the neutral zone remained seated throughout and did not utter a single word of song during the evening’s entertainment. The home fans were pretty docile, too. However, I scanned the stadium and there were hardly any empty seats. The teams walked across the pitch.

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I caught a glimpse of some white signs being held up by a section of home fans in the Hammersmith End and I groaned; I suspected that these doubled as the equally infamous “Fulham noise-makers / clappers / thundersticks” (also spotted at Wembley amongst the plebs at England games.)

The future of football? Heave.

I’m not really sure why Fulham have disregarded their black shorts; I have a passing dislike for teams who meddle with their kit design.

The game began and we were soon singing –

“Six days till Tottenham, there’s only six days till Tottenham – six days till Tottenham.”

“We don’t hate you, we don’t hate you, we don’t hate you – ‘cus you’re s***.”

“You can stick your fucking clappers up your arse.”

“Who the fuck are Barcelona, who the fuck are Barcelona, who the fuck are Barcelona? As the Blues go marching on, on, on.”

It was a cold and wet night by the banks of The Thames.The game wasn’t great at all, though we kept singing all of the way through. Ryan Bertrand pleased my eye throughout the game and he has fared well over the past two games. Gary Cahill created a strong barrier alongside John Terry. Ivanovic was his usual self. The problems came in the attacking positions really. We all said that Ramires is best used when he wins the ball centrally and drives on. He is not so effective when he receives the ball wide and then has to create for others. Lampard covered ground but wasn’t the driving force of old. Up top, Torres was quiet, Kalou also.

Clint Dempsey had a few strong chances in the first-half, but Petr Cech kept him at bay. I like the look of the buzzing winger Frei . Damien Duff, as always these days, flattered to deceive.

The foul on Kalou which lead to the penalty took place, of course, up the other end and so my sighting was not great. Frank struck the ball low and it just evaded Schwarzer’s dive. Phew.

In the first ten minutes of the second period, we enjoyed three or four gilt-edged chances to increase our lead but the chances went begging. I can still see the look of pain on Fernando Torres’ face after his neat lay-off for Meireles resulted in a wild blast over. Slowly, our play deteriorated and Fulham began to bother Petr Cech. A few half-chances peppered our goal. A stunning point-blank save from Petr was met with tumultuous applause from the standing loyalists in the Putney End. From the resulting corner, though, our hearts were broken when Clint Dempsey – yes, him – rose to head home.

In the last cameo of the night, we broke forward but Frank Lampard stumbled after a tackle inside the box. The referee Mark Clattenburg blew the final whistle, leaving a frustrated Lampard sitting on the pitch, bemused.

We scuttled back to the car and were soon away. There was little to bring us any cheer to be honest. Another evening, another game, another night of song. Our chance to leapfrog ahead of Tottenham had been missed – and with it, a timely boost ahead of the cup semi-final. Still, Fulham away is never an easy game these days. We still have a shot at fourth place, but we will see.

We returned to the Stiff Records compilation as I took the reverse route out of south-west London. I drove right past the spot where T-Rex lead singer Marc Bolan met his untimely death in 1977. All those years ago, his mini slammed into a tree-trunk and I noted that it was festooned with pictures and mementos of the iconic singer, whose “Children Of The Revolution” is one of my favourite songs of my very early childhood.

As I headed home, Parky soon fell asleep and I soon realised that my sore throat had returned; looking back this was hardly surprising since I had unthinkingly joined in at every opportunity to bellow support for the boys.

Let’s hope that all 31,500 of us have equally sore throats next Sunday evening.

Tales From A Lucky One

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wigan Athletic : 7 April 2012.

Another Saturday, another Chelsea home game. I collected Young Jake in Trowbridge just before 9am and we were soon on our way to collect Lord Parky. As I have said, my mind is full of the Spurs and Barcelona cup ties at the moment and I soon commented to Jake that I expected that the rest of the crowd at Stamford Bridge would be thinking along similar lines. I reluctantly added that I expected that there would be a resultant poor atmosphere. Parky was still suffering with his cold and the drive up to London was a little quieter than usual. I was pleased to be able to give Glenn’s semi-final ticket to Jake and he was very thankful. Jake is a new acquaintance and is full of youthful enthusiasm for Chelsea. Parky and I were asked for our opinions on all sorts of Chelsea-related subjects as we headed towards London. Jake wondered how many miles all of these pilgrimages to Stamford Bridge equate to. Although I wasn’t able to answer him there and then, the game against Wigan Athletic would be my 579th Chelsea game at Stamford Bridge. That adds up to over 127,000 miles of travel.

This would be my 47th. Chelsea game of the season and Parky was keen to add that he is not far behind; Wigan would be his 40th. The 1-1 draw up at the DW stadium before Christmas was one of only two leagues game in which he was not alongside me, riding shotgun and talking nonsense.

The weather was nondescript, but the traffic quiet. I slapped on the Depeche Mode “Sounds Of The Universe” CD and the familiar tones of Dave Gahan and Martin Gore provided a nice backdrop as I drove on. Approaching the Hogarth roundabout, I was expecting traffic arriving for the Oxford and Cambridge boat race which would soon be taking place on the nearby River Thames. I was pleasantly surprised when I was able to drive on through unhindered. I was parked up at 11.15am.

The three of us walked straight down to the ground and soon met up with Gill and Graeme on the walk underneath the old Shed wall. I commended Gill on her refreshingly upbeat report on the Benfica game. We spent about two hours in the hotel bar and the time absolutely flew past. We shook hands with Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti and waited for a few more friends to arrive. Mick the Autograph King was already there, to be soon joined by Beth and her friend Terri (!) – her first game at Chelsea – from Texas, then Jesus, then my good mate Alan. This was Alan’s first ever visit to the hotel bar on a match day as far as I could remember; he was with a friend called Richard and Richard’s young son Jake. This was a big day in Jake’s life – his first ever Chelsea game. He was bedecked in the white away shirt and had a lovely beaming smile. Alan had arranged for a photo of Jake to appear in the match programme and he soon had his photo taken with Chopper. Mike from NYC soon arrived and we chatted very briefly about Tour 2012 “logistics.” I spotted Kerry Dixon over by the bar and we all sauntered over to meet him and get photographs taken with the great man. By this stage, Trowbridge Jake had thanked me five times for getting him up to this area; he was clearly thrilled to be about to meet three of our greatest ever players. Jesus, too, loved it, though he admitted to me that he needed to sharpen up his Chelsea history. Jesus was relieved to be able to buy Graeme’s Arsenal ticket; Jesus had been busy at work when the tickets went on sale and hadn’t been too happy with himself.

All of us were trying to avoid Jesus / Easter jokes, but a few slipped through. I think we got away with it.

Jesus and the two Jakes descended to watch the Chelsea players walk through from their team briefing room to the Centenary Room. I stayed upstairs with Parky, but caught a few of the players from above –

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It was 1.30pm now and we needed to move on. As we waited for Parky to join us, I noted two Chelsea fans wearing replica shirts over undershirts and I had a little conversation with Trowbridge Jake and Jesus about cockney rhyming slang.

“If my mate Rob was here, he’d say those two blokes had no Plymouth.”

“No Plymouth?”

“Yeah – Plymouth Argyle…style. No style.”

Jake’s late father was a Londoner and so knew exactly what I meant, but Jesus was left wondering, I think, what on Earth I was talking about. We dropped in for a very quick stop at the CFCUK stall, then plotted up at The Maltsers as none of us could be bothered to walk up to The Goose. Time was against us. One last pint, then further acknowledgement of what a lovely pre-match it had been. During the previous few hours, we had made plans for the meet ups for Fulham and Spurs. It was still surprisingly cold on the quick walk back to The Bridge.

Wigan wore the exact opposite of our home kit. Around 200 had made the journey down from Lancashire. I have no real catalogue of previous Chelsea vs. Wigan games to draw on, but there is, of course, one game which sticks out; the title decider on the final day of the 2009-2010 season.

Chelsea 8 Wigan Athletic 0.

One of the most joyful days in our history and our biggest ever league win. Magnificent. No more words are needed.

A quick scan of the line-up revealed many changes. Gary Cahill in for JT, Ryan Bertrand starting at left-back, with Essien, Meireles and Malouda in the midfield, Sturridge and Drogba recalled in attack.

After a nondescript start, the first real moment of interest took place on 19 minutes when the ball broke to Gary Cahill some 30 yards out. It seemed that thousands shouted “shoooooot” and our new defender soon took heed. A fine rising shot was ably palmed over by Al Habsi, one of the most under-rated ‘keepers in the division. In a matter of seconds, first Raul Meireles won a tackle and then Daniel Sturridge passed the ball to a team mate.

“Miracles never cease” exclaimed Alan.

“Well, it is Easter” I replied.

Wigan had two long range shots which didn’t really trouble Petr Cech. Soon after, a delightful turn from Didier Drogba had us all salivating, but his finish ended up just wide. Chances were rare and the atmosphere was eerily quiet.

In fact, I will go further. The atmosphere in that insipid first-half period was the worst I can remember in those 579 games.

Three late chances fell to Chelsea but we couldn’t capitalise. Juan Mata wriggled free to receive a ball from Drogba but shot at the ‘keeper. The rebound reached Drogba, but Didier’s header lacked both power and placement. It came straight at him though; he did well to connect in the first place. Then, a header from Drogba and a shot from Studge did not trouble Al Habsi.

It was hardly inspiring stuff and The Bridge remained morgue-like.

Alan quipped “we don’t need cheerleaders, we need a medium.”

The second-half began and the noise level increased a little. Alan and I always try our best, but it gets totally dispiriting after a while. One of these days, I may just give up completely and watch like the thousands of others.

Please take a gun to my head if this happens.

On 54 minutes, Mata worked the ball to Didier but his shot was saved from close in. Fernando Torres, a real crowd favourite now, came on for Malouda, despite Sturridge not really enjoying a great game. Just after, our first goal relieved some of the building tension inside The Bridge. A free-kick was cleared but an intelligent chip by Meireles was met by an on-rushing Ivanovic who poked home from close range. His first reaction was to glance at the linesman, but no flag was raised. He ran down to the corner flag below us and his team mates soon joined him. Texts from Philadelphia and Guernsey told us that we had got away with that goal. Phew.

A minute later, our talismanic Serbian saved the day when a rapid Wigan break resulted in a shot from former Chelsea starlet Di Santo being cleared off the line by Brana.

It was annoying to see an advancing Fernando Torres twice slip in almost the same place when clear of a defender. At no time did the crowd get on his back though; if anything the “Torres Torres” shouts grew louder. Didier Drogba set up Daniel Sturridge in the inside-left position, but his shot was slashed wide when the youngster really ought to have taken an extra touch.

What then happened really sickened me; Sturridge was booed.

His own fans in both tiers of the Matthew Harding booed him.

This hardly surprised me; it was noticeable that there were vast periods of the game when the Chelsea fans around me chose to sit on their hands and barely talk to each other, let alone actively cheer the team on. They were sat there like dummies. Then, as soon as an errant pass or miss-timed tackle took place, these same people were audible and noisy. It did my nut in.

Rather than move our support up a few notches, The Bridge reverted to type. With eight minutes remaining, Diame enjoyed an unhindered dribble at the heart of the defence and unleashed a fine shot which left Cech static.

1-1.

Moses came close for the visitors, the industrious Torres set up Kalou but the shot was wide.

With four minutes of extra time signalled, the crowd were buoyed. Could we go again?

Mata found Drogba down below me. Despite a packed penalty area, he lofted the ball delightfully to an unmarked Torres. Thankfully, he stayed on his feet this time and volleyed at goal. It was a beautiful thing; the timing was perfect as Torres kept his eye on the ball dropping before him, then hitting through the ball, keeping it down, following through perfectly.

To our disgust, the ball hit the base of the far post.

To our joy, the ball bounced up into the path of Juan Mata and the ball flopped over the line. Al Habsi’s desperate swipe was in vain.

2-1.

Torres could have added a goal at the death, but 3-1 would have flattered us further.

This was clearly a pretty poor performance against a surprisingly spirited Wigan team. We’re limping from game to game at the moment, but the last three games have produced three wins, engineered in a similar style; ahead, level, ahead. At least that shows spirit and desire.

Fulham on Monday evening, on the banks of the River Thames, will not be a walk in the park.

See you all there; we’re meeting at The Duke’s Head in Putney.

Mine’s a Peroni.

Tales From An April Evening

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Benfica : 4 April 2012.

Chelsea went into the return leg with Benfica nursing a 1-0 lead from the first game the previous week. The advantage was clearly with us. However, during the day, I commented to a few friends that I was strangely subdued about the game in the evening. We were clearly in a great position to advance to the semi-final, but maybe it was the daunting task of facing the Barcelona colossus which was weighing heavy on my mind. I was also uneasy with us being in a relatively good position. We are usually faced with greater struggles on the path of that elusive first-ever Champions League trophy. I commented that it would certainly be a very odd evening if, for example, we glided into an early lead and then added another security goal in the second-half. As a Chelsea fan used to hardships and heartbreaks, that sort of scenario would be most surprising. I even had a title for my match report worked out; “Tales From UnChelsea.”

Well, I needn’t have worried. If ever there was a “typical Chelsea” performance, this was it.

I collected Parky from The Pheasant car park just before 4pm, just as a passing rainstorm had deposited a few drops of rain. He quickly scrambled inside, we shook hands – “here we go again, son” – and we departed. Parky was clearly under the weather; he had a bad cold and was suffering. There was even a slight risk of him not attending.

We chatted relentlessly on the drive east and the trip to HQ followed a typical pattern. We made good time until the approach into London, but then the traffic slowed. I eventually pulled in at 6.45pm. It had taken us almost three hours to travel 95 miles.

Inside The Goose, things were relatively quiet, but my closest Chelsea mates were gathered together. Time for a single pint. Jesus arrived late but we had just enough time for a small chat. I set off ahead of the rest as I wanted to get in to pin up the “VPN” banner. As I passed Fulham Broadway at 7.30pm, there was a lovely match day buzz taking place, with paces quickening, voices chattering. There were a few stray Benfica fans darting in and out of the moving mass of Chelsea supporters, but nowhere near the number of Napoli supporters in the previous round.

The façade of the West Stand was adorned with two large Champions League banners and, down below in a central position, the statue of Peter Osgood was standing out clearly.

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There was no line at the MHU turnstiles; remember the capacity of this stand is cut by around 4,000 for Champions League knock-out games. I sidled past a young couple and overheard the girl say in a broad London accent –

“Oh, I hate these scanners. I had trouble with them when I went to The Arsenal.”

I turned around just as her bloke gave her an old-fashioned look. I rolled my eyes and commented –

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

I got to my seat at 7.40pm and I scrambled up to the back wall of the upper tier to pin up “Vinci.” Steve gave me a hand and then went down to assist Daz with the unleashing of the flag. I reached my seat just as the teams appeared onto the pitch. We were all given free flags again and for a few fleeting moments, Stamford Bridge was a picture. Benfica’s fans were bristling with noise and colour in the opposite corner. I noted how bright the Benfica shirts were; almost a pink hue to their shirts. Benfica brought more flags than most other European teams to The Bridge. There was a Union Jack and a flag of St. Georges; clearly the London branch of their supporters club was out in force. I took a few photos; Champions League Nights are so photogenic, what with the teams walking past the fluttering CL flag and then the formal line-up, the stands rippling with colour. The balconies were festooned with Chelsea flags and banners; we had clearly made a special effort. The game was live on national television and we needed to make an impression. The match kicked off and I quickly scanned the line-up; I presumed we were keeping the 4-2-3-1 formation. Brana fit, Lamps in, Kalou in, Torres alone up front.

We began the match attacking “my” end, the Matthew Harding Stand, and it again felt strange. Benfica began strongly. However, a lovely volley from a lurking David Luiz was smashed in from an angle, but a Benfica defender blocked it. We hoped that further attacks would be soon cascading down on the Benfica goal. Just after, Juan Mata was clearly offside before he shot home and I really couldn’t believe how many fans in close proximity had cheered the goal. I quickly checked on the linesman, raising his flag, when I saw Mata break . Who are these people?

On twenty minutes, Ashley Cole raced on to a lofted ball, deep in the Benfica box, and was sent sprawling. Ashley threw up his arms in protest, but I wasn’t convinced from my angle. It looked like a confluence of bodies to me. My friend Alan had already taken an immediate dislike to the Slovenian referee, but we were both smiling when we saw him purposefully point to the penalty spot. As always, I thought back to the “four penalties that weren’t” against Barcelona and had a little chuckle to myself.

Amidst protests from the Benfica players, there was a long delay. The ‘keeper made a point of not retreating to his line and had a little staring duel with Frank Lampard, the anointed penalty taker. Frank dispatched the ball and the net rippled once more. He very rarely lets us down on Champions League nights from that penalty spot, does he?

David Luiz attempted a typically elaborate turn just inside his own half, but an extra touch lost him the ball amidst groans and jeers from the watching thousands. I pictured the scene in living rooms throughout the UK, from Penzance to Peterhead, from Bexleyheath to Barrow, with millions of armchair viewers berating our Brazilian centre-half.

On the half hour, a well-worked Benfica free-kick resulted in a John Terry clearance off the line. We take this sort of behaviour for granted at times – our captain’s positional sense has always been one of his very strongest skills – but it is always wonderful to see his blue shirt appear at the right place at the right time again and again. We breathed a massive sigh of relief as Brana hacked away the loose ball.

Benfica were in the ascendency, no doubts. I was too busy taking a photograph to see the “studs-up” challenge by Pereira on Mikel. The crowd were soon letting the referee know it was his second yellow and off he went. So much for the “UEFA Hate Chelsea” conspiracy-theorists, we had been given a penalty and Benfica were now down to ten men. Amongst all this, the noise wasn’t great; we could sense that Benfica were still capable of scoring. However, in the closing seconds of the first-half, Ramires sent over a tempting cross which avoided the ‘keeper, but also missed the run of Torres by a few feet. It was only one of a few chances we had crafted in that first forty-five minutes.

At half-time, Alan and I chatted about the half. We had been out-shot by Benfica and had ridden our luck. We spoke about an incident which had taken place mid-way through the half. Juan Mata had been strongly-tackled and the ball ran out for a throw-in, but Mata had been sent sprawling down below us. The crowd roared for a free-kick and Mata stared hard at the referee. It seemed to me that the referee didn’t really think it was a foul, but bowed to crowd pressure and the earnest reaction of Mata, who is not a diver, and gave us the free-kick. It was an insightful piece of play which taught me how difficult it must be to ref at such a high intensity game. Rather them than me.

At the break, Neil Barnett posed a conundrum. The half-time guest was a player, a centre-back, from the early-sixties who had since gone on to manage Benfica. I was stumped. I knew that Allan Harris had been with Terry Venables at Barcelona, but didn’t know he had been involved with Benfica.

It was John Mortimore, who briefly appeared on the pitch for a rousing reception.

Neil Barnett 1 Chris Axon 0.

The second-half began with a superb save from Petr Cech after Cardozo’s effort was heading towards a top corner. The artistry and athleticism from our great ‘keeper in that one moment was just amazing to watch at close quarters. Aimar was narrowly wide just after.

At the other end, the previously quiet Kalou sent a low ball across which was met by an unrushing Ramires. From my vantage point, some 100 yards away, all I saw was a blue shirt and the ball then somehow bouncing away from the goal. My immediate thought was –

“Oh God, that wasn’t Torres was it?”

A Benfica player speculatively struck a lob from way out which didn’t trouble the Chelsea goal. At the other end, Fernando Torres nimbly turned and worked the ball so he could caress the ball in to the left-hand side of the goal. We held our breath, but the shot was deflected for a corner. Just after, a nice little move involving Mata playing a “one two” with another Chelsea player but the shot was saved.

John Terry was substituted by Gary Cahill. Like for like.

Benfica still enjoyed a lot of the ball and had a flurry of chances. Sturdy challenges and well-timed blocked from the Chelsea rear guard stopped an equaliser. Kalou missed a great chance. We grew tense.

The Benfica fans were not the loudest European visitors, but I noted a chant midway through the second-half which struck a chord. I couldn’t, of course, decipher the chant completely, but the words “Michel Platini” rang out clear. I filled in the dots…I guessed that it was something like “Michel Platini – You Got Your Wish” or “Michel Platini – You Only Like Big Teams.” It seems that Platini is disliked by fans all over Europe. It made me smile when I realised that Benfica felt aggrieved too. Platini ranks as one of the very best European players of all time; he was certainly a magical touch player at Juventus, wearing that number 10 shirt, helping to define the role of a “Number Ten” player in fact. However, despite his strengths as a player, he is clearly disliked these days; I still laugh when I think of my Juventus mate Tullio now calling him a “son of a bitch” in his UEFA role.

I commented to Alan that I could rarely remember the time dragging like this one. Sixty minutes played…seventy minutes played…we were a man up, but it certainly seemed that Benfica were playing with a spare man. The clock ticked slowly on…Meireles on for Mata.

On 84 minutes, that man Cech stretched again to prevent Djalo scoring, but the resultant corner ended with a goal. The ball was swung in and Garcia ran unmarked to leap unhindered from a central position. It was a truly shocking goal to concede. The Bridge grew nervier still. Going out was now a distinct possibility and we all felt our emotions being intensified. I leaned forward and concentrated further.

“Come On Boys.”

At last there was noise. The Bridge responded with great bellows of “Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea Chelsea.”

Didier Drogba replaced Fernando Torres. If only he had been on the pitch to head away that corner as so often is his role. There was a very nervy moment when Benfica broke through the offside trap on 87 minutes – it looked offside to me – but a weak shot didn’t trouble Petr Cech.

Deep inside stoppage time, the ball was cleared towards Raul Meireles. I watched his dramatic run from deep through the lens of my camera…I took two snaps as his strong run continued and as he unleashed a goal bound strike, I snapped again. I hardly saw the ball slam into the net, but I certainly heard the roar.

Get In!

I saw Meireles run towards Parky Corner and the Chelsea players joined him. Around us, we were roaring.

We were safe.

That run must rank alongside the cherished John Spencer run and goal against Austria Memphis in the autumn of 1994. It was truly a phenomenal strike. It reminded me, in its timing and execution, of the famous Geoff Hurst goal in 1996 too.

“It Is Now.”

There was a lovely feeling as I bounced down the Fulham Road. We darted into The Goose to celebrate with Jesus, from Mexico, and Rob, from Wiltshire. The air of contentment was tempered slightly by the fact that we were now due to face our old Catalan foes FCB once more. Parky was still feeling ropey but finished off his pint as Rob and his mates chatted about flights to Barcelona. Jesus’ face was a picture; he’s a lucky lad. He’ll be there in Barcelona.

We meet Tottenham on the Sunday and we play Barcelona on the Wednesday. My immediate view would be for us to prioritise the Spurs game. We have a 50% chance of beating Spurs. I’d say we have a 20% chance of beating Barca. In a nutshell, I can stomach losing to Barca, but I cannot – and will not – contemplate losing at Wembley to Tottenham. If di Matteo is mulling over his team selection options for Wembley, my advice to him would be to play his strongest eleven against Spurs. With any luck, Spurs will struggle and we’ll easily dismiss them. Then, on the Wednesday, play whoever is fit and up for it…don’t plan for two games Robbie; plan for Tottenham, then see what state of fitness and mind we are in for the Champions League game.

But then again, who am I? I’m not the manager.

We made great time on the return home to a sleeping West of England. Although Parky was still very groggy, we chatted about our crazy season. Never in my wildest dreams, back in August, did I think we would reach the Champions League semi-finals this year. For our games with Barca, we need a repeat of our performances against Valencia and Napoli. If anything, our faltering performance against Benfica should at least remind us all that we must not be complacent.

It’s a tough ask, isn’t it? I’m just glad we are at home first and I hope we can scramble together a foot-hold in the tie. If we were to play away first, maybe the tie would be all over too soon.

We return to the seemingly mundane league over the Easter Weekend with two games in three days at venues just two miles apart. I have a feeling that our collective minds will be elsewhere, but six points will do very nicely.

Let’s go.

Tales From The Villa

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Aston Villa vs. Chelsea : 31 March 2012.

As I drove north on The Fosseway, past the towns of Malmesbury and Cirencester, I admitted to Parky that I was finding it hard to get “up” for the league game at Villa. What with our extended runs in the Champions League and the F.A. Cup this season, I have a feeling that if the Chelsea section of my brain was to be analysed, it would show something like this, as of the morning of Saturday 31st. March 2012 –

Champions League 50%
F.A. Cup 40%
Premiership 10%

But that is not to say that I always rate these three competitions in this manner; far from it in fact. Given the choice of one trophy each season, I would always choose the domestic league. Why wouldn’t I? I spend countless days following Chelsea’s pursuit of league points throughout the season. It’s just that as we are at such an advanced stage in both of these tough cup competitions, it is only natural for me to devote more thoughts to these two trophies. Or more importantly, if the truth be known, not the matches at all, but the whole”Chelsea-Matchgoing Experience” for the games in those competitions.

Firstly, let’s think about the F.A. Cup. Daryl kindly bought tickets for a few of us on Friday so that we can all sit together on that Sunday in April. All of us want to expunge the sour memory of the 2008 Carling Cup final from our minds. Thoughts of the pre-match at a sun-drenched Duke Of York near Marylebone and then a game against the team I like to beat most (well, them and United, it’s a tough call.)

Then we have the return leg against the eagles of Benfica on Wednesday. That promises to be another superb night of European football at The Bridge (and let’s not mess it up, eh Chelsea?). Should we be successful, we will then reach our sixth CL semi-final since 2004. That’s an amazing achievement, isn’t it? For all the new fans out there, you are lucky beggars. It took us 49 years for us to reach our first CL semi-final (Monaco, 2004) and we have reached four more (Liverpool, 2005, Liverpool 2007, Liverpool 2008 and Barcelona 2009) since then. It is no wonder that my head is full-to-bursting with European day-dreams. Should we put Benfica to the sword, we meet the favoured Barcelona or the under-dogs Milan. To that end, I have gambled on a cheap flight to Barcelona from Bristol; just £28. It would, as they say, be rude not to.

The weather was overcast as I headed north on the M5. Parky wisely commented that the colour of the sky blended in seamlessly with the colour of the road ahead. Only the occasional blush of gold from roadside daffodils and forsythia added the slightest hint of colour to the view.

Villa, eh?

I was well aware of our recent poor run of form against them. Since our classic 3-0 win at Villa Park in the Spring of 1999, we had won just once; Guus Hiddink’s first game in charge on a ridiculously warm and sunny day in March three years ago. I had been present at both of those games, but for many years, the thought of visiting Villa Park did nothing for me. From 1995 to around 2005, I only used to be able to afford to go to around 6 away games each season. I would rotate the grounds I visited, but would tend to steer clear of Villa Park. Sure, our record wasn’t great there, but I am not a fan of Birmingham in general. From March 1999 to January 2007, I only visited Villa Park once – a 2-1 loss in 2003. One of the worst ever Chelsea performances I can remember took place at Villa Park, too; a 3-0 defeat just after Christmas in 1994. Driving home that night, the rain lashing against the windscreen, my friend Glenn fell asleep in the back of my car. I always remember him waking from a dream in which he had witnessed Paul Furlong paying the ultimate price for a dreadful performance by being guillotined.

This would be my thirteenth visit to Villa; we had only won three of the previous twelve games. I guess this is the real reason for my ambivalence to visiting the place.

And yet, Villa Park is a grand dame amongst football stadia. Aston Villa were formed in 1874 and have played at Villa Park since 1897. When I first became entranced by football in the early ‘seventies, Villa were a third division club and were off the radar. They rose through the league system and were promoted to the top flight – alongside Manchester United – in 1975. They won the league under the stern authoritarian reign of Ron Saunders in 1981, famously using a first team squad of just fourteen (yes, fourteen) players. They won the European Cup the following year. They were a good, if not great, team, playing a very British system, full of tough-tackling midfielders like Dennis Mortimer and were spearheaded by the twin strike force of Peter Withe and Gary Shaw. At right back was ex-Chelsea midfielder Kenny Swain (whose league debut I witnessed in my very first Chelsea game in 1974.)

I remember my grandfather saying that he followed – though with not the passion of his only grandson – Aston Villa and Newcastle United in his youth. I have a feeling that Villa was his first love, with Newcastle only gaining his attention via a family friend – a local vicar – who resided for many years in Newcastle. I know that he once visited Stamford Bridge, the only football stadium he remembered visiting, when he was a young man. I begged him to tell me more of this sole visit, but his memories of that one game were not great. He went with his great friend Ted Knapton, but that is all he knew. I like to think that both of them visited Stamford Bridge for the Aston Villa vs. Huddersfield Town Cup Final at Stamford Bridge in 1920. There is every chance that this could be the case; both of them (they were both called Ted) were stars of the village football and cricket teams. As was the way in days of yore, county football associations would always get tickets for the F.A. Cup Final and I like to think that in 1920, the name of Mells & Vobster United was drawn out of the hat and the two stalwarts of my village’s sporting scene were justly rewarded. Apart from a win in 1957, that victory in 1920 was Aston Villa’s last F.A. Cup triumph.

We were parked up at around 12.45pm and the two of us spent ninety minutes in a relatively quiet pub a mile to the north of Villa Park. The “Crown & Cushion” allegedly used to be one of the Villa firm’s main pubs back in the rough-and-tumble of the ‘eighties. We have never experienced trouble there, though there is no doubt that Parky and I were the only away fans present. The pub is run by West Indians and the menu behind the bar detailed such delights as jerk chicken, mutton stew, ackee and saltfish and the like. Parky and I were not tempted. We decided to stick with pints of Kronenburg 1664 amidst talk of plans for upcoming Chelsea matches. Parky reminded me that his daughter Jade once played as a goalkeeper in one of the Aston Villa women’s teams a few years back. She lives in nearby Tamworth.

Parky shot off inside the away end while I spent twenty minutes or so taking a few shots of the area by the Trinity Road stand. Much to many Villa fans – and certainly my – consternation, the original Trinity Road, complete with red brick façade and Edwardian towers and gables, was demolished in around 1999 and was replaced by a hulking mass of steel-cladding and little charm. Part of the stand now runs over the road which it gives it its name; the tunnel is not on the same scale as at Atletico Madrid’s stadium, but is a unique feature in the UK. One of these days I will visit the red brick Aston Hall, which resides atop the park to the south of Villa Park. Outside the stadium, there was the usual hustle and bustle of a match day which I find so beguiling even after all these years. A Villa fanzine seller was vitriolic in his comments about current Villa manager Alex McLeish. At centre-stage in front of the stand was a simple statue of a bearded man, who I knew to be the former Aston Villa chairman who helped form the Football League in 1888.

His name was William McGregor and I guess we owe him an awful lot.

As I re-traced my steps towards the away entrance on Witton Lane, I heard the chants from opposing fans.

Chelsea : “One team in Europe, there’s only one team in Europe.”

Aston Villa : “Have you won the European Cup, the European Cup, the European Cup?”

I made it inside the upper tier seats with only a few minutes to spare. I was alongside Alan and Gary, high above Parky and others in the lower tier. If I am honest, I am still getting used to the new 4-2-3-1 formation, but it is one that I have long admired. I seem to remember Liverpool using it well a few years back. No need to guess who the “1” was in that team.

What a crazy game. We should have been well clear at the interval and Fernando Torres could easily have bagged a hat-trick. He has endured the most awful luck in our colours, but as Alan said, we would rather he was getting himself in positions to miss rather than not getting into positions in the first place.

An early Torres chance was spurned but then a cross from Ashley Cole found the on-rushing Juan Mata. He aimed for Torres, but his shot from close in was inevitably blocked. It fell to Daniel Sturridge who poked home. A long distance blooter from Mikel was slightly deflected and was saved by Shay Given. Soon after, Mata delicately lofted the ball goal wards but the ball hit the base of the far post.

On 19 minutes, the home fans stood and clapped in order to show solidarity with the Villa captain Stiliyan Petrov, diagnosed with leukaemia just 24 hours previously. We soon joined in. I honestly wonder why people are surprised to see how football fans behave at moments such as these; we’re not animals, you know.

We had impressive ball retention and occasional chances; we were clearly the better team. The Villa fans were very quiet and there were gaps in the Holte End and the Trinity Road. Villa Park usually hosts full-houses. Seeing so many empty seats was a new experience. The Chelsea fans taunted the gaggle of noisy youngsters in the North Stand –

“Your ground’s too big for you.”

They responded –

“If Torres scores, we’re on the pi55.”

Despite our superior play, Villa had a few late chances as the first-half ended. Sturridge lost possession deep in our half and Cech did well to save a shot from Agbonlahor with his foot. The ball flew up against the bar and we exhaled a collective “phew.” Luiz was replaced by Gary Cahill just before the break.

We all agreed that we should have been well ahead during the interval chat amongst friends. A few mates from Nuneaton called by; they had gambled on flights to Barcelona too. Nuneaton is only 25 miles away from Villa Park and Andy was dreading anything but a Chelsea victory.

“All my mates are Villa – maybe a few West Brom, a few Blues, but out of 100, maybe 70 are Villa.”

I love info like this. I love the changing face of football support throughout the UK. In my home area, Newcastle United fans were very rare as a child, but they are one of the top ten supported teams in the Frome area of late.

The second-half was a corker; a roller-coaster of emotion, a classic game of heart-in-mouth football. A Mata corner was poked home by Ivanovic and it was plain sailing. Torres headed over and the Villa fans were sniggering again. They were roaring soon after as two goals in quick succession brought the score, incredibly, ridiculously, level at 2-2.

We stood in silent disbelief, but the other stands were roaring. I will not lie when I say that the Holte End did not utter a single audible song during the entire first-half. Once their second goal was scored, though, the noise was very impressive. A flare was thrown on to the pitch from the unruly home section down below me. Its sulphurous aroma permeated the early evening air.

Chelsea responded again.

Another corner on the opposite side, this time for the substitute Malouda, was flicked on by Torres just as I snapped by camera…the ball ricocheted to the lurking Ivanovic and he reacted very well to guide the ball in, past Given.

We roared – and with more intensity than with the first two goals.

Then, a Villa move broke down and the ball was moved quickly to Studge. We all saw Torres breaking to his right and we begged for Studge to release the ball. Thankfully, the ball was played with perfect pace.

One touch, moving the ball on, then a low strike past Given and the net bulged.

We roared again – and it was undoubtedly the noisiest exclamation of support from our packed section of the Witton End all day. Torres reeled away and was mobbed by players. I roared and then gathered my senses to record the celebrations on film.

Superb.

I commented to Gary that the Torres goal was just like the ones he used to dispatch with aplomb for Liverpool; head up, laces through the ball, utmost confidence, the ball in the net before the ‘keeper was able to move.

At the final whistle, the Chelsea fans were exuberant and it wasn’t long before our number nine was serenaded.

And quite rightly, too.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50768850082658

I’ve been present at all the games in which Torres has scored; I guess I’m not the only one, but I have a sneaking feeling I will be a little sad when this record comes to an end. Wink.

I hope he starts on Wednesday.

Tales From Game 2 And Game 881

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Tottenham Hotspur : 24 March 2012.

This game came two-thirds of the way through our very own March Madness. Nine matches, of which I would be present at all but one, two managers, Champions League games, Premiership games, Youth Cup games, F.A. Cup games and a game with Tottenham.

Busy, busy, busy.

Nobody needs to be reminded that our unbeaten home record against Tottenham goes back to February 1990. A 2-1 defeat in that game was our last reverse. This is an astounding record. Don’t forget that we also had a 32 game unbeaten run in the league against Spurs home and away from that game until 2006 too. I’d suggest that never in top flight football in Europe has one team been unbeaten in 32 games – in consecutive seasons to boot – against another team. Those were heady days, no doubt. But the rare defeats against Spurs are even more awful because of our ridiculous ascendency in the past 22 years. The League Cup Final in 2008 was one of my worst days as a Chelsea fan; thinking about it, probably worse than the 2002 F.A. Cup Final against Arsenal.

My second-ever Chelsea game, way back in the autumn of 1974, was against Tottenham. Surprisingly, since I remember lots and lots from my first game in the March of that year, I don’t remember too much from that 1-0 win against Spurs. I know that I sat in the East Stand for the first ever time (row B seat 67 my ticket tells me) and I remember that a Johnny Hollins penalty gave us a 1-0 win. The only other thing I remember is a conversation which took place at my Aunt Muriel and Uncle Harold’s house in Southall after the game. My father had parked his car there and we had taken a bus and a tube in from there. My father was quite terrified of the London traffic; thank fully a trait I have not inherited. I remember comments being made by Uncle Harold about the football hooliganism that had taken place on that sunny day in October 1974. I think the news of the trouble between Chelsea and Spurs hooligans had made the news and, although I can’t remember details, no doubt there were words along the lines of –

“They’re not real fans.”

“It spoils if for the real supporters.”

Such is my fascination with football in my childhood, it is quite likely that I can name most of that Spurs team from October 1974, but I sometimes struggle to name many of our opponents in 2012. That Spurs team? Off the top of my head…Pat Jennings, Phil Beal, Mike England, Jimmy Neighbour, Martin Chivers, Steve Perryman, Martin Peters, maybe Chris Jones, maybe Joe Kinnear.

Infamously, the return game at White Hart Lane in the second-from-last game of the 1974-1975 season virtually condemned Chelsea to the old second division. We lost 2-0 and the hooligans were centre-stage again.

We hate Tottenham.

Yesterday. Now. Forever.

Lord Parky was collected at just before 9am and it was clear that the day was shaping up to be the brightest and warmest of the year thus far. A day for polo shirts, no doubt. I had to pick up Steve, from Bournemouth, at Amesbury and so I had to double-back on myself to an extent. As Parky and I zoomed over Salisbury Plain, Parky put one of his own drum and bass mixes on the CD player. The music boomed out and it there was a super start to the morning. We drove past Stonehenge and Steve was collected at 9.45am. A little traffic held us up, but we were in The Goose just after 11.30am.

We only had time for two pints of Peroni. I hate having to endure a rushed pre-match to be honest. Eliot from the New York Blues was over for the one game and it was great to see him again. The trip back to the UK was a sad one for him as his grandfather passed away recently. Once he knew that he was returning for the Spurs game, he sounded me out for a ticket; I didn’t hold out much of a chance to be honest. Unbelievably, he had been able to get hold of three tickets for the game via general sale…yes, that is correct; general sale.

Arguably our second biggest game of the season and the tickets go on general sale.

Eliot and I had a good little chat and moan about all things Chelsea. We covered quite a few topics in a short amount of time. Top work! Parky was flitting around and I saw Jesus briefly; he is off to Portugal on Monday, for three days of sun and Champions League football. As I have no holiday left, I will be missing out on the trip to Benfica. I can say it now; I told Jesus I was jealous of him. That boy is certainly packing everything in to his time in Europe. He has thrown himself into supporting Chelsea while on these shores with a ferocity that brings a massive smile to my face and gives me a warm glow inside.

On the quick walk down to The Bridge, I spotted the first tourist wearing a Chelsea / Tottenham “half-and-half” scarf. I scowled as I brushed past him. It made me conjure up a quick little list of personal pet peeves with the Chelsea match day experience in 2012.

1. Friendship Scarves; come back when you have decided which team to support, idiots.
2. “Chelsea Till I Die”; this isn’t a Chelsea song, never was a Chelsea song, never will be a Chelsea song. Typically, it gets sung by Football League teams and that’s where it should stay.
3. Replica shirts being worn over long-sleeved shirts; did your mother dress you?
4. Noise; the atmosphere gets worse each season. I’m sick to death of being one of only three or four in a section of two-hundred who sings throughout the game.
5. “You never won fcuk all”; the double-negative messes up the intended message. I blame the parents.
6. The West Upper; even if we provided song sheets, I suspect you lot couldn’t be bothered to sing.
7. Chelsea Pensioners; the club has shunted their seats further away from the middle of the East Stand with each passing year. Give them a prime seat bang on the half-way line.
8. The nerd like fascination by some fans with Chelsea club doctor Eva Carneiro; have these people never seen a woman before?
9. What a load of clap; if we get a throw-in or a corner, don’t just sit there with your arms folded, acting cool; clap. It’s really easy to do.
10. Boo boys; don’t do it. It’s not big, it’s not clever. Support the players or fcuk off.
11. The “Chelsea – hooligans” chant; grow up.
12. Roman – after nine years, I’d really like to hear you speak. Hear your thoughts. Explain what Chelsea means to you.

I made it inside with a few minutes to spare…up the six flights of stairs and up to the upper tier bar area…then inside.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50753620512658

Spurs, of course, had three thousand in the south-east corner. Only two flags, though. At the start of the game, quite a large central section of away seats were empty. I guess these were the Tottenham corporates. God, what a bunch they must be.

The game was a strange one really. The first-half was played out in great periods of hushed quiet. I had to pinch myself that this was a Chelsea vs. Tottenham game. In a way, we were surprised to see David Luiz on the bench, but there can be no doubts that Gary Cahill gave a polished and resolute performance alongside John Terry at the heart of the defence. Didier started and I have a feeling Fernando will start in Lisbon; hopefully able to exploit the space on the inevitable counter-attacks.

The sky was devoid of clouds. It was a gorgeous day in SW6. “Chelsea weather” said Alan.

After five minutes, a ball from Daniel Sturridge found a completely unmarked Didier Drogba – in tons of space – but he got tangled up with Frank Lampard and the chance was gone. The Chelsea midfield were struggling to impose themselves and Studge was having a very quiet game indeed. Tottenham were flooding the midfield but it took until the 30th minute for their first real shot on goal when Gareth Bale shot over. Soon after, Adebayor had an unhindered run down the left in front of me but tamely shot wide. Our chances were rare. There was a penalty appeal when Frank tumbled. We lost count of the times Bosingwa was exposed or out of position. However, Spurs were doubling up on him and our midfield players were not covering.

The first-half came to a close with a ridiculous flurry inside the Chelsea six yard box. We seemed to go to sleep and Modric drifted through and set up a chance for Rafael Van der Vaart, but Petr Cech made a miraculous block, followed up by two other attempts, but Spurs only won a corner.

Phew.

The first real chance of the second half was an old-style route one attack; a Cech punt, a Drogba pass to a raiding Studge, but his shot flashed wide of Brad Friedel’s upright.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”

This shot seemed to warm up the home fans and The Bridge eventually stirred with a few minutes of the “Chelsea / Amazing Grace” chant. Spurs responded with a shot from Luke Walker which hit the side netting.

On 58 minutes, the most skilful moment of the entire game; the way Juan Mata killed a ball from a punt from Bosingwa, stopping it dead with his foot, was pure art. Unfortunately, the ball fell behind him and the chance was spurned. Frank Lampard, to be fair had lofted a superb chipped pass in the first-half, but the game was one of industry and toil rather than of skill and touch.

David Luiz replaced Jose Bosingwa and then provided us with a typical Luiz performance; strong tackles one minute, terrible positioning next. We had a penalty appeal refused and the place was at last noisy. A free-kick from Juan Mata hit the base of a post and the ball ricocheted back towards Luiz but his prod took the ball away from the waiting Drogba. There were rueful looks when nemesis Louis Saha came on in place of Van der Vaart. Soon after, a horrendous moment and I thought that our unbeaten run was coming to an end. A Modric pass found Adebayor and he raced past an advancing Cech. Thankfully, his heavy touch forced him a few yards wide and these extra split seconds cost Spurs dearly. A shot on goal was miraculously cleared off the line by Gary Cahill. We were dumbfounded. It was exceptional play. Gary’s subsequent roar at the Chelsea fans in the Shed Lower was Terry-esque in its intensity. From the resultant corner, Spurs again went close when a Bale header crashed against the bar. Torres was now on, toiling on the right in place of the poor Sturridge. With a minute to go, another great ball from the otherwise average Lampard found Didier, but his delicate chip was over. In the last minute, a finger-nail chewing moment; a Tottenham free-kick was drilled in, but Cech flew himself to his left to scramble the ball for a corner. We withstood that last threat and the whistle blew.

Phew.

It was the first 0-0 result between Chelsea and Spurs in the league at The Bridge since the infamous “parking the bus” game in September 2004.

The mood was quite sombre on the walk down Fulham Road. Points dropped; yes. Five points behind Spurs; yes. Only eight games left in the league to pass Spurs; yes. The Europa League beckons; yes.

Oh well. We’ve seen worse. To be quite blunt, I was just relieved that our unbeaten run against Tottenham was extended to 22 games. At least it means that my favourite Chelsea joke will still get the occasional airing –

“Dad, when did Chelsea last lose at home to Spurs in the league?”

“I don’t know son. Ask your granddad.”

After seven Chelsea games in twenty-one games for Lord Porky and me, we are taking a rest next week. No game on Tuesday, but we will meet up for the jaunt to Aston Villa next Saturday. Who knows, Spurs might be out of the F.A. Cup by then.

Tales From The New Order

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Manchester City vs. Chelsea : 21 March 2012.

It’s quite amazing how two football clubs from the same city, with stadia only miles apart, can engender completely different feelings from fans of other clubs. On the one hand, Manchester United, the club of the non-attending glory hunter, the club of crass commercialisation boasting the largest support base in the world with fans from everywhere and beyond. If United didn’t exist, you’d have to invent them. And on the other hand, Manchester City, the under-achieving club with a much more localised support base and an almost fatalistic desire to fail again and again, but now lurching from a history of laughable failure to a possible future of gleaming success. The only common bond is geography and a mutual hatred of each other.

Amongst other things, City call United fans “Munichs” because of the fact that City were the biggest of the two clubs until the tragedy of 1958 turned a nation’s gaze towards the scarlets of Old Trafford. United fans call City fans “Bitters” because of the alleged – and in City’s eyes unproven – perception that City fans are bitter and twisted with jealousy about United’s successes.

So, there is a gorgeous sub-plot to the title race this season and, despite the fact that City are “doing a Chelsea” and assembling a talented squad at break-neck speed, there is no doubt about which of the two Manchester behemoths I want to see suceed.

Once a blue…

Into this local rivalry comes Chelsea Football Club, eager to continue the fine run of form under the temporary tutelage of Robbie di Matteo. Four wins out of four, bubbly and buoyant. A month ago, I was dreading the visit to Eastlands and the home game with Tottenham. Not anymore. I had booked a half day holiday for Wednesday 21st March and I left work at 1pm. It had been a messy morning and I was glad to be on my way. I headed south for ten miles to collect The Laird of Porknockie and we were on our way. Porky’s partner Jill had provided the food and drink; as I turned north at Bradford-on-Avon and up past Bath, I knocked back the first Red Bull of the trip.

Parky was full of chat and the weather was bloody gorgeous. Despite heavy traffic, I ate up the miles. On the packed M6 motorway, we spotted two instances of bad driving which were only spotted late by other road-users. Luckily, drastic swerving averted any danger, but it brought home to me how dangerous our roads can be. At Stafford services, we thankfully had a little respite and merriment from the afternoon’s travails.

We pulled in for a McDonalds coffee just as three coach loads of Arsenal fans arrived, en route to Everton.

And there they were in all of their nerdy and sweaty glory; 150 of North London’s finest, the majority of whom were bedecked in the shiny nylon of the latest Nike replica shirt and assorted accessories. As we entered the main hall, we could hardly believe our eyes. An Arsenal fan of around 50 years of age was wearing the meshed-together shirt, shorts and socks of the Arsenal home and away kits, spliced down the middle, with one red trainer and one yellow trainer for good measure; a Harlequin in contrasting colours. I lamented to Parky that I wished that I had my camera. However, take my word for it, he looked a complete plum. It seemed that Stafford Services was momentarily taken over by a train spotter’s convention. Parky and I were bursting into a fit of giggles and laughter. In my eyes, this was proof again that there seems to be a different dress code for us and Arsenal on away trips. Chelsea have always tended to dress up for away games – or dress down, depending on the viewpoint – with very few away day regulars boasting anything from the Chelsea Megastore catalogue. Chelsea only really wear replica shirts en masse at Wembley and only then, really, in moderation. We’ve always tended to go the casual route; toned down now of course, but you’re still more likely to see a Lacoste polo and a Barbour jacket in the Chelsea away pen than you are with Arsenal.

As we supped at our coffees and pulled back onto the M6, we left the Arsenal scarfers to themselves, playing “I Spy” and pressing their noses against the window, looking at the “big trucks.”

The traffic was heavy between Stafford and the Manchester exit. I headed along the familiar approach roads south of the city and then ploughed straight through to the centre. I zipped past Didsbury and Whalley Range and soon found ourselves in Moss Side, the infamous former heartland of City’s support. The old ground at Maine Road was just a few hundred yards to the east. I remember stumbling upon a superb photograph of the old Moss Side, looking north to the city centre, before the slum clearances of the post war years. Hundreds and hundreds of terraced houses leading up to Hulme and the city centre.

All those people all those lives, where are they now?

The traffic stalled as I slowly headed through the grid-patterned streets around Piccadilly. Jesus had arrived on a train from The Smoke and we had planned to meet him for a beer. As I turned into a side street, the fading sun struck against the red brick of an old Victorian building, making the whole block come to life. The sky blue overhead and the glowing red of the brick. It was a gorgeous sight. I’ve always thought that the historic centre of Rain Town is an architectural delight.

I parked up at about 5.45pm, almost five hours since I left rural Wiltshire. We soon found Jesus (insert punch line here) on the corner of Newton Street and we dipped into a local boozer for a few quick beers. Parky was unleashed on fresh meat and poor Jesus had to stand there and withstand a barrage of “witty” Parky jokes. We were soon suffering from Porkinson’s Disease; death by a thousand quips. I spoke to a couple of local City lads. Their hearts were torn over the Tevez situation. We shared a few laughs and I wished them well for the rest of the season.

Oh boy, the two pints of San Miguel went down well.

It was approaching 7pm and I had to tear Parky and Jesus away from their pints. As I drove the two miles to Eastlands, New Order were playing on the CD player in the car and we quickly gave Jesus a crash course in all things Manchester; New Order, the 2000 Commonwealth Games, City and United. The England / New Order song from Italia ’90 was playing and everything was good with the world. Parky explained to Jesus about John Barnes’ rapping as I steered my car past the canals and warehouses of Ancoats, with the sky blue lights of the Etihad on the near horizon.

“You’ve got to hold and give.
But do it at the right time.
You can be slow or fast.
But you must get to the line.

They’ll always hit you and hurt you.
Defend and attack.
There’s only one way to beat them.
Get round the back.

Catch me if you can.
‘Cause I’m the England man.
And what you’re looking at.
Is the master plan.

We ain’t no hooligans.
This ain’t a football song.
Three lions on my chest.
I know we can’t go wrong.

We’re playing for England.
We’re playing the song.
We’re singing for England.
Arrivederci it’s one on one.”

Jesus was lapping up the local colour and we were all buzzing. I joked with Parky that the Arsenal fans had arrived at Goodison Park and were being advised by the coach driver to find a partner to hold hands with on the walk to the stadium.

“No Kevin. Leave your Mars bar on the coach. You know you’ll be sick if you take it with you to the game. You know how excited you get.”

We paid £5 at a local car wash for secure parking and then headed off to the stadium by foot. Several CIAers will remember the piece if public art called “The B Of The Bang” from a visit in Spring 2008, but they will be dismayed to know that the striking sculpture is no more; it was found to be unsafe and had to be dismantled. In its place are a bizarre selection of multi-coloured shapes, but I did not have the time to ask what they referenced.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/B_of_the_Bang

A few photos outside. Parky was in the lower tier, Jesus and I were up top. Both in the city centre, in the pub and outside the stadium, I did not hear a single City fan with a foreign voice. In fact, the only voices I heard were broadly Mancunian. I was inside with a few minutes to spare.

Oh.

I was very dismayed to see many empty seats all of the way around me. Damn. That won’t look good on the TV. Alan mentioned that around 500 were unsold. I’d imagine that the pushing back of the game from the Monday to the Wednesday deterred many Chelsea fans from travelling, but it still gnawed at me that this was a disappointing show. Elsewhere, the stadium was almost full to capacity. It didn’t take long for the citizens of Rain Town to spot the empty seats –

“Sell all your tickets, you couldn’t sell all your tickets.”

Sure, we had gaps in our 3,000 allocation.

But Manchester City have never brought more than 1,500 down to Chelsea in the past 15 years.

It was time to think about the game. It had hardly been mentioned all day. I was more than happy that Fernando Torres was starting. No JT, but happy with David and Gary. Let’s go.

To be honest, City were all over us in the first twenty minutes and I soon realised that the match was starting to resemble the match at our place on Monday 12th December. We simply couldn’t live with City’s strenghth, pace and movement. Yaya Toure was everywhere. He is some sight when he has the ball at his feet.

The North American Sporting Reference : –

I soon spotted a Chelsea fan in the front row of the lower tier wearing a New York Yankees shirt with “Mantle 7” on the rear. He appeared to be carrying on the fine traditions of The Mick by gesturing to the nearby City fans with both hands. A fine piece of switch hitting mate; well done.

The bantering was up and running –

“Channel Five And You Fcuked It Up.”

“You’re Just The Third Team In London.”

“You’re Not Fit For Channel Five.”

“Champions League – You’re Having A Laugh” (bizarrely sung by both sets of fans at the same time, but with valid reasons for doing so, too…)

“One Team In Europe.”

Tuna came and joined Alan, Gary and myself in row H. I didn’t recognise too many familiar faces, though. Despite City’s dominance, the home fans were relatively quiet. All around the balconies were the City banners.

“City Are Back. City Are Back. Hello. Hello.”

“There Is A Light That Never Goes Out. Joe Mercer And Malcolm Allison.”

“We’re Not Really Here.”

“Making History. The Mancunian Way.”

“And On The Sixth Day God Created Manchester City.”

Gary was at his vehement best, uttering fury and swear words in equal measure. He warranted a PG certificate of his own. I was laughing one minute, blushing the next.

Nasri hit the bar. A terrible pass from Lampard set Mario Balotelli on his way and we all expected a goal.

Miraculously, the Italian enigma tamely shot at goal and Petr Cech ably palmed it around the post for a corner. It was all City in the first half an hour but we had weathered the storm. This was my seventh visit to City’s new pad and I knew it would be a tough game. The first six games had resulted in three Chelsea wins, but three City wins, too. We were looking to avoid a third straight defeat. I remember only too well the missed Frank Lampard penalty in 2009-2010 and the Carlos Tevez strike in 2010-2011. We had offered little upfront though, despite the determined play of Torres. If only the others were as industrious. Despite Bosingwa taking over from an injured Ivanovic, the defenders were solid. I just wished for more invention from the offensive six.

And yet…and yet…let’s not fool ourselves, City and United are the best two teams we have come up against this season. We were in Manchester on a Wednesday night. Let’s take the 0-0 draw now.

And half-time, I met up with Jesus. He was chatting with two lads he had met in Naples. One of them, a chap from Scunthorpe, I had met in Kuala Lumpur in July. Nearby was a Facebook acquaintance, Oscar, from Sweden, who I spoke to for the first time. He is at university in London for three months and loving every minute of it.

Mexico, Kuala Lumpur, Naples, Stockholm. Manchester.

There we are; the Chelsea Family in a nutshell.

Jesus joined our row in the second-half. I love the way he has adopted a Mockney accent during his chanting in support of the boys :

“COME ON CHOWLSEA.”

I remember Peter Cech tipping a ball onto the bar and I wondered if it would only be a matter of time before we conceded. Well, to our amazement and delight, none other than Gary Cahill scored after a corner wasn’t cleared. I was right behind his strike and how beautiful it looked; that deflection left Joe Hart completely stranded and helpless.

I whooped with delight and watched as he reeled away to completely the wrong corner of the ground once again. He needs to buy a Sat Nav that boy. He was giving it large to the City fans and I wondered if he had scores to settle or something. Try as I might I just couldn’t quite get my camera focussed for his celebrations; I was being jostled and tugged, then fell over the steps. Never mind.

Alan, with hands behind him, a la Liam Gallagher ; “They’ll have to come at us nooooooooow.”

Chris, ditto ; “Cum on my little diamondsssssssss.”

Torres was substituted by Didier Drogba. The repugnant Tevez came in to a muted reception. Our attacking thrusts tended to die out. I won’t dwell on the two goals which killed us. The Essien handball was so frustrating; hands raised will always result in a penalty. Aguero calmly dispatched it. At last the home fans came to life. With five minutes remaining, we were hanging on. A reverse pass from you-know-who inside the box found Nasri and the ball was tucked inside the far post.

The place really erupted now and I couldn’t stop myself looking over to the flailing limbs and ecstatic faces of the City fans to my right in the lower tier. To be honest, it was quite a sight. That split second of pure adrenalin when the body spasms into ecstasy. The biggest compliment I can pay those City fans is that the whole lower tier looked like an away end. They were going mental.

At the final whistle, the night’s misery was compounded when we heard the City PA play “One Step Beyond” and I just thought that was below the belt. Maybe it was ironic payback for December. I’d like to know of City play that after every home game or if they were saving it for us. City have now won every single one of their fifteen home games this season. That’s quite a record. Since our win at Old Trafford in 2010, we have now lost five games in a row in Manchester.

As if a late defeat wasn’t enough, we then heard that Spurs had equalised at home to Stoke in the very last minute. Very long faces.

“See you Saturday.”

Outside, the locals were full of song as Parky and I walked back to the car. More Manc faces, more Manc voices. The only foreign voices I had heard all night were those of Jesus and Oscar.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50748226772658

There are new tram lines being built in many of the streets around Eastlands at the moment and there was some slow-moving traffic as a result of this. We slowly headed east past an unending array of fish and chip shops, pubs and pizza parlours. We stopped for an Unhappy Meal at the Droylesden McDonalds and eventually joined the rest of the Chelsea traffic heading south. Parky was soon asleep, but I was listening to more songs from New Order as the M6 traffic grinded to a halt. The motorway was closed at Stoke and we were delayed further. It was turning into a nightmare trip. The only good news was that Liverpool had lost at Loftus Road. Big deal, eh?

Eventually, after another McCoffee stop at Strensham, I dropped Parky off at 3am and I was home by 3.30am, some five and a half hours after getting into my car in Manchester.

It had been a long night.

Tales From Team Torres

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Leicester City : 18 March 2012.

I awoke on Sunday, fearing the news. I was obviously concerned about the awful episode involving Fabrice Muamba at White Hart Lane but I had also heard on Saturday that one of my favourite uncles – Ken, from Vancouver – was also poorly. I gingerly flipped the computer on, waited for the gears to whirl into action and sat still. Thankfully, no news was definitely good news. However, there was a certain low-lying fog, not outside, but in my mind, as I scrambled a few things together ahead of my third trip to London in nine days. I was clearly finding it difficult to garner massive amounts of enthusiasm for this third game of the week. After the euphoria of Wednesday, I suppose that this was only natural. Just before I left for London, I quickly checked on the CIA website to see what was being said about the game with Leicester City.

Oh. There wasn’t a thread about the match.

I tut-tutted to myself and departed.

Parky could tell I was a little bit low as I collected him at just after 9am. He started cursing me, I replied similarly and, by the time we had stopped off for our usual McBreakfast in Melksham, things had been restored to their normal equilibrium.

Parky talking, Chris driving.

Despite a little delay due to a road accident near Swindon, it was a decent drive up to London. Tuna – from Atlanta – was over for the week and was soon in touch. It’s always a pleasure to see him at HQ. Tuna plays a special role in my gradually evolving relationship with the burgeoning American fan base; he was, as I remember it, the first Chelsea fan in America I remember meeting at my first ever game in Pittsburgh in 2004. On that trip, I spent the day with friends from North Carolina and didn’t really mix with any Chelsea fans at all. In fact, to be honest, there weren’t many Chelsea fans present at Heinz Field for that match against Roma. Even the main Chelsea section only housed around 150. We watched behind one of the goals, in the front row, and if only I’d known how some of those Chelsea fans along the side would become friends over the following few years.

At the end of the game, as we were walking underneath the stands, Tuna saw my Chelsea shirt and spoke to me. At the time, I wasn’t sure if he was an Englishman with an American accent, or an American putting on an English accent.

I’m still not sure.

I bumped into Tuna again in New York the following summer, but I still wasn’t familiar with too many of the fans Stateside. It was only when I joined up to CIA ahead of the Chicago trip in 2006, did I start to make major in roads into putting names to all of those faces. It has been a great ride ever since.

The coffee was going down well and the banter was flying as we headed into Berkshire. With mild weather forecasted, we were both in our summer gear.

Lacoste Watch

Parky – purple
Chris – chocolate

With the chat finally stalling, Parky put a Jam CD in the CD player and the volume was cranked up. I have mentioned it before, but no band takes me back to my youth – of Chelsea trips in particular – like the Jam, in that 1978 to 1980 period especially. Working class heroes, singing about urban angst, the Jam struck a chord like no other band and were much loved by the football fraternity in that period.

“the distant echo of faraway voices boarding faraway trains to take them home to the wives that they love and who love them forever.”

As I rose above the streets of west London on the raised section of the M4 motorway, memories of my childhood raced through my mind. My Dad used to take me up to London for matches at The Bridge from 1974 to 1980; by the time his car reached this section, my excitement reached stratospheric levels. Each few yards of tarmac throws up tons of memories…a massive traffic jam caused by Southampton fans on their way to Wembley on League Cup Final day 1979 when we got to Chelsea just in time for the kick-off, tooting the car horn after promotion in 1984, the first sighting of the Griffin Park floodlights to the right, the massive Chelsea / Adidas advertisement on a building in 2006, the Wembley arch to the left way in the distance, the famous Lucozade sign to the left, the old art deco Beechem building to the right, Canary Wharf, The Gherkin, The Shard in the distance, the grey hulk of Earls Court…Chelsea tantalisingly close now.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v…type=2&theater

This section of the M4, as it rises and turns, always gets my blood pumping. Long may it continue.

Straight into The Goose at just before midday. The place was again rather quiet. Talk amongst my mates was mainly of the Benfica away game. As always, Rob seemed to have the best prices. I think he must have easyJet’s flight schedules from Stanstead and Gatwick memorised by now. I had a nice chat with The Fishy Boy, who is around for the games against City and Spurs, too. We chatted about mutual friends, the upcoming tour, and the CPO debacle. Everything but the game. You know the score.

Jonesy and Jokka mentioned our game in New York in the summer and I am hopeful that they will be joining me. A couple of pints of Peroni and it was soon time to head off to The Bridge.

I quickly bought a copy of “CFCUK” and the match programme. I noted that “CFCUK’ had an extra “Sheditorial” as the original was written just before AVB got the “Spanish Fiddler” two week’s ago. On page 41 of the programme, there is a lovely photo of none other than Cathy, with Roberto di Matteo, on the occasion of her fiftieth birthday. There was a large article about the 1997 F.A. Cup Final (thank you Robbie), but only a fleeting mention (in Johnny Vaughan’s column) about the iconic Chelsea vs. Leicester City replay (thank you Erland) in the fifth round that season. That was some night.

I did my usual “check the East Upper for empty seats” routine when I reached the entrance to the MHU. Yep, there were hundreds empty in the corners. I had heard that tickets were still being sold to personal callers in the morning. Away to my right, the 6,000 away fans were already ensconced in The Shed.

So, a question to Mr. Buck and Mr. Gourlay.

On the back of our best performance of the season against Napoli, how come we can’t sell 35,000 tickets at only £30 a pop for the quarter finals of the F.A. Cup?

And you say we have out-grown Stamford Bridge?

Think again.

I received a text from Tuna, who was watching in the MHU too…

“What’s with all the empty seats in the East Upper?”

Just before the teams came onto the pitch, I looked on with glee as the “upper tier” flag continued on past Gate 16, then Gate 17 and into the upper tier of the East Stand. It appeared to be seeking freedom as it went on unhindered, over the heads of the spectators who are not usually troubled by it. I quickly sent out a quick text to Steve and Daz, who are usually trusted to gather up the flag in the NE corner of the upper tier.

“Where’s that fcuking flag gone?”

It finally came to rest at the southern end of the upper tier.

It reminded me of the original “Pride of London” flag which made its debut at a game before the Chelsea vs. Wolves F.A. Cup quarter final some 18 years ago. On that day, it began in The Shed and ended up travelling over the heads of us in the West Stand. At the end of that particular game, the flag ended up on the pitch, along with thousands of ecstatic Chelsea fans, enjoying the thrill of our first F.A Cup semi final in 24 years. I remember that Glenn and I ended up on the pitch on that Sunday afternoon in March 1994; it was the day that “The Blue Flag” really came into its own too.

“From Stamford Bridge To Wembley, We’ll Keep The Blue Flag Flying High.”

With F.A. Cup semi-finals coming to us in 1996, 1997, 2000, 2002, 2006, 2007, 2009 and 2010, I acknowledged the fact that a return to Wembley in April would be met with hardly a raised eyebrow, let alone mass hysteria and a pitch invasion.

This is how far we have travelled and – I’ll be honest – it saddens me to the core that I will probably never again be as excited at reaching a semi-final as I did all those years ago in 1994.

The game was over as early as the twentieth minute really. Chelsea got out of the blocks and had a couple of early chances. A Juan Mata corner dropped into the six yard box and Gary Cahill rose to head down and in for his first goal in Chelsea colours. He decided to race past the silent away supporters and head towards the family section in the East Lower. Not many goals are celebrated in that area of the stadium; I hope that the inhabitants of that section took a few rare photos.

A shot by Juan Mata was cleared off the line. Fernando Torres showed great skill and awareness by breaking down the right before looking up and playing in Salomon Kalou, who painstakingly waited for the ‘keeper to move before slotting the ball past him. We all commented how cool a finish it was from the much-maligned Kalou. Further chances came from a Daniel Sturridge shot, a Torres header at the ‘keeper and a Torres shot which was saved. After a lovely piece of play by Gary Cahill, Alan commented –

“Gary Cahill is the nearest to JT we’ve had down here since Wayne Bridge’s ex-girlfriend.”

We were well on top to be honest, despite a few Leicester attempts on our goal.

At the break, I had a few words with the chap who was sat alongside Alan. Gordon was from Yeovil, a fellow Somerset fan, and knew of a few of the local lads who I used to occasionally meet up with on the Yeovil supporters’ coach in the mid-‘eighties; all of whom still go, but I’ve not seen them for ages. The midfield dynamo of that mid-‘eighties team, Johnny B, was on the pitch with Neil Barnett, at the break. I never tire of seeing these Chelsea heroes of my youth.

Attacking the Matthew Harding stand, we were rewarded with a flurry of chances down below us. Florent Malouda had replaced Juan Mata and forced Kasper Schmeichel to save down low. Unselfish play from Torres set up Studge, but he was annoyingly dispossessed after hanging onto the ball for an eternity. Studge was having one of those games. Torres then moved the ball nicely, but his shot was blocked.

Michael Essien replaced Kalou and a goal soon followed. After a great performance against Napoli on Wednesday, Torres had been the star attraction against Leicester. Meireles cleverly set up Torres who quickly and nimbly struck a shot goalwards. At last, he endured a little good fortune; the shot was not cleanly struck but just made it over the line, just inside the post, just beyond the despairing dive of Schmeichel Junior.

At last. His latest goal drought was over. Phew.

“From Stamford Bridge To Wembley, We’ll Keep The Blue Flag Flying High.”

A firm shot from Nando flew over the bar just after.

At the other end, the visitors forced a great save from Petr Cech. Then a shot from Dann ricocheted off the base of the post and Beckford slotted the ball in. There was a little anxiety in the Chelsea ranks.

David Luiz replaced Brana.

I took a photo of Raul Meireles as he clipped in an in swinging corner towards the near post. Who should be there to meet it, but the blond head of Fernando Torres. We looked on in amazement as the ball bounced down and in. This time, the celebrations were down below me.

Click, click, click, click, click, click.

I missed the second goal from the visitors; I am reliably informed it was a scorcher.

With everyone in the stadium begging for Torres to shoot once he dribbled free, he unselfishly set up his compatriot Meireles, who slotted the ball in past the off-balance ‘keeper.

5-2.

Get in.

On the drive home, news came through of our semi-final opponents. On a normal day, the chance of us playing Tottenham at Wembley would have elicited more of an emotional response. However, with the Tottenham / Bolton tie still undecided and clouded in doubt and possible sadness, I did not dwell too long on potential match-ups and possible days in the sun.

Tales From The Old Guard

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Napoli : 14 March 2012.

This was an evening which reconfirmed everything that I love about football. This was an evening in which the busy streets around Stamford Bridge were invaded by thousands of fevered Neapolitans. It was an evening of almost terrifying drama. It was an evening of raw emotion. It was an evening of boozy camaraderie. And it was an evening when the players, and supporters, of Chelsea once again worked together to provide the watching public a devastating game of football.

Make no mistake. The evening of Wednesday 14th March 2012 will go down in our history as one of the magical nights of European football at Stamford Bridge, alongside the “come-back” nights against Bruges in 1971, Bruges in 1995, Vicenza in 1998 and Barcelona in 2005, to say nothing of the ridiculously dramatic games against Liverpool in 2008 and 2009.

The day began in Chippenham. I came in to work a little early and aimed to leave at 4pm. During the afternoon, I needed to be distracted from thoughts about the evening’s game. I emailed a few friends and we chatted about a whole host of subjects – specifically “unChelsea” – in an attempt to stop my wandering mind focus on the game. It has to be said, I was not confident about us being able to turn around the 3-1 deficit from that underwhelming first leg in the crumbling bowl of Stadio San Paolo. I mentioned to a few work colleagues, that if I was a gambling man, my money would be on the visitors.

I collected Lard Porky from The Pheasant car park at just before 4pm. He had already had a few pints on a little pub crawl of his own and was his usual ebullient self. I made superb time on the M4 – probably the best yet – but the traffic drew to almost a standstill around three miles from Chelsea, just as we hit the Hogarth roundabout by Fuller’s Brewery. The Hammersmith flyover is still down to one lane and the last three miles took me an hour. It was a frustrating time as I knew that my mates would already be quaffing a few liveners in the pub.

As we edged along the A4, we listened to BBC Radio Five Live to catch the sports headlines at just after 6pm. To my considerable annoyance, the four or five sports stories did not mention us once. This really annoyed me. I knocked the dashboard with my fists –

“Hello? Remember us? Hello! There’s a game at Stamford Bridge tonight!”

The minutes ticked by and the car was going at a snail’s pace. Funny the things you notice in a stationary car in a street that is usually seen at 40 miles per hour. A pub in a side street – The Black Lion – which appeared to back onto the River Thames (“could go there after, for one, Parky?”), a blue plaque on a house denoting a former residence of black activist Marcus Garvey, the smug face of Jose Mourinho on an advertisement on a London cab.

I pulled into the North End Road at around 6.30pm just as a gaggle of around twenty Napoli fans were being lead away from the direction of the stadium by around ten policemen in high-vis jackets. Although they wore no team colours, they were obviously Italians, with baseball caps, shiny puffa jackets, scarves pulled high around their chins. Parky said that he saw one with a much bloodied nose. We parked up, and then walked past around eight further policemen on the crossroads of Lillie Road and the North End Road. There were no sirens wailing, yet, but I suspected that the streets would be busy with activity before the night fell.

We reached the bar at about 6.45pm and the place was surprisingly quiet. Out in the beer garden, conversations were taking place all over and I rued the fact that Lord Porky and I had arrived late, almost three hours of travelling already behind us. Apparently, a mob of Napoli fans had tried to enter The Goose, but were seen off by a few Chelsea. It seems that Lord Porky and I had just missed the fun. There was talk of a confrontation down by West Brompton tube too.

My mate Alan, who has been out of work for a while, pulled me to one side and told me that he had learned that morning that he has got a job at his old employers, at the Department of Trade & Industry in Victoria, and this was the best news all season. Fantastic stuff.

It was a pleasure to meet up with Jesus once again (since the Stoke game, he had been to Venice and Rome…my goodness, this boy is living the life) and then, over in the corner, was Napoli Frank, who was with Mike and Chopper from New York. Frank is from Queens and I christened him “Napoli Frank” when I first met him in NYC in 2008 when I met up with the NY Blues for a Mets game (which was rained-off, but that’s another story.) Frank’s team is Chelsea – has been for years – but has family from the Naples area. He travelled out to Italy three weeks ago and had a seat in the home areas at the San Paolo. He carefully explained to me how he came in for major grief when a Napoli fan spotted his Frank Lampard wrist-band. Thankfully, his uncle was able to say “he’s with me.” Lard Porky and I only had time for a single beer. I got the impression that a lot of my mates had been in the pub for quite a while. The perils of being a long-distance Chelsea fan hit home again.

I made haste and left the boozer at 7.10pm. I overheard many Italian accents. This was turning into just the sort of night I had expected. Lots of noise, tons of atmosphere and a little menace thrown in for good measure. As I passed The Slug And Lettuce, more puffa jackets, more Neapolitan swagger. A line of around twenty police dogs were facing the tube station in front of the town hall. This was indeed a rare sight. My pace quickened as I turned and bought a programme on the West Stand forecourt. Yet more Italian accents. I smuggled my camera in to the ground, despite the painful attention of a steward.

I was inside at about 7.30pm. Despite the hundreds of Napoli fans outside the stadium, I was pretty amazed that the away section was full to bursting. With that, I received a couple of texts which said that there were, indeed, many ticket-less away fans outside the stadium and in various pubs. I quickly scanned the balcony for Napoli flags and saw many small ones, rather than a couple of large ones. I spotted a Confederate flag; a common sight in many football stadia throughout Europe, along with the skull and crossbones, the mod symbol, the flag of St. George and the celtic cross.

Napoli fans as rebels, the underclass, the outsiders, the vagabonds? I can see that. That makes sense.

The new banner – “Chelsea FC – London Is Ours” – had been moved from the NE corner to The Shed and had essentially swapped positions with the “Born Is The King” banner. I was well aware that this game was live on national TV in the UK. We needed to make a big impression in the minds of the viewing nation. This was almost as important as the team’s performance in my mind. I wanted us to create an old-style Chelsea atmosphere. I wanted people talking about us.

Banners, songs, flags, noise.

The playing of “Blue Is The Colour” signaled the mass-waving of thousands of blue and white chequered flags. I’m in too minds about this. Half of me thinks that it is cheesy and naff. Half of me thinks that it adds great colour to the match day experience. The problem I have is that the flags are imposed upon us by the club. I’d much rather we were given free reign to bring our own adornments. I didn’t wave mine; I was too busy filming.

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The Mantle twins let loose the massive flag in the upper tier. It floated over the smaller flags and it was a pretty impressive sight.

The teams strode past the large Champions League flag which was being waved on the centre-circle. Napoli were wearing a mucky grey kit. Our kit looked pristine in comparison. At the playing of the anthem, a hundred or so Napoli fans held their phones aloft, with the light mode on. Ah, that must be their “thing.” Worryingly, I saw a few lights in the home sections of The Shed and the West Stand, too. Maybe the Napoli fans had staged a massive undercover operation and were hiding in every section of The Bridge.

Roberto chose his team and there were no complaints from me. In the Napoli team, all eyes were on the Three Tenors; Cavani, Lavezzi and Hamsik. At the kick-off, I was still not buoyed with any new-found confidence, though. In the back of my mind, I had the notion that a single goal mid-way through both halves would it be just fine. Nothing rushed, nothing manic. Just a night of calm pressure. Well, I could not have been more wrong.

The game was a classic. The advantage lurched from one team to another, leaving me ecstatic, worried and breathless in equal measure.

At the kick-off, the home support was roaring but Napoli enjoyed the better of the first quarter. By the fifteenth minute, first Hamsik, then Cavani, then Lavezzi made breathtaking raids on our goal, but a mixture of bad finishing and instinctive saves from Petr Cech ensured we did not concede. In retrospect, the opening twenty minutes resembled the Manchester City game before Christmas when we were completely out-passed and out-classed.

Our midfield was giving the Napoli team far too much room to move the ball at their will. Upfront, chances were rare. Drogba was not firing on all cylinders. I was deeply worried. However, our fortunes were soon to change in a most dramatic piece of play.

Didier’s flying header from a Ramires cross was as magnificent as it was unexpected. The ball flew into the Shed End goal and The Bridge erupted. I jumped to my feet and went dizzy for a few seconds. All around me, euphoria. There was that goal mid-way through the first-half I had dreamt of. Our play improved and shots from Essien and Luiz started troubling the Napoli ‘keeper.

At the break, I rued how we had ridden our luck, but had shown a growing degree of resilience to withstand the attacks against us. Dennis Wise and his (now) 12 year old son Henry appeared on the pitch with Neil Barnett. Ah, memories of the last F.A. Cup Final at the grand old Wembley. The Simple Minds’ anthem “Alive And Kicking” boomed out on the PA; very apt.

Soon into the second-half, a corner on the far side and Big John chose this moment to bang the balcony hoarding with his hand; a familiar part of the Stamford Bridge routine over the past few seasons. Frank lofted the ball in, slightly over the head of Didier, but – as I snapped with my camera – John Terry leapt. I just saw the ball fly into the top corner of the net and that was it; The Bridge erupted again as the captain ran over to that far corner, where Frank was still stationed. Advantage Chelsea. If no more goals ensued, we would progress.

However, Alan lent towards me and sad –

“I don’t want to appear picky, but we’ve scored that too soon.”

I knew exactly what he meant.

Lo and behold, a ball wasn’t cleared and I watched on, aghast, as a sweet strike from Inler flew into the bottom corner of Cech’s goal. In my seat in the MHU, I was right in line with its path. Oh, that hurt. This was now a pulsating game of football and was now in Napoli’s favour.

Did anyone really think we would keep a clean sheet?

Fernando Torres substituted the increasingly disappointing Daniel Sturridge. His fresh impetus inspired us. We now enjoyed a fine period of play. A fine Drogba swivel and shot flashed past the post. At the other end, Napoli attacked, but our defenders often stuck out legs to block goal ward shots. It was a superb game.

What relief when, after a massive shout for handball, the referee quickly pointed to the spot, touching his arm at the same time. After all of those infamous penalty appeals against Barcelona in 2009, what joy to receive a penalty in our favour. The sense of anticipation was amazing. The chap in front of me turned away and couldn’t bare the tension. I held my camera up and waited for Frank to strike.

Click.

Strike.

Roar.

The net billowed and Frank reeled away down to “his corner” and I clicked again. A point skywards to the heavens but his face showed a business-like resilience. He wasted no time in waiting for adulation, but simply raced back to the half-way line for the re-start.

It was now level again. Let’s see how Napoli reacts again. To be honest, the rest of the game is a blur.

Ninety minutes of play ended and we took a momentary pause. The PA system at The Bridge jumped to life in the brief period of rest until the extra-time period began. First, “Three Little Birds” and then “Blue Is The Colour” and there were hundreds of Chelsea fans joining in.

I couldn’t immediately get back “into” the game as it restarted. I had felt that I had already experienced too much emotion for one night, thank you very much. Play was nervy and cagey. I struggled to get “up” for the game again. My mind wasn’t working. It was a strange feeling.

Then, the tumultuous fourth.

An advance from Drogba on the right and he sent a low ball towards the penalty spot. Brana slammed the ball high into the Napoli net and The Bridge exploded once again. Despite my emotions running wild, I caught the sliding Brana and the immediate celebrations on film; I never know how I manage to do that.

We held firm. Luiz was superb, Torres too. The midfield grew stronger as the game progressed. Even the addition of the two lesser lights Malouda and Bosingwa didn’t work against us. Chances came and went at both ends; a few half-chances for the industrious Torres would have sealed the night for us all. With two minutes of extra time to play, I had awful recollections of Iniesta in 2009. A similar denouement in this game would have been too much for any of us to cope with. It was nerve-tingling stuff. Every thwarted attack was met with pained exultations of joy. I lost count of the number of times I held my head in my hands.

At last it was over.

“One Step Beyond.”

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

The texts started arriving and continued in to the night. The Chelsea family was together, as one.

Alan, Gary and I were some of the last to leave the Matthew Harding. Gary showed typical kleptomaniac form and gathered together around ten flags from the seats around us; I said to Alan that Gary would be making leisure shirts out of them for the next game. Outside, yet more Italian voices. The place was swarming with Napoli fans; not sure if they were London-based Neapolitans, or whether a substantial volume had travelled from Naples minus tickets, intent on getting tickets from touts or maybe more mischievous means. I wondered if the girl we met on the train from Naples to Rome had made it.

Many fans began chanting various Chelsea songs as we slowly walked down past the tube station. A little group of puffa jacket wearers were being interviewed by a TV crew. There was a mood of ecstatic bewilderment along the North End Road. I was slightly numbed by the evening’s football. My previous experiences of life as a Chelsea fan had prepared me for this to be a night of great calamity and disappointment. The fact that we had overturned a 3-1 reverse had totally surprised me. I met up with Parky at 10.45pm and we soon realised that we just had enough time to call into the “Black Lion” for a drink before I battled fatigue and the fog on my weary way back to deepest Wessex. Porky was in fine form and so was I; it was a fun trip back, full of nonsense and stupid jokes.

I eventually reached home at 1.45am.

It’s difficult to piece together how we managed to prevail against a clearly skillful and talented Napoli team. The old guard was certainly at the core of our triumph. We rolled back the years against Napoli and the night had me blinking my eyes at the stellar performances from Didier, Frank, JT, Ess and Ashley. I’m wise enough to know that this core may not be able to raise their games in similar fashion during the rest of this year’s competition. To advance further will be very difficult. To win it, will be a miracle. If nothing else, I’m a realist. However, as soon as United and City fell by the wayside this year – and then Arsenal joined them – I really wanted Chelsea to be the last man standing from these shores in the Champions League this season. On a superb night of football, we achieved that goal.

Job done.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Category Archives: Season 2011-2012.

Tales From The Black And The Blue

Tales From A Perfect Sunday

Tales From Sixth Place

Tales From A Lucky One

Tales From An April Evening

Tales From The Villa

Tales From Game 2 And Game 881

Tales From The New Order

Tales From Team Torres

Tales From The Old Guard