Tales From The Blue Family

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Stoke City : 10 March 2012.

With two games in Birmingham behind us, the rambling story of our season returned to London. We have three games in nine days at Stamford Bridge. Three match tickets and an outlay of £136.50. Does anyone think I am complaining? No, of course not. I’m just happy to have a three-pronged attack for silverware as we head into the month of March.

In some ways, the game against Napoli and their rampaging Three Tenors of Lavezzi, Cavani and Hamsik was on my mind more than the run-of-the-mill League game against the brutal threat of the Stoke City kickers and scufflers. Of course, our 2011-2012 season began with that difficult game at the Britannia Stadium on Sunday August 14th. In some ways, it seems only a matter of weeks ago.

As Saturday March 10th 2012 unravelled before me, I acknowledged the truth in the the old adage about the football being an increasingly small part of the whole day out at Chelsea these days. I have my friend Bryan to thank for that. Bryan is 53 and a lorry driver from my home town of Frome in Somerset. He used to travel up with us for a few years a while back; I have a feeling that his first game with us was the 6-2 slaughter of Sunderland in 1997. He used to go to Chelsea in his younger years of course, but grew out of the habit. Anyway, from 1997 to 2002 or so, Frome was well represented at Stamford Bridge. There was Frank and Michelle, Glenn, Bryan and myself travelling up in one car and Dave, Karen and PD in another. Eight of us; a good show. In some respects, this was a bit of a golden age for us Frome followers. Not only were we rewarded with our first successes on the pitch since 1971, but most home games were usually followed up by us calling in at Ron Harris’ pub in nearby Warminster on the way home. They were superb times.

Bryan stopped going regularly to Chelsea in around 2002 but has been back a few times since. Apart from a silly dalliance with Bristol City in his skinhead youth, much frowned-upon by Glenn and me, he has remained true to Chelsea, as his tattoos will testify.

In November, I bumped into his partner Linda in town, but she had some shocking news. Bryan had returned from a job in Spain and had been very ill for a few weeks. He had a stomach ulcer, but further tests identified that he had contracted Legionnaire’s Disease. I called around to his house that morning and, without being melodramatic, Bryan explained to me that it was touch-and-go at one stage if he’d pull through. Thankfully, his spell in hospital enabled him to recover and he was back at work before Christmas.

Bryan hadn’t been to Chelsea for a couple of years and so I was really looking forward to getting him back in The Goose amongst old friends. When I called for him at 8.30am, he was already out on the grass verge, awaiting my arrival. He looked so keen that I imagined that he had been doing press-ups on the lawn in an attempt to dissipate an overflowing and enthusiastic supply of energy which had been welling up. Linda waved us off and we were on our way. I soon collected Parky at 9am and we were London-bound.

Bryan had met Lynda in the Falkland Islands. Parky had served in the Falklands Conflict of 1982. As we zipped past Swindon, the chat centred on those islands in the South Atlantic. Bryan and Parky certainly had lots to talk about. With the thirtieth anniversary of the Falklands approaching, we spoke about the past…Port Stanley, Goose Green, HMS Sheffield, the General Belgrano…memories of 1982. We spoke about the present; the noises coming out of Argentina at the moment. We spoke about the recent deaths of the six British soldiers killed in Kandahar Province in Afghanistan. I am currently getting the house redecorated (the Chelsea room, specifically) and I was horrified to hear on Thursday that the son of my decorator Steve was in the tank behind the one which was hit. Thankfully, and mercifully, he escaped the immediate attack, though how that young man is coping the aftermath of losing some of his comrades can only be imagined.

I told Bryan and Parky that the club had quickly agreed to a minute’s silence before the day’s game as a mark of remembrance for those six brave soldiers who had been stationed in nearby Warminster but who had lost their lives on a foreign field, thousands of miles away from their homeland.

It makes our silly and superficial worries about our football club pale into insignificance…

At 11.15am, the three of us were tucking into a Saturday Fry-Up and at 11.45am, we were in The Goose amongst friends. The weather was pretty mild and the beer garden was being used in earnest for the first time since the late autumn. While Bryan chatted to Daryl, Rob and Alan, I had a good old natter with Neil and The Youth.

Unsurprisingly, our conversation centred on the recent sacking of Andre Villas-Boas, but also the recent rumblings from the club and the Hammersmith & Fulham Council about the possible development of Stamford Bridge.

Neil is from Guernsey and I don’t get the chance to see him too much. We were in agreement about Villas-Boas. He said that after he heard the news of the sacking on Sunday, he was as low as he has been for ages. He commented that he had never felt more out of touch with the club. I knew what he meant. Many words were exchanged between the two of us. I said to Neil –

‘If you had said to me before the first game of the season that the team would be heading into March still in the Champions League, still in the FA Cup, in fourth or fifth place in the league, I would have said “OK, no worries, that’s alright, what’s the problem?”…I certainly would not have expected us to have sacked the manager.’

Madness.

Of my eight to ten match going mates, my closest mates, the inner sanctum, I think most are of the same opinion.

Chopper from New York suddenly appeared and he was full of smiles, loving the London life and relishing the Napoli game on Wednesday. Jesus flitted past; happy to have seen us win in Birmingham during the week. While I was getting a round in, who should I see but Dave and Karen, from Frome. Dave has been on a diet and has lost a massive five stones; fair play to him. Of course, this just meant that he was the instant target of tons of Micky-taking and light-hearted abuse.

Photographs of all of us. Tons of smiles. This is the life.

Alan passed over my away tickets for Manchester City, Fulham and Aston Villa; another £142. Phew. On the TV, the Bolton vs. QPR game was garnering scant attention. My views on goal-line technology are softening with every mistake made by an official, but my fear, as always, has been that this will be the thin end of the wedge. Before we know it, there will be video replays being used for off-sides and then fouls and handballs. Referees will be undermined further and the lunatics will have taken over the asylum.

At Chelsea, however, this happened years ago.

I set off for The Bridge with Bryan a little bit earlier than usual. I wanted to pin my 16 year old banner denoting “Win For Us” on the back wall of the MHU and I hoped that Roberto di Matteo would see it. I can well remember that I first took “Vinci ”to a game – to welcome Vialli and di Matteo to our club – on the home opener of the 1996-1997 season and I draped it over the MH balcony, no more than twenty feet away from my current seat. On that occasion, versus Middlesbrough, of course it was di Matteo who scored a late winner and initiated one of the most iconic Chelsea celebrations. I was elated to hear that there was a brief mention of “Vinci” in the following day’s “London Evening Standard.”

We taped the banner up – it’s a little tattered these days, having travelled with me from America to Malaysia – and drew the usual stupefied looks from the nearby Chelsea fans. I always have to explain what it means.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50723100127658

Over in the far corner, the Stoke contingent looked pretty pathetic, duck. Alan joked that it looked like only their notorious “Naughty Forty” – plus a few others – had bothered to travel.

The teams appeared and then gathered on the centre circle. Neil Barnett mentioned that this was our 107th birthday and was our Founder’s Day. He also drew attention to the scarlet-tunics of the seven Chelsea Pensioners who had been given prime seats in the Directors Box in the West stand. Neil then said a few sullen words detailing the six soldiers who had given the ultimate sacrifice during the past few days. Rather than reverential silence, though, there was applause. I’m not so sure I agree with this. I see no problems in applause when one is acknowledging, and celebrating, the life of someone who has lived to the allotted “three score years and ten” – or hopefully more. But I do not feel that applause should be used when we mark the loss of lives so young. We don’t applaud on Remembrance Sunday in November do we? Applauding a life is a relatively new phenomenon in the UK – the Italians have been doing it for years – and the first time that I can remember it being used at a Chelsea game was at Fratton Park in 2005 when the crowd began in silence, but soon started applauding the life of George Best, that famous former Chelsea native, who had recently lost his battle with alcoholism.

Another full house. The sun was out. No need for my jacket; a polo shirt was enough. In the end, Stoke had around 350. There was an additional “Remembrance” banner on display in The Shed; Peter Osgood had momentarily been displaced a few yards. The atmosphere was typically tepid.

The game. Do I have to?

I wondered if Ramires would be stationed out wide in a forward three with Drogba and Kalou, ahead of the midfield of Mikel, Meireles and Lampard. We attacked the MH during the first-half and it felt odd. We don’t often do this, do we?

Early chances came to us. Branislav Ivanovic headed over from a corner and then Gary Cahill had a strong run, followed by a belter which was saved. Bryan, the truck driver, unveiled his iPhone and this was met with some typically derogatory comments from Alan. I wondered if it had any aps which helped Bryan locate the nearest HP Sauce bottle when he was in a greasy spoon café.

Stoke rarely troubled us to be honest. A slip by Terry allowed Walters in, but his effort was blocked by the covering Cahill. Their limited game plan was affected when Ricardo Fuller was given his marching orders for a stupid stamp on the prostrate Ivanovic. To be honest, my eyes were elsewhere and didn’t see the offence. Just after the half hour, there was typical rough and tumble at a corner and John Terry appeared to be manhandled as he tried to gain a square inch of space. Despite these close attentions, JT’s down and up header rattled the bar. A few Chelsea half-chances came and went. The manager decided, after a while, to withdraw Meireles and bring on Mata. It was clear that Stoke would do their dogged best to hang on for a draw. Just before the break, that man Ivanovic struck a thunderous angled drive which rocked the bar. Lampard hit a daisy-cutter which Begovic easily gathered.

We had heard that Bobby Tambling would be on the pitch at half-time. Neil introduced us to a young lad from Cork, who was attending his first game at Stamford Bridge.

“He’s OK though ‘cus he has his uncle with him.”

Bobby Tambling, with his wife Val alongside, was introduced to lovely applause and was able to say a few, halting, words to thank us for all the best wishes he has received during his recent period of ill health. I was able to capture this on film.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10150723999217658

On more than one occasion he referred to his “blue family.” It was a touching moment.

There was a lazy start to the second-half really. David Luiz came on to take over in the right-back berth from Ivanovic. It took a full 15 minutes for us to threaten Begovic’ goal when JT took the ball from deep and let fly with a shot which whipped past the post. We still await JT’s first blooter from outside the box. Maybe he is saving it for a special occasion.

The Stoke fans were quiet and we were no better.

On 65 minutes, Frank was hauled down when apparently through on goal, but Didier’s fine free-kick was palmed away for a corner. Soon after, a moment of pure class.

The ball was played in from Cole into a central position. Mata delicately played the ball through to the unmarked Drogba, who side-stepped the goalkeeper and slotted home. I immediately thought that this was just the sort of ball that Torres has been begging for the past year. The crowd roared and the players danced down to the South-West corner.

I knew what was coming.

Alan : “Thay’ll have to come at us know, duck.”
Chris : “Come on ma little diamonds.”

A lob from Wilkinson evaded Cech and had us all worried, but thankfully was wide of the target. A mistake by JT then allowed Jerome in on goal, but his shot was wide after a strong run. Daniel Sturridge, the last substitute, had a chance after a jink inside. Mata struck the woodwork from a free-kick. One last chance for Sturridge, but again wide.

It was hardly a game to remember.

At the final whistle, Neil Barnett commented that Didier became the leading African scorer in English football. I watched as Didier advanced towards the Chelsea supporters and gave his shirt to a lucky fan in the MHL.

I made good time on the drive home. We listened in as Tottenham lost at Everton. It was the usual end to a Chelsea Saturday with a time-honoured viewing of “Match of the Day”, the national institution. All I can add about the programme is that Liverpool’s 1-0 loss at Sunderland was featured a few games after ours. This was a morsel of comfort for me; in years gone by, any Liverpool loss would be seen as major news. These days, such defeats warrant hardly a flicker of interest by the media.

We reconvene on Wednesday for the visit of the crazy Neapolitans.

It could be an absolute cracker.

Andiamo a lavorare.

Tales From A Night Of Song

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Birmingham City vs. Chelsea : 6 March 2012.

From the league game at The Hawthorns on Saturday afternoon to the cup replay at St. Andrew’s on Tuesday evening – a distance of under six miles – it had been a dramatic time for Chelsea Football Club; three tumultuous days and millions of words of self-analysis by Chelsea fans all over The Blue Planet. Everybody has chipped in with opinions and I have tried to keep an even, objective approach to the latest shenanigans along the Fulham Road. It hasn’t been easy as I tried to weigh up all of the contrasting views. There was an over-riding feeling of gross ineptitude by the directors of our club.

If the club is of the opinion that their approach will be one of “slash and burn” / “hire and fire” – and there is certainly a little validity in the notion that teams and managers become stale after two years and so a change is beneficial – then I think I might be able to buy into this. However, every time the club makes a bold decision and hires a new manager – specifically Scolari, Ancelotti and Villas-Boas – the fans are told of the need for stability and long-termism.

Instead, sackings follow at Earth-shattering speed and the club stumbles from crisis to crisis, with no apparent plan, like a drunk searching for dregs in pint glasses at the end of an all-day bender.

It makes us look amateurish and inept.

It has reached the stage where I would honestly feel sorry – and actively discourage – any promising young manager from the UK or elsewhere to apply for a job at Chelsea Football Club.

What a sad indictment.

Abramovich, Buck, Tenenbaum and Gourlay should be ashamed of themselves.

The last few days have made me contemplate my relationship with our players, our fellow fans, the out-going manager, the in-coming manager, the directors and “the club” – as a distinct entity by itself – and it is clear that there is a monumental difference in my support of Chelsea Football Club and that of its directors. I’ll follow Chelsea whenever, wherever and forever.

But I can’t stomach most of the decisions that the club’s directors make.

I had arranged to leave work at 4pm and Parky had made his way over from his village via a series of buses. The connections worked well and he arrived way ahead of schedule at The Pheasant pub opposite at 2.30pm. This was grave news for me; several pints of lager would be quaffed and he would, I was sure, be even more chatty than normal. I girded my loins for a noisy trip to Birmingham.

“Four pints mate” he said as he sat in the front seat of my car.

Oh great.

“Here – have some mini pork pies, Porky. After Saturday’s lack of pork scratchings, you’ll enjoy these, mate.”

As Parky scoffed them, all was beautifully quiet. I had disturbing visions of myself force-feeding Parky – like one of those worrying types on an Alabama trailer park who wants his overweight girlfriend to become the world’s heaviest woman – in an attempt to silence him.

“Finished, mate? Here – have some more marshmallows, onion rings and doughnuts.”

We touched on the sacking of Andre Villas-Boas as we headed along the M4, but by the time we had joined the M5, Parky was off on a never-ending soliloquy involving a ridiculous array of topics including geese, churches, cheeses, bikers and pasties. It was quite a performance.

Birmingham’s rush hour traffic was less-taxing than London’s. I pulled into the car park of the Ibis Hotel on Bordesley Circus at 6.30pm. The car park was officially full – residents only were allowed in – and so I had to push a £5 note into the hand of the attendant. Jesus, who had travelled up by train and had taken a cab to the hotel, was waiting for us outside. Fair play to Jesus; he has only been in the UK about a month, but has seen numerous Chelsea games, plus games at Wembley, Charlton, Crystal Palace and Brentford. He clearly loves his football. I’m sure he’ll even roll up at Frome Town one day.

There was a smattering of friends and faces in the hotel bar. Despite tickets for this game only costing a very competitive twenty quid, the place wasn’t as busy as on previous visits. I chatted with a few mates. There was a quick synopsis of our current woes but there was no real crisp and clean consensus. Some were in favour of Mourinho returning, some weren’t. The team line-up came through on a few ‘phones and there was a general air of befuddlement. No qualms with the defenders which Roberto chose, but the midfield three of Mikel, Ramires and Meireles caused a few grimaces. With no Essien and Lampard, this could easily have been an AVB midfield. The recalled Kalou garnered a few caustic comments, as always. We were generally underwhelmed.

At 7.20pm, Jesus, Parky and I walked the 400 yards up the hill to the away entrance. I could hardly believe that a street stall was selling blue and white scarves celebrating a recent “Birmingham City 6 Millwall 0” win. Talk about small time. I’ve been to St. Andrew’s a few times and it’s one of my least favourite venues. It is one of the few stadia in the UK that I have not chosen to circumnavigate. This is most unlike me; I usually like to take a tour of stadia in search of quirky buildings, club shops, pubs or car parks. It helps me to fully appreciate the setting.

At Birmingham City, I have only ever headed into the tangled mess of stand supports at the old Railway End and quickly take my place in the large lower tier, which has a slightly curved rake. St. Andrews sits on a plateau of high land and, on the last few yards before the turnstiles and bag search, there is a reasonable view of the Birmingham city centre, which is dominated by the old British Telecom Tower, the Rotunda and the space-age Selfridges building.

My seat was high up and central. There were thousands of empty seats all over the stadium. Our away end seemed to pretty full; we had 3,000 tickets. Before I had a chance to take a breath, the away support were in song –

“You’re not welcome here. You’re not welcome here. Fcuk off Benitez – you’re not welcome here.”

This was met with my immediate approval; that, everyone, would be a bitter pill to swallow.

Fact.

Chelsea, in the all white with navy and yellow trim, resembled Tottenham and I disapproved. Birmingham City’s blue kit was washed out and insipid. Soon into the game, we sung an old favourite –

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

To be followed by a more recent chant –

“Jose Mourinho – Jose Mourinho – Jose Mourinho.”

In all honesty, the first-half was poor and none of us enjoyed it. After a Mata shot was saved in the first minute, our play reverted to type with slow approach play and tons of sideway passes. It took us until 17 minutes for the next memorable shot, a blast from Ramires, to cause the home team any concerns. The two lads in front of me were the leaders in the “Ivanovic – Chelsea’s Number Two” chant which went on for a few minutes. A few sticks of celery were thrown in the air, with the necessary musical accompaniment. These distractions took our minds of the football, which was hardly enthralling. It was a typical performance of late.

And then came the most cringe worthy song of the season –

“Roman Abramovich – He sacks who he wants.”

I could hardly believe that hundreds of Chelsea fans were joining in this asinine chant. This was thoroughly embarrassing. There is no doubt that despite our thousands of fine fans, we have attracted some of the most brain dead fools in England.

Birmingham City had a couple of chances which threatened Petr Cech in the Railway End goal down below me, but in general, our defence was well marshaled with Luiz and Cahill performing well. The midfield was bumbling along…our attacks were sporadic. A break found Fernando Torres in the inside left position, but his weak left-footed shot went wide of the far post. The home fans howled their pleasure.

There were moans as the half-time whistle sounded. It was the same old Chelsea of late. I chatted to a few more at the break. The news that Arsenal had roared into a 3-0 lead against Milan hardly improved things.

Sigh.

With Chelsea now attacking us in the second period, we hoped for greater penetration and goals. It was hard to believe that our last win of any description was the narrow 1-0 win at QPR in the previous round.

We only had ten minutes to wait for our salvation. There was a crazy scramble just outside the six yard box. Players from both teams attacked the bouncing ball, with their feet and legs stabbing wildly in a drunken homage to “Riverdance.” Eventually the ball landed at the feet of Juan Mata and the ball was slashed home. We heaved a massive sigh as the players wheeled away to the corner flag.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50715413002658

The two lads in front were singing again –

“Super Juan Mata, he drinks Sangia…”

Before we knew it, a loose ball was walloped home by the lurking Raul Meireles and we were 2-0 up. It was a fine thump and I saw it all of the way from its inception to its net-billowing conclusion. I was stood right behind its rising trajectory. Meireles hardly celebrated, just choosing to walk away. The other players were all over him. Meireles began his time in a Chelsea shirt rather well, but has since lost his way. I hope his confidence returns and his form improves.

The two lads in front –

“Raul Meireles, Raul Meireles – He’s got 5hit hair, but we don’t care, Raul Meireles.”

Juan Mata had a couple of chances either side of the second goal. We were playing better. Mikel was becoming more dominant. Ivanovic was forever raiding the right flank. A great run by Torres on the right resulted in a defender clearly tripping him. We bellowed –

“Torres! Torres! Torres! Torres!”

Instead, Juan Mata took the ball, but shot weakly. Three-nil would have been perfect; we would have been safe. Instead, the Chelsea fans around me were still completely convinced that we would weather a late Birmingham storm. Torres was now seeing more of the ball and a great cross from his boot was whipped in. It fell to the substitute Daniel Sturridge, but he inadvertently stepped on the ball only six yards out. It was almost Nando-esque.

Marlon King appeared as a substitute for the home team and was the instant victim of some pointed abuse from the travelling Chelsea fans.

“She said no, Marlon, she said no.”

Thankfully, the lone chance which King was presented with was dispatched straight at Petr Cech.

The Chelsea choir serenaded Roberto di Matteo during the closing minutes – Eddie Newton, too – and it made me realize how many of that iconic 1997 Chelsea team went on to become managers and coaches. Step forward Dan Petrescu, Steve Clarke, Dennis Wise, Roberto di Matteo, Gus Poyet, Mark Hughes, Gianfranco Zola and Gianluca Vialli. We held on for a win and I was just relieved. I hadn’t particularly enjoyed the evening if I am honest. It had felt rather like a one game repeat of the entire 1988-1989 season; the game should have been finished in the first leg and we just needed to get the job done. In 1988, we shouldn’t have been relegated and the following season was purgatory, with only occasional moments of joy. I bumped into Burger and Julie on the way out. They had witnessed Parky’s crutches being launched into the air after the first goal. Let’s hope those same crutches are launched skywards after the Leicester City game in the next round, too.

Ah…Leicester…1997 again…Erland Johnsen, where are you know?

As an added bonus, we heard that Milan had held on to go through at Arsenal’s expense. As we filtered out of the away end and in to the cold night air, time for just one more song –

“One team in Europe – there’s only one team in Europe.”

The wayward bus has been righted after a few months in the wilderness. Let’s hope the journey continues against Stoke City and Napoli.

All aboard.

Tales From The Rainbow Stand In 1986 And The Smethwick End In 2012

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

West Bromwich Albion vs. Chelsea : 3 March 2012.

I peered out of my window at 8am and it was overcast and grey. By the time I had reached Lord Porky’s village at 9am, the sun had appeared from behind the low-lying clouds. It was going to be a fine day. I had a quick chat with Porky’s partner Jill, who was babysitting her granddaughter Kayla, just turned two and a lifetime of Chelsea heartache ahead of her. Kayla has just started talking and I have no doubt that some of her first words will be Chelsea-related.

“Pass, Sturridge, pass!”

I mentioned to Jill that I have been suffering, for the first time in my life, with eczema for the past three months. Both hands are affected, though only slightly. She mentioned that eczema is a sign of stress and this surprised me; I haven’t felt under duress the past few months. I slapped some Nivea hand crème on and departed, stopping at McMelksham for a breakfast on the hoof. We drove north on the Fosse Way once more; slightly longer, compared to the going via the Almondsbury M4/M5 intersection, but a lot more scenic and rewarding. The away jaunt to The Hawthorns represents one of the shortest away trips for me at the moment. Swansea is the nearest at a mere 102 miles.

This would be my seventh trip to the home of West Bromwich Albion. We had won all previous six encounters and there have been some pretty good memories amongst those games. My first visit was in January 1986 when I was studying for my geography degree at North Staffordshire Poly in nearby Stoke-on Trent. In 1985-1986, we were flying. The much-loved John Neal had guided us to promotion and First Division respectability during the previous two seasons and we had launched a full-on attack on the league title over the Christmas 1985 period. A 2-0 win over Tottenham in front of a mammoth 37,000 was a formality. Newspaper articles proclaimed that we were genuine contenders and I, aged just twenty, was lapping it up. Here are a few notes from my diary entry of Saturday 18th. January 1986.

“Caught the 10.39am to Wolverhampton and then the 12.05pm to Smethwick Rolfe Street. The fare was just £1.95. Found the ground relatively easily. Popped into the ticket office and bought a ticket for £5. Waited outside until the Chelsea coach arrived at 2pm. Had a coffee and a pie. Sat down and took in the atmosphere, looking out for faces. Went to briefly chat to Al. Their end filled up slowly. A dull day, a little cold, rain at times. We had about 2,000 in the seats…between 4,000 and 5,000 in total anyway. I guess at a gate of around 10,000. Got off to a good start, playing well. After 20 minutes, Nevin headed-on for Speedie to race in from the right wing. He approached Grew in goal and pushed it past him at the far post. Brilliant. Good celebration. “We’re gonna win the League.” I guess we had a few more chances, Nevin had a few raids. Mickey Thomas was pretty lively for WBA, probing Colin Lee at full back with through balls. We gave Thomas a brilliant reception. After 55 minutes, a move found Dixon; he flicked it on for Murphy to stab the ball to the left of Grew. Yet more celebration. In the last ten minutes, Joe was alleged to have fouled Garth Crooks just below me. A penalty. “Eddie, Eddie, Eddie.” I think it was taken by Hunt. Eddie dived to his left and easily saved it on the floor. Brilliant. A Chelsea move found Dixon. He took on the defender, beat him, rounded Grew, was hauled down but the ball broke to Nevin, who tapped it in from 12 yards. “We’re gonna win the League.” Not a bad match really. Chelsea were in quite good voice. Better than WBA. “Come on you Baggies.” A little kid next to me kept shouting “You’re blind ref.” Once he shouted “You’re as blind…as…a blind ref!” Out straight away and a police escort all of the way to Smethwick Rolfe Street. Met up with Alan again. If we win games in hand…we will be TOP OF THE LEAGUE.”

Twenty-six years on, a few more things to add. We played in all red that day; one of the last times we were to do so, in fact. There was always a certain cachet to take over the seats at away games in the mid-‘eighties; this activity was especially favoured by London clubs, whose fans always seemed to have a little more money spare on match days. For a few, there was always a greater chance to meet and greet certain sections of the home fans in these areas too. I’m not condoning this by the way – just reporting it. Of course, having a few thousand in the seats, always made the mass singing of “One Man Went To Mow” that more enjoyable when we all stood on “10.” The home fans, cowering alongside, often watched on in silent bemusement. On exiting the steps down from the Rainbow Stand after the final whistle, the Chelsea choir began singing “We’re gonna win it all.” And I remember that this felt quite possible. We were in all four competitions (the League, the FA Cup, the Milk Cup, the Full Members’ Cup) and we were on fire. Sadly, this proud boast went up in flames as Liverpool beat us at home in the FA cup and Kerry Dixon, our superb young striker, pulled up with a torn calf-muscle after only ten minutes. Kerry was out for quite a while and, although he made England’s World Cup squad for Mexico in the summer, he would never be quite the same player. His absence from the team was certainly a major reason why our challenge for all of the honours soon fell away over the next two months of that memorable 1985-1986 season. On the Wednesday after that Liverpool defeat, we lost at home to QPR in the Milk Cup and a few defeats in the League meant that we were soon out of the running of the title, too. In fact, the high water mark of that great Chelsea team (1983 to 1986) was arguably that afternoon at The Hawthorns.

In the end, our 5-4 victory over Manchester City in the final of the inaugural, and much derided, Full Members’ Cup was our only silver wear from 1985-1986. But that, as they say, is another story.

At 12.30pm, I pulled into the car park of the Park Inn, located alongside the busy M5 motorway. The two of us spent an enjoyable pre-match in the hotel bar, which is always a pleasant pre-curser to the afternoon’s entertainment at West Brom. We chatted with Big John, who sits a few rows in front of me at Chelsea, and a few others. Long Tall Pete and Liz arrived. More beers, more chat. The Liverpool vs. Arsenal game was on TV and I hoped for a draw. Big John stayed in the same hotel as the Chelsea team in Naples and was able to observe the team at close quarters as they assembled after the tumultuous team meeting on the day of the game. The body language was atrocious apparently; no smiles, no laughter, no bonding. John said that the team had appeared to be beaten before they boarded the coach. We agreed that if the players – and any player…we named names – didn’t want to play for the club and the manager, they could “do one.”

And then we laughed at how the internet has turned post-game analysis into a deeply depressing experience of late. We both agreed that had the internet be around in the 1978-1978 season (and the 1982-1983 season too), several social network sites would be in meltdown with all of the negativity and bile being bounded around.

We smiled and agreed that, in some ways, we are past all of that. We both love Chelsea for all of the other stuff that goes with it…a broken record here, I know, but I don’t feel the need to apologise for it. Chelsea is so much more than the football. There, another of my favourite phrases. As soon as we all realise that, the better we will all be. I had commented to John that during the journey up from the West Country, Porky and I had spent around 15 seconds discussing the day’s game; “I suppose Drogba will get the nod over Torres. Wonder if Frank will get a start.”

Just as I stood up to get a round in, I bumped into TV presenter Adrian Chiles, who used to host “Match of the Day 2” and now presents an early morning show with Frank’s lady Christine Blakeley. He is, of course, a West Brom fan. I shook him by the hand and said –

“Good luck today. Of course, I don’t fcuking mean that.”

There were certain ribald comments made by Big John, Lord Porky and myself about me being – momentarily – one degree of separation from the luscious Ms. Bleakley. Let’s leave it there.

Jesus joined us for the last thirty minutes and we spoke about a few football-related topics. He explained a few things to me about the Mexican football scene and told me that he was present, in the Chelsea corner, at both the Bluewings and Galaxy games in LA in 2007. I said that I’d have to check my photos to see if I could spot him. At 2.30pm, we set off for the short walk to The Hawthorns. It was a typical Saturday scene with the onrushing fans heading off to the match, past the hot dog, burger and roast pork food stalls. At the corner, Jesus bought a small packet of pork scratchings for the three of us to share on the small walk down to the away entrance at the Smethwick End.

There was a longer than usual wait at the gates – enough time for Parky and I to be reunited with a gaggle of Chelsea from Trowbridge, who had travelled up by train. They had actually spent their pre-match, by chance, with Alan and Gary in Birmingham city centre pub. After a thorough search, I was in. I bumped into Fiona and Ronnie, who had been in The Vine; Fiona had sadly reported that a few members of “The Youth” had started throwing bottles around inside the pub, causing a window to be broken.

Only one word for that; pathetic.

The game had started by the time I eventually found myself alongside Alan (yes, the same Alan from 1986) and Gary, my away day companions. The team was as strong as I could have hoped for, with the two stalwarts Lampard and Essien alongside Ramires. I had a quick look around The Hawthorns. The old Rainbow Stand had been replaced around ten years ago by a single-tiered structure, with the corners enclosed by acres of dull grey steel. These areas cry out for a Chelsea style flag or emblem. The corners, though unsightly, at least keep the noise in. I noticed that a new row of executive boxes had been installed at the rear of this stand since the visit at the end of last season. Ah, last season; the day that we joyously celebrated the fact that we were “gonna win fcuk all.” How times change.

It was a relatively eventful first-half and half-chances came and went. The home team, with Fortune and Odemwingie at the heart of every attack, always appeared to be more cohesive, despite long periods of Chelsea possession. Chances were exchanged and Petr Cech was kept busy. Juan Mata and Michael Essien were having a lot of the ball, but the Chelsea support was getting very impatient with our lack of success in breaching the Baggies’ back line. The noisiest section of the home support shared the Birmingham End and they were in pretty good voice. There was the usual banter between us and them –

“Arse to a Russian. You’d sell your arse to a Russian. Arse to a Russian.”

“Speak fackin’ English. Why don’t you speak fackin’ English?”

“Speak fookin’ Russian. Why don’t you speak fookin’ Russian?”

It was odd to see the boys attacking us in the first-half. A fine strike from Michael Essien was headed for a top corner, but custodian Ben Foster tipped the effort over. With the half-time whistle approaching, a gorgeous ball from the otherwise quiet Didier Drogba found Daniel Sturridge. Studge had been his usual self; shooting at the earliest opportunity, much to the chagrin of us all. On this occasion, he lost his marker with a nice body sway, but annoyingly drilled his low shot wide of the left-hand post.

We howled.

The Chelsea support was spasmodic at best. However, one thing pleased me. With the sixth anniversary of the passing of Peter Osgood on Thursday, the away fans often sang the trademark song.

“The Shed looked up and they saw a great star.
Scoring goals past Pat Jennings from near and from far.
And Chelsea won – as we all knew they would.
And the star of that great team was Peter Osgood.
Osgood, Osgood, Osgood, Osgood.
Born is the King of Stamford Bridge.”

After Ossie’s death in 2006, our first game was at The Hawthorns of course. Always in our thoughts, Ossie…

I was expecting a marked improvement in the second half, but it got worse. The sun disappeared and the clouds returned. The Chelsea support grew more and more frustrated with each minute of lazy play and half-hearted effort. After around ten minutes, a ball from Mata was played into acres of space for Studge to run onto. For once, our opponents were caught out playing a high-line. However, Sturridge misread the path of the ball and Foster met it first and cleared. More derision was aimed at the hapless Sturridge. I am quite befuddled by Sturridge. At times, his reluctance to pass to a colleague reaches ridiculous levels. No doubting his self-confidence, which is usually seen as a massive plus when assessing an attacker’s abilities, but his selfishness will weigh him down.

In a surprising show of togetherness, we sang “Amazing Grace.”

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There were more verses of “The King of Stamford Bridge.” However, West Brom were now in the ascendency and Petr Cech became the busier of the two ‘keepers. The away support wailed for the introduction of Fernando Torres. Overall, Drogba had been woeful, showing hardly any of his willingness to chase down balls and use his strength. However, Drogba stayed on and Nando replaced Essien. God bless him, Torres’ first action was met with roars of approval as he chased back and won the ball with a great tackle from behind. It was an abrupt wake-up call for us all; this is what we had been missing all bloody game. A player with passion.

With ten minutes to go, West Brom took the lead after a ball was not cleared. My heart sunk. A draw at West Brom was bad enough, but a defeat? The Hawthorns came to life again. The whole stadium “Boing boinged.” It was quite a sight for my sore, sore eyes. I stood in numbed silence. Then came the West Brom club song –

“The Lords’s my shepherd I’ll not want.
He lays me down to die.
In pasture’s green he leadeth me.
The quiet waters by.”

And then, of course, came the song which rocked us to our core –

“Sacked in the morning.
You’re getting sacked in the morning.
Sacked in the morning.”

Of course, a fair few hundred Chelsea supporters joined in, too. I felt Alan bristling to say something. I just turned around and glowered. It was always my opinion that supporters are there for the team. It seems that certain sections of our support do not believe that this is correct. In the final flurry of activity at the Birmingham Road End, a great Ashley Cole cross was met by a Frank Lampard prod, but the ball flew past the far post and then Mata flashed wide too. Petr Cech went up field for one last corner, but the chance did not amount to anything.

At the final whistle, I stood in more numbed silence.

On a very bleak afternoon, only Torres, Cech, Lampard, Mata, Luiz and Drogba came over to clap the away fans, who – surprisingly, in my eyes – stood and clapped them for quite some time. That, at least, made me very very proud. However, that feeling soon subsided.

Alan said “see you on Tuesday” but I could not speak. I simply nodded.

As I waited outside the stand, several friends walked past. There were lots of long faces and I am sure I was exhibiting a particularly effective 1982-1983 style frown. However, Andy from Trowbridge approached and made me smile.

“Keep your chin up, Chris” as he mimicked Mourinho at Arsenal in 2007.

On the walk back to the car at the hotel, we had hoped to buy several bags of pork scratchings, but we couldn’t see any stands which were selling them. Lord Porky was distraught.

A 1-0 defeat and no pork scratchings.

FCUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUK.

Back in the hotel bar, a beer for Porky and a cappuccino for me. A quick word with Jonesy from Nuneaton. We both agreed that we had begun the season relatively well, but we were now seemingly getting worse with each game. I was still adamant that AVB should stay and get to the summer before clearing out the players who clearly do not fancy playing for him.

Jonesy : “You going Tuesday, Chris?”

Chris : “See you there.”

We both smiled. We had seen worse and we both knew it. The same old Chelsea, the same old Chelsea…

…and I have a feeling that my bloody eczema is going to get a lot worse over the next few weeks.

Tales From Just Another Saturday

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Bolton Wanderers : 25 February 2012.

My week of football was nearing its end. After the two cup ties with Birmingham City and Napoli, it was enough I could do to muster much enthusiasm for the game with Bolton Wanderers. As I drove the 12 miles to collect Lord Parky, I was struggling. For one thing, my heart, body and soul were still in Italy. I’m sure this is a common occurrence. I know that it always happens to me. It always takes me more than a few days to wash a holiday destination out of my mind.

Arrivederci Roma. Arrivederci Napoli.

It had been a great trip, with some fantastic friends. The game hadn’t gone our way, but I have to be honest and say that I half-expected a loss out in the crazy city of Naples. Yes, it was all doom and gloom on the bus escort away from the stadium and on the train back to Rome. But, there is no doubt that we can win 2-0 in the second leg. Should that be the case, that particular night will go down in the annals of Chelsea history, alongside games against Bruges, Vicenza, Barcelona and Liverpool.

There was a hint of guilt in my mind as I picked up Parky; I was sorry that he hadn’t been able to come out to Italy with me. On the drive to London, we exchanged tales. Games are coming thick and fast now; we went through a few plans for the next month or so. The game with Bolton would be my 37th. of the current season. I’m on target for around 51 at least. Parky and I have only regularly going to Chelsea together since around 2008. Before then, he would travel up by train. Hopefully my oldest Chelsea mate Glenn – I first met him at Oakfield School in Frome in 1977 – will be able to attend more games next season. I sometimes wonder what life I would be living if I didn’t have my fix of football each week. Best not dwell too much on that. This is the life I have chosen. In any case, as Tommy Johnson once said “what else are you going to do on a Saturday?”

It was just another Saturday in fact. The usual “café / pub / match” routine. The usual faces. In The Goose, there was the usual résumé of events and stories which accompany a European away game. In the immediate area of where I stood in The Goose, seven friends had been out in Italy. There is a fine balancing act involved here in providing commentary for the friends not able to travel and not droning on about every detail. I’m sure all of my mates would have like to have gone; it’s not always possible. There is nothing worse than a bore.

Mike and Chopper from New York called in. I joined them in the beer garden for a few minutes; it was a surprisingly warm day. I suddenly remembered that the last time the three of us were together was in a pub in Manhattan, during a holiday I had with my mother in 2010. Mike was in town for just one night. Chopper is over for five weeks with work. I look forward to meeting up with them again for the Napoli return game. Jesus, fresh-faced from his one day trip to Italy, momentarily called in to the pub. The West Ham vs. Crystal Palace game was on TV, but garnering scant attention.

I chatted with Cliff briefly on the way down the North End Road, Saturday afternoon shoppers darting in and out of the shops and market stalls. The street was a hive of activity. Past the pubs and the cafes. Cliff had been out in Italy. We both agreed that the police had, largely, been “on top” throughout the day of the game. We had heard of rare instances of attacks on Chelsea fans. Although the route taken by the escort had been lengthy, it was the only route they could have taken; it was the only elevated section of road in Naples. There was no point in risking normal streets, prone to gridlock, prone to ambush. I loved Naples and would go back in an instant. It ain’t Paris. It ain’t Vienna. And all the more colourful and vibrant for it.

Yes. Italy was still in my mind.

After the embarrassment of the 36,000 gate against Birmingham City, thank heavens we drew a far more respectable crowd for this one. The Bolton following was a shocking 300, though. Overhead, the sky was pure unadulterated azure with no clouds visible. Down below, the pink bibbed players were finishing off their drills.

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A former work colleague, Steve, was alongside me in Glenn’s seat for the game. He used to go more often, but said that he just can’t muster up much enthusiasm for Chelsea at the moment. It would be his first game this season.

I quickly glanced through the programme; I usually head to the page which contains head shots of Chelsea fans celebrating birthdays, with famous players or half-way up Kilimanjaro waving a CFC flag. There was a photo of a chap who sits a few feet away – Mark – who was celebrating his imminent birthday. I once bought some photographs from him which he took at the 1998 ECWC Final. I was amazed to see that he has not missed a home game since 1969. Some record, that. Yet I hardly ever see him at away games.

The famous come-back game against Bolton from 1978-1979 was featured in the programme. Rick Glanvill always does a great job in reliving our history – what history? – for the younger generations. In that shocking season, I can well remember that the famous Yugoslavian coach Miljan Miljanic was linked with a role at Chelsea during that season and, indeed, Rick had chosen to include a photograph of Miljanic in his retrospective match report.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=75ZOl3v49R0

I also remember rumours of Johann Cruyff joining us in that 1978-1979 season.

Johann Cruyff and John Sitton in the same team. Quite a thought.

As the years pass by, all of the various football seasons, memorable games, players and memories intertwine and overlap. It all becomes one lifetime Chelsea experience really.

Just another Saturday? Don’t you believe it.

Andre Villas-Boas had recalled the old guard for this instalment of The Chelsea Story. With Ashley Cole, Frank Lampard and Michael Essien back in the team, there was no hiding place for us. Without a win since the narrow 1-0 victory at Loftus Road, we were in dire need of three points.

We began strongly. A lovely Frank Lampard tackle set Daniel Sturridge on his way upfield, but he was on his wrong side. A right-footed shot ended up at the ‘keeper’s feet. Frank was sent through but the ball bobbled away from him before going out for a corner. Then the play stagnated and the atmosphere turned funereal. It was so quiet at times that I wondered if my hearing had been affected by the noise of Naples. A curling shot from Studge flew past the far post. A great dribble from the bursting Ramires ended up with a lame shot at Bogdan. A shot from Ashley Cole flew wide. In a move that seemed to sum up our play at the moment, a delightful ball from Lamps found the on-rushing Drogba, but he was collided with Ivanovic. Both fell to the floor. I’m surprised that Didier didn’t appeal for a penalty. Our defence was rarely under pressure. I got to see two gut-busting runs from new boy Gary Cahill at close hand. He didn’t let us down. Bolton’s first effort on goal came from Ryo Miyaichi on 44 minutes. He had his own fan club in the lower tier of the away enclosure; four Japanese tourists waving Japanese flags.

The atmosphere stayed surreally quiet. It had been a pretty tedious performance really. The game was begging for a goal. At least there was no booing at the the half-time whistle. Jesper Gronkjaer appeared on the pitch with Neil at the break.

Ah, 2003…what a game that was.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRFgyWziMJw

David Luiz was all over our opening goal. I loved the way that he won the ball in the corner down below me. He continued on and, when the ball broke for him, he took a couple of touches along the edge of the penalty area. He looked up, took a glance at Bogdan in his ridiculous cerise shirt, and curled a shot in at the far post. We yelped with joy and I attempted to take as many shots of his typically exuberant celebrations as I could.

Get in.

Fred Dibnah : “thay’ll ‘av ta com at us now, like.”

Peter Kay : “come on, my little diamonds.”

If the first-half was boring, the second-half was much more entertaining. Reo-Coker shot wide from a central position. A Mata corner found a leaping Luiz, whose header was blocked. Sturridge worked in Juan Mata who passed to Didier Drogba, but his flighted chip dolloped on top of the bar. Soon after, a Mata curler was deflected for a corner. We serenaded Super Frank as he trotted over to take the kick down below. He was smiling and so were we.

Snap, snap, snap.

His corner found the leap of Drogba, unhindered on the six yard box, and it was 2-0. I caught Didier’s goal on film, but it was too blurred for my liking. The chances still came…a low Michael Essien scudder, a delicate Mata chip. Fernando Torres came on as a substitute for Drogba and both players were warmly applauded. The way we have stuck with Nando this last season is something we can all be very proud of. He toiled for the rest of the game, but his goal efforts were off the mark.

Soon after, Frank wrapped up the points with a neat finish from a perfect cross from Mata. Again, he celebrated down below me, his face so happy, and his joy there for all to see. How many times have I been able to take up-close and personal photographs of Frank’s ecstatic goal celebrations in that little corner of SW6 down below me? It seems like hundreds. I’m so lucky to be able to take these photos, so soon after the goals are scored, bodies flying everywhere, the team in unison. I think it must be Frank’s most emotional part of the stadium, ever since that bittersweet night on April 30th 2008 when he struck that penalty to defeat Liverpool so soon after the passing of his mother Pat.

I suggest we call it “Frank’s Corner” from now on. Well, I will anyway.

There was a far more upbeat walk back to the car for me this week. On the way home, Parky fought a losing battle with a bottle of Jack Daniels but I received a text to say that Frome Town had lost yet another home game. The Robins’ visitors, St. Albans City, had former Chelsea forward Paul Furlong playing for them and I was a little annoyed that I didn’t get to see him grace the Frome Town pitch. Of course, Furlong had been the star of one of those European night games which I referred to earlier; Bruges at home, March 1995. It was, in fact, his finest hour.

Ah…another game, another memory.

Tales From Curva A

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Napoli vs. Chelsea : 21 February 2012.

There is no doubt that Italy is my favourite European destination; I have been a huge fan of its charms since my first visit in June 1975. Despite numerous trips – 5 family holidays, 6 Inter-Rail trips, 3 Juventus trips and 3 Chelsea trips – I was more than happy that Chelsea were drawn against SSC Napoli in the quarters of this season’s Champions League competition.

I have some history with Napoli.

Way back in the summer of 1981, on holiday on the Riviera di Ponente, I treated myself to a superb magazine which reviewed the 1980-1981 football season. The publication – a thorough review of all games, goals and goalscorers – contained hundreds of action photographs and I can remember being enthralled at the sight of exotic players and stadia alike. At the time, I was well aware of the top teams in Italy; Serie A was dominated by the northern teams Juventus, Torino, Milan and Inter, plus the two Rome powerhouses Roma and Lazio. I was aware of Fiorentina, Sampdoria and Genoa. But one team intrigued me. The photographs of Napoli, playing in front of vast crowds in their mammoth stadium struck a chord. The team had no “scudetto” to their name, yet regularly drew crowds of 50,000 and above. The Dutch master Ruud Krol was their most famous player in that team. Their stadium resembled the Maracana. I daydreamed of how intense the match day experience would be in the heat of that infamous Italian town.

When the club signed Diego Armando Maradona in 1984, I knew only too well that the locals would idolise the little Argentinian maestro, who was still smarting from two largely unremarkable seasons with Barcelona. In Maradona’s third season – 1986-1987 – Napoli won their first ever championship. I can well remember the fleeting glimpses of a troubled city celebrating a league win like nobody else. The TV footage showed a cauldron of fanaticism I had hardly witnessed before. I was suitably impressed.

While travelling around Italy in 1987 and 1988 by train on month long Inter-Rail passes, I saw a game in Milan and two in Turin. However, in November 1988, I flew out to Turin for my first ever trip to Europe for a football match and a football match alone.

Juventus vs. Napoli.

One of the vivid memories of this trip took place thousands of feet above Turin. I had just woken from a short nap. The plane was turning and circling around on its approach into the airport at Caselle. A piece of Italian classical music was playing on the plane’s radio. Down below, the lights of the city’s grid-pattern streets were shining. It was a moment that has lasted to this day. To say I was excited would be a massive understatement.

My good friend Tullio and I joined the ranks of the bianconeri on the distinti terrace in the old Stadio Communale. Although I was – and am still – a follower of Juve, there is no doubt that I was lured to Turin on this particular occasion to witness Maradona in the flesh. Juventus boasted Michael Laudrup, Luigi D’Agostini, Rui Barros and Alexander Zavarov, but the little Argentinian was the main attraction. One of the vagaries of Italian football is that teams do not go through their pre-match routines on the pitch. They perform their pre-game rituals and drills in the changing rooms, away from the madding crowd. This heightened the sense of drama for me. With five minutes to go before kick-off, the caterpillar-like tunnel was extended out in front of the baying Juventini in the Curva Filadelfia.

The two teams appeared.

And there he was. Diego Maradona. I was in awe.

At the time, Arrigo Sacchi’s Milan team was changing the way that football was being played in Italy. The defensive stranglehold of catennaccio was slowly giving way to a more liberal form of football, but goals were still a premium in Italy. Games tended to end 0-0, 1-0 and 2-0.

Much to Tullio’s consternation and my shock, the result of the game on that day 24 years ago ended Juventus 3 Napoli 5. It was a stunning result. Napoli were 3-0 up at half-time and Tullio wanted to go home. Thankfully, I made him stay and Juve got it back to 2-3, before the game went away from them. Away to our right, in the Curva Maratona, thousands of Napoli fans held their light blue scarves aloft. Another one of those memories.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EhE0voYR-uU

I visited Naples, albeit very briefly, either side of that game in Turin. In March 1988, I used it as a stopping-off point on the way down to Pompei . On a wet and cold afternoon, I virtually had all of Pompei to myself. It was one of those moments when I was able to let my imagination run riot, fantasising about life in a Roman town centuries ago. On my return into Naples, I remember having a very quick walk around the cramped Neopolitan streets, taking a grainy photograph of Mount Vesuvius and grabbing a slice of pizza. Then, in September 1990, there was even more of a fleeting glimpse of Naples as I changed trains on a journey from Reggio de Calabria north to Rome and beyond. On that occasion, I think I only ventured a few yards from the Naples train station.

It was time to return.

At 9am on the Monday, I headed over the Mendip Hills towards Bristol Airport. For the first time ever, I would be beginning a European trip from my most local airport. From there, I was flying to Rome, and then catching a train down to Naples on the day of the game. My friends Alan and Gary were already on their way to Rome from Heathrow. The Mendip Hills were mined for various minerals during the Roman occupation of these shores and the area is traversed with roads which owe their existence to the Romans. With Glastonbury Tor visible to the south, atop a hill in the tranquil Vale of Avalon, I drove along several long straight stretches of old Roman road.

What is it they say about all roads leading to Rome?

The flight from Bristol to Rome Fiumcino airport lasted around two-and-a-half hours and enabled me to relax and ponder the attractions that awaited me. I bumped into two Chelsea fans, Emma and Tony, who were as surprised as me to see other Chelsea fans on the flight. The EasyJet magazine taught me two things; kissing in public in the city of Naples used to result in the death penalty in the sixteenth century and the term “tifosi” comes from the typhoid-like fervour of the Italian football fans. I remember Northern Italian teams’ fans taunting the Napoli fans in the ‘eighties when an outbreak of cholera hit the city.

The simple chant of “Cholera! Cholera!” shamed the Neapolitans. No doubt they had a response, though.

I was last in the Italian capital for our game with Roma in late 2008. I quickly caught the city-bound train and soon found myself passing through the murky hinterland of the Rome suburbs. I was reminded of how much the locals seem to admire the early-eighties style graffiti which originated in New York. The weather was overcast. It was raining. The surprisingly bleak weather saddened me. I hoped that my brief spell in Italy would not be spent dashing in and out of the rain.

At 5pm, I knocked on the door of room 302 of the Yes Hotel on Via Magenta. This was the same hotel we used in 2008. Alan welcomed me to Italy with a bottle of Peroni. I was given the middle bed of three and I couldn’t resist a joke about myself waking in the middle of the night, imagining that I was Franz Klammer, the great downhill skier. Alan and Gary roared with laughter. The jokes continued all evening and we tried not to talk about the football. We caught a cab down to Piazza Barberini where we met up with Julie and Burger, the CL away trip virgins. We decamped into a quiet bar and caught our breath. Thankfully the rain had stopped. The evening was mild. The beers started to flow and the laughter, too. We spoke briefly about the on-going CPO debacle, but then Burger bought a round of amaretto. The football talk soon subsided. Julie spoke of how much she was enjoying her first ever visit to Italy. I managed to lock myself in the toilet.

We moved into Via Sestini and enjoyed a lovely meal. Another beer. We were roaring with laughter all of the way through it. Davie from Scotland, who I ironically first met in Rome in 2008, joined us and we ended the evening in an Irish pub off Via del Corso. More beers, a limoncelo, some strawberry vodkas. On Peter Osgood’s birthday, we toasted the great man. It is hard to believe that it is six years since that saddest of days.

I can well remember the visit to Rome I took with several Chelsea mates in late 1999 – the goalless draw with Lazio. On that occasion, none other than Ron Harris and Peter Osgood were amongst the 2,000 Chelsea fans in the Curva Sud that night. After the game, we were allowed on to Ron and Ossie’s coach back to the city centre. In the hotel lobby, we kept ourselves to ourselves, not wishing to pester either of them. That was a Rome memory to last an eternity, though.

It was 1.30am and time to get to bed. It had been a great night. We caught a cab back, past the imposing Vittorio Emanuele monument, and arranged to meet at the Termini station the next day.

“I’m off to get some beauty sleep” said Alan.”I’ll wake up in August.”

After a filling breakfast, we all met up on the platform of the main station a mere 500 yards away. Davie had spent until 5.30am in a nightclub, just as he had in 2008. On that occasion, he awoke outside on a roundabout.

Thankfully, he awoke in his own bed this time. The train to Naples left at 9.50am. Thankfully, clear skies greeted us. While Alan and Gary tried to get some shut-eye, Davie and I chatted about our love for Chelsea, but for football in general. Like me, Davie shares the opinion that we are here for the people and the camaraderie rather than the mind-numbing pursuit of silver wear and glory. We spoke of games past, of childhood heroes, of the Dundee United team of 1983, the Highbury game in 2004, of the 1982 World Cup. We spoke about the game in Naples.

Davie : “It could go one of two ways. Could be the best away trip ever. Could be an absolute nightmare.”

Chris : “It just feels right for us to be going in to this as the underdog. Chelsea as the underdog is our role in things.”

Although a self-confessed Chelsea nut, Davie has not visited The Bridge for two years. Like many of us, he is fed up of the current vibe at home games; full of silent dolts. Davie much prefers the rough and tumble of the away enclosure.

Outside, the Appenine Hills were flying past. I took plenty of photographs of many a hilltop village, perched upon light grey rock. Above, peaks were dusted in snow. The sky was blue.

Italy. Ti amo.

Gary, Alan, Davie and I hopped into a cab at Naples main train station to take us to our respective hotels. The first thing I noticed was that the cabbie’s Neapolitan accent was thicker and richer than that of the north of Italy. I guess, actually, that it was a dialect and not an accent. As I looked out at the densely packed streets, all of my memories of Naples came crashing back to me. The cabbie gave us a drive to remember; carving other drivers up, tooting his horn, talking on his phone and pointing his cab head first into ridiculously small spaces. As we neared our hotel on Via Melisurgo, he almost collided with a mother pushing a pram. He began shouting at her and I am convinced that the little bambino raised a finger.

Welcome to Naples.

We had a thoroughly enjoyable pre-match in Naples. We spent around three hours walking around the immediate area of our hotel, which was close to Castel Nuovo. Of course, Mount Vesuvius, across the bay, totally dominates any view of Naples. I took many photographs of its looming presence. One can only imagine the horror of the eruption which caused such devastation on Pompei and Herculaneum in AD79. We walked past the little bar which was full of Chelsea day-trippers on the official club trip. A few familiar faces. Most had taken heed of the club’s advice to eschew club colours. During the day, I only saw a handful of idiots who were brazenly wearing Chelsea shirts.

Our walking tour took us from the waterside, past the Castel Nuovo and up to the Royal Palace. The skies were still blue and the weather was lovely. As we walked up the slight incline of Via San Carlo, I became lost in my own little world. Let me explain.

My father was in the RAF during the closing years of the Second World War. His experiences were explained to me on many occasions and he was wise enough to capture a lot of his travels on film. Maybe I have inherited my love of travel photography from him. His first posting overseas, in 1944, was to Jerusalem, but he spent most of his active service in North Africa, in Tripoli and Algiers. He was a wireless operator in Wellington bombers, serving in coastal command. As the war ended, he spent time in Malta and then travelled up through Italy before returning home in 1946 or so. However, for six months, my dear father was billeted in the San Carlo Opera House in Naples. I would imagine that hotel rooms were very scarce and so the RAF commandeered the large theatre, stripped out the seats and filled the auditorium with bunk beds. What Dad’s role was during this time is not really known. I would imagine that he fulfilled an administrative role, perhaps helping to get the war-stricken natives back on the road to recovery. There are photographs in his album of trips, with his pals, to Taormina on Sicily and to Pompei.

At the top of the hill, the grand bulk of the San Carlo Opera House was visible to my left. Alan took a few photographs of me outside. During a quiet few moments, I walked into the booking hall of the theatre and peered inside at the cool marble steps leading up to the doors to the auditorium. For a few fleeting moments, I easily imagined Dad walking down those steps, in shirtsleeves and sunglasses, suntanned, heading out for a day’s sightseeing with a couple of his friends.

“Ah, this is the life, Half Pint” gleamed Hank.

“Yes, indeed it is. RAF West Kirby seems a long way away” replied Reg.

“Pompei here we come” bellowed Jock.

From RAF West Kirby on The Wirrall to the San Carlo Opera House in Naples took Dad four years during the Second World War. It had taken me a mere ten days.

In the Plaza del Plebiscito, we bumped into Mark and Nick, Charlie and Pete. There had been news of a Chelsea fan getting stabbed down at the main station. We were lucky; this was the posh end of the city and I didn’t feel at risk. While Alan and Gary chatted to the lads, I wandered around the gently sloping piazza, spotting a new vista of Vesuvius, taking it all in. I was sure that Dad would have walked on these cobbles, witnessed these views. I wanted to position myself right in the centre of the square in order to get a symmetric view of the Royal Palace. I spotted a manhole cover and realised that it cut the piazza in half. I stood on it and took a photo looking east and a photo looking west.

Perfect.

I then happened to glance down at the manhole and spotted that there was a year embossed upon it.

1993.

I lost my father on April 17th 1993 – into my thoughts he came again.

It was 2.45pm and we were in need of sustenance. Alan, Gary and I dipped into a lovely little pizzeria on Via Chiala. We ordered some ice cold Peroni – bliss! – and then a pizza apiece. I opted for the Diavolo (devil) pizza and it was only five euros. The buffalo mozzarella was so creamy, the tomato sauce was so fresh, the pizza base was so perfect. The single chilli which gave the pizza its name was red hot. It was the best pizza ever. The locals were smiling. They knew who we were. As we left we said –

“Grazie mille e forza Chelsea.”

They smiled again.

We walked back down the hill, the evening chill now hitting hard. I picked up my match ticket and my passport from my hotel room, then joined Alan and Gary opposite in a small bar, full of Chelsea fans. We chatted to a few familiar faces – Pauline, Mick, Digger, Shaun, Pete, Eva, Neil – and had a couple more beers. We pondered our chances.

The mood was not great. There was a feeling that we could be in for a hiding.

We walked over to the assembly point at 6.45pm. The day trippers had departed earlier – maybe around 5pm. Good job we hung back a little. We sat on the bus for 45 minutes. Eventually we set off. The stadium is not far from the city centre, but the route we took lasted about an hour. Around ten coaches set off. There was a heavy police escort, not surprisingly. The coach hugged the road by the port and then climbed up onto the elevated expressway which circumnavigated the city. Although we were not to know it until after, we were taken east, then north, then west, then south. The stadium was due west. The locals would not get a chance to ambush us. The city looked on as our coach drove high on elevated bridges, and then delved deep into long tunnels. Apartment blocks were everywhere. The dark shadowy mass of hills appeared and then disappeared. Vesuvius, unseen in the distance, but looming still. Trizia of the CSG and I chatted about Naples and its team. I spoke to her of Maradona in 1988. I made the point that as I saw Maradona playing for his club team, doing his 9 to 5 job, then this made that particular experience all the more real. We had heard about the leaked team sheet and I wondered if it was a Mourinho-esque ploy to confuse the locals. Shades of Jose against Barca in 2005 in fact. As we drove on, I kept describing the city as a sprawling mess. I’m sure there is no place like it in Europe. Sure it is crime-ridden, it is strewn with the detritus of modern life, its walls are covered in graffiti, the houses are cramped, the washing dries on overhead lines, the traffic is noisy, the place is dirty.

But what energy the place exudes.

I crave different experiences in my support of Chelsea these days; Naples fits the bill tenfold.

Eventually, we were underneath the shadows of the stadium. Out in into the drizzle of a Neapolitan night. We marked our territory by having a mass toilet break against a nearby wall. We were given a brief search by the police and we were inside the stadium. Despite its size – it once held 80,000 – the place was very shabby. I half expected lumps of concrete to fall during the game when the ultras began jumping. I could already hear them bellowing their songs.

Underneath the entrance to the away section, Alan and Gary had stopped for a word with Tom. Alongside him was the almost mythical figure of Icky, resplendent in green bomber jacket, baseball cap, jeans and boots. He had travelled from the Phillipines for this one. I took a classic photo of Tom, Gary and Alan against a backdrop of Italian police, riot shields to the fore.

The stadium now holds 60,000, but there were many empty seats in the small lower tier. The Napoli fans were making a din, though – waving their flags, bellowing songs, whistling when we had the temerity to show support of our team. Our section filled up slowly. Initially, I guessed at around 1,000 had braved the ferocity of the locals. In the end, I guess it was nearer 1,500. Despite a few youngsters and a few women, the bulk of our support was male and was aged 40 to 55. Solid old school. Faces from our hooligan past. Faces from the good old bad old days. Faces from away trips up and down the length of England. One family of Chelsea die-hards. Don’t step on us.

We began to spot hundreds of cigarette lighters flickering at both ends of the stadium; Curva A, which we shared to the south end of the stadium, and Curva B, to the north. The choreography and the anthem, the flares and the cheers of the Napoli ultras.

This is it.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50688829162658

I wanted to avoid an early goal – but I feared the worst.

Away in the north curve, I spotted a massive banner – striscione – which I struggled to decipher.

“Come Pioggia Scende Al Cuore Copisce Come Un Leone Ruggisce.”

Pioggia means rain. It was raining. Surely the fans who had written the banner don’t leave it until the very last minute to decide on a pertinent phrase for each game. However, knowing the organisational skill of the capos among the ultras, then nothing would surprise me.

Mata’s neat finish sent us all into a jumping, bounding, leaping frenzy. What a quite magnificent moment.

How we sang.

“We are the Chelsea and we are the best…”

Maybe Davie was right – this would be the best away game ever.

Befuddled AVB, at odds with the senior players, somehow managing to outthink the attacking prowess of the Napoli team?

Think again.

Two goals in the last ten minutes of the first-half caused us much pain. Lavezzi’s curler just eluded Petr Cech and Cavani appeared like a ghost at the far post to squeeze the ball in. The sight of Cavani running towards the moat which encircles the running track, tugging at his shirt, his face contorted with ecstasy will live with me, unfortunately, for years.

After each goal, a thunderous roar. Flares behind each goal.

If only Ramires had not thundered over at 1-1. If only Brana’s wonder run had resulted in a shot. If only Luiz’ header had gone in.

If only.

At the break, I was confused. I wasn’t sure if we should go for it and attack or aim for damage limitation. Before the game, I would have been very contented with a 2-1 reverse. But here, in the shadows of the San Paolo, I was worried that more goals would cascade into our goal.

Chances were spurned at both ends in the second-half, but lamentable defending gifted Lavezzi an easy second.

It was Napoli 3 Chelsea 1.

And still chances came. Thank heavens that Ashley Cole cleared from the goal line. At the other end, Drogba spurned a late chance. My God, 3-2 would give us a huge chance in the return leg. The substitutes Lampard and Essien offered little.

The whistle blew and the Napoli fans knew exactly what to do next. They hoisted their blue and white scarves and the club song echoed around the cavernous stadium. Parts of the anthem sounded too close to “You’ll Never Walk Alone” for comfort, so we all soon descended into the area below. We stood and chatted. A few moments of gallows humour, but glum faces. I chatted to five from Bristol; Tim’s wife had been swiped on her back with a belt buckle just a few yards from the stadium. Such attacks were thankfully rare. We had met up with Rob at half-time and he rode with us on the hour long coach ride back to the centre. We were dropped off at the port just before 1am, some two and a half hours or so after the game had ended.

The Chelsea fans fled from the coaches into the Neapolitan night. The bar opposite our hotel was closed and so we decided to get some sleep.

On the train trip back to Rome, we shared our compartment with a Neapolitan girl, returning to her university in Rome. She was a Napoli fan – you get the impression that all Neapolitans support Napoli –but had been at Stamford Bridge in April for the Chelsea vs. Tottenham game. She said that her boyfriend was a Chelsea follower. I am so pleased that she didn’t say that she favoured Tottenham.

That, my friends, would have been too much.

She helped me translate the striscione. It went something like –

“As rain falls … strikes at the heart … like a roaring lion.”

As the train headed north, an itinerant salesman was peddling Napoli souvenirs and he tried to get us to buy his wares. Not only was I upset about the previous evening’s game, I remembered 1988 too. On my European travels, I often get souvenirs of the clubs that I visit. In this case, I was happy to make an exception.

Naples was indeed a sprawling mess of a city.

At the moment, it feels that we are a sprawling mess of a football club.

Ah, just like the old days.

Come On You Blue Boys.

Tales From Lillee Road

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Birmingham City : 18 February 2012.

I left work on Friday evening and heaved a sigh; not of sadness, but of relief. A week’s holiday was about to begin. Not only did I have the game with Birmingham City to look forward to, but also a jaunt to Italy for the Champions League tie at Napoli and then the league game against Bolton Wanderers. But first, on Friday evening, a bonus. I met up with my mate Francis (Liverpool) and his friends Tom (Cambridge United) and Rob (Bristol Rovers) to take part in a football-themed quiz night at Frome Town Football Club. Before the night had even begun, I had won £20 in a raffle and I thought the omens were good. It was a fun night, but we slipped to a disappointing third place on the night. My other mate Steve (a lapsed Bristol City fan from his schooldays) took the first prize, along with his team mates Mark and Dave. Steve’s encyclopaedic knowledge of eclipses mine and it was an ominous sign that the first round resulted in Locomotive Sputnik (Steve’s team) gathering 9 points and The Dodge City Cattle Rustlers (ours) amassing a shocking 2.

I had never met Rob before and I had a sheepish grin on my face when Francis introduced me as a Chelsea fan. There’s almost an automatic need for some sort of explanation these days when people hear that I support Chelsea; I feel the pressure to describe myself as a genuine fan and not some sort of hideous Johnny-Come-Lately type, an interloper from another club or a clueless – and chinless – wonder. The phrase “yeah, I’m a home and away season ticket holder” usually suffices. To be fair to Rob, he said that he once went out with a Chelsea fan and was a member during the 1995-1996 campaign. He used to watch from The Benches, or from the concrete slabs to give the area a more exact description.

I awoke on Saturday at 6am with a very slight hangover. I knew that one pint of cider would not mix well with the three of Golsch. A hangover after just four pints? Yes, I know; truly shocking. I’m just not used to it these days. A worrying sign with Rome and Naples ahead. I poured myself a coffee and thankfully felt the headache float away. I ran through some of the questions of the previous night and wondered how I didn’t know the answers.

“Which England player was the first to be sent off?”

“Which player was the first to use video evidence in an attempt to appeal against a booking?”

“Which team was the last to win the European Cup / Champions League fielding a team solely from that team’s country?”

“Which of the 92 league teams’ stadium has the smallest capacity?”

“Who were the last team that England beat in a knockout match in the finals of a World Cup?”

I collected Parky at around 8am. By 10.30am, we were sat in the crowded Yadana Café on Lillee Road. Incidentally, the 1873 F.A. Cup Final was held at the Lillie Bridge Grounds, just off Lillie Road, no more than fifty yards from the current West Brompton station. The F.A. Cup Final, of course, was held at Stamford Bridge in 1920, 1921 and 1922 too. All of this local football history adds so much to my appreciation of Stamford Bridge and its environs. The Yadana Cafe, which is owned by a Burmese family, acts as a kind of holding area for The Goose. Long Tall Pete, Liz and Cliff from the CSG, were in there. That man Jesus had just arrived and we joined him at his table. He too had been on the ale the night before and was desperate for some food. I had promised him a taste of black pudding. He asked for a Super Breakfast with chips. Parky and I ordered some fry-ups, too. Jesus is off on the one day club trip to Italy on Tuesday and he was brimming with excitement about it all. I told him of my previous, limited, experience of that crazy city and we both agreed that the atmosphere in the Sao Paolo stadium would be like nothing that we have experienced before. I missed out on the fabled excursions to Galatasaray and Fenerbahce, where the noise levels were ridiculous and the atmosphere intense. Naples would be my noisiest ever Chelsea game. For that reason alone, I’m thrilled to be part of it.

“Do you want to know what black pudding is, then, Hey-Zeus?”

“No. I guess it’s something bad. Tell me after.”

Parky and I watched as he tucked into the food. He devoured it all and enjoyed the black pudding.

“Nice, innit mate?”

“Yeah. Good. What is it, then?”

He had finished the meal, save for a few thickly cut chips. I looked at Parky and Parky looked at me. We savoured the moment and I paused for effect before answering.

“Pig’s blood.”

Jesus did Mexico proud. In the space of just three seconds, his face mirrored the colours of the Mexican flag; it went from red, to white, to green. I thought he would never speak to me again. We sloped off to The Goose and met up with the boys and girls. It was a rather rushed pre-match. I was under the impression, as was Daryl and a few others, that the game was a 12.45pm start. I had to bolt down my drink when I heard it was a 12.30pm kick-off. I raced down to the ground, bought the twin staples of a copy of CFCUk and a match programme, and was in. I soon realised that our run of near full-houses was about to come to an end. As soon as I reach the upper tier, I always peer out through the entrance to the seats (Simon Inglis calls this a vomitory in his books on football stadia, but this always sounds too rude or posh, or maybe both) to the upper echelons of the East Stand, just to quickly gauge the attendance. On this occasion, hundreds of empty blue seats greeted me. Elsewhere in the stadium, empty seats were dotted around.

As I took my seat alongside Alan, I rued on the club’s many adamant statements about us having outgrown Stamford Bridge. The tickets for this game were £30 across the board, too. I was hoping that the cheap prices would work in our favour; an end of half-term holiday treat for London’s school children. There were more kids present than usual, to be fair, but not as many as I had hoped. Maybe they had all misbehaved during the week.
I briefly chatted to Steve Mantle, but he was annoyed. He oversees the handing out of the massive flag in the MHU at each home game, but had judged that not enough fans were present to make it worthwhile. The flag in the MHL had no such problems and was on its way towards us down below. However, the choreography was all wrong; it soon ended its one hundred yard journey before the teams had even left the tunnel. Such a lack of team work would be emblematic of Chelsea Football Club on this day of F.A. Cup football.

There was a typically muted air in the stadium. The temperature was mild and the clouds were low. Birmingham City only brought 1,500 fans – and only a couple of flags. I couldn’t be bothered to read what they said. I saw flashes of empty seats in the Shed Upper. I had a feeling that this would be a difficult game, atmosphere wise. The early kick-off meant less alcohol. Less alcohol meant less noise. It’s a simple equation. Maybe we should play all of our games at kicking-out time at around 11.30pm. The club could sell kebabs and curries. What a winner.

It was a poor first-half. We dominated early possession but the visitors Birmingham City took the lead. A corner was whipped in and after an initial header, it was a case of “after you Claude” as the Chelsea defenders showed a distinct unwillingness to attack the loose ball and hack it away to safety. I’d imagine that Jesus will make a move for a portion of black pudding with more vigour. The ball bounced around the six yard box, admiring the scenery, until appeared at the back stick and David Murphy thumped the ball in, waist high, past Cech.

The Brummies roared and we all slumped in our seats. The residents of England’s second city then began singing the world’s most boring and tedious football club anthem –

“As you go through life
It’s a long long road.
There’ll be joys and sorrows too.
As we journey on,
We will sing this song,
For the boys in royal blue,
We’re often partisan.
We will journey on.
Keep right on to the end of the road,
Keep right on to the end. “

Thank heavens that a foul on Ramires resulted in a penalty and this horrendous dirge was abruptly ended.

Juan Mata’s week shot was ably saved by Doyle. Ho hum. A determined run from Daniel Sturridge enabled him to play a ball in towards the waiting Fernando Torres. Needless to say, the chance passed. A David Luiz free-kick from thirty yards forced another great save from the Birmingham ‘keeper and then Torres nimbly teed up Sturridge who volleyed just over. Chances were rare, though. The midfield was too pedestrian. Sturridge was hogging the ball when a ball into Torres was more advantageous. A rare break by the visitors found Redmound clear, but his shot from the angle was week. Needless to say the atmosphere was funereal. The away fans were poking fun.

“Sacked in the morning. You’re getting sacked in the morning.”

With great displeasure, I heard an audible repeat of this same chant being uttered by several fellow supporters near myself. That there were boos – louder than the other chant – at the cessation of first-half play was, of course, unsurprising. There is one chap who sits around fifteen feet away…early fifties, white hair, glasses, replica shirt…who I have often noticed bellowing boos at the earliest opportunity. I glowered at him and hoped that he would see me. I popped down for the briefest of words with Big John in the front row.

“I’m not a violent person, but I’d quite willingly hit that pr1ck with a baseball bat if he continues to boo the team.”

Gary, who sits a few feet in front of this chap, came over and was of the same opinion.

“That bloke’s doing my head in Chris. I want to tell him to fcuk off.”

I could go in to a lengthy discussion about this chap, but I won’t waste my time. Suffice to say, this edition of The Axon Chronicles is not dedicated to him. And I’m buying a Louisville Slugger next week.

AVB rang the changes at the break with the returning Didier Drogba replacing the quiet Torres. I did mention to Gary that it was a cardinal sin that we had not played Torres in early during the entire first-half. My heart goes out to him, completely and utterly. An early chance in the second half fell to Mata, who neatly controlled inside the box but his shot flashed wide.

The manager brought on Kalou for Mikel and we hoped for more thrust. Thankfully, a goal soon came. The best move of the game, involving a good passage of play, found Ivanovic in an advanced position on the right flank. He quickly assessed the movement of players in the box and whipped in a beautiful cross with pace and dip. We all saw Sturridge rise. We all anticipated seeing the net bulge. We were not to be disappointed. It was a gorgeous header, angled down and away from the clawing hands of the ‘keeper.

I roared with joy. Phew. Come on!

We looked for the winner. A header from Kalou dropped over the bar. A Meireles effort too. A word about Meireles; the bloke began this season well, slotting in nicely. With our dip in form, his play has suffered too. The manager seems to see something in him, but he annoys the hell out of many. I hope he is just going through a tough patch…like many others. The stars were David Luiz and Ramires. I see a future for these two. Alan intelligently commented that we were all concerned about the apparent lack of strength of Ramires in his first few games for us, but how I wish others (Kalou, Lukaku come on down) were as strong as our little Brazilian number seven. He has the strength of an ox.

Gary Cahill was playing well. No problems there. His body movement reminds me so much of John Terry. He needs to work on his chest pass, though.

A Birmingham City free-kick ended up in Cech’s arms. Frank Lampard was the final roll of the dice and I fully expected Meireles to be hauled off. The boos rang out when Juan Mata’s number was hoisted. Meireles drilled a shot wide from distance. Thankfully, Birmingham’s Redmond weekly shot at Cech after he had evaded the attention of our defenders. A goal then – with four minutes to go – would have been difficult to recover from. The game petered out and we all drifted off, with thoughts of Napoli far out-weighing thoughts of the replay.

Outside the West Stand, amongst the groans of the regulars, and the vacant smiles of the tourists, umbrellas were raised as the rain came down. Oh lovely.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50678685917658

I got drenched as I quickly walked back to the car, past the fruit and veg stalls on the North End Road, past The Goose, the cafes, the shops, the shoppers. The rain continued as I returned home. It had been a mucky start to my week of Chelsea indulgence and I mulled over the lack lustre performance by both players and fans. To be brutal, the thought of our delicate team getting roasted by Napoli in a cauldron of noise on Tuesday overwhelmed me. I am not discouraged, however. When the draw was being made in December, I wanted a trip to Naples. Tuesday night will sort the men out from the boys. I honestly can’t wait. It will be a momentous occasion. And I can be pretty sure that there will not be any booing from the loyalists should our beloved boys fail to get a result.

Players. Supporters. Together.

Andiamo.

Tales From Then And Now

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Everton vs. Chelsea : 11 February 2012.

It was 1942. The storms of war had been blowing throughout Europe for three years. On The Wirral, the three Royal Air Force recruits had been thrown together; young men from disparate parts of the British Isles, conscripted to fight the threat of the Nazis, unsure of their futures. The physical training camp at West Kirby would be their home for three months; they were both excited and scared in equal measure. Hank, the large-framed butcher from Welling, was the leader. He strode into the red bricked train station and asked for three return tickets to Liverpool Lime Street. Jock, from a small town in the Scottish lowlands, his hair glistening with Brylcream, a slight figure, cigarette in hand, checked the tattered poster on the wall which detailed train times. Lastly, Reg, a placid and quiet shop assistant from Somerset, returned from the newspaper stall with a crisp copy of the local paper.

There was not long to wait. After only five minutes, the three newly-acquainted friends were sat in the smoking carriage of the 10.25am local service to Lime Street. Hank, the gregarious joker, was rattling off a few one-liners and his two pals were soon rolling their eyes towards the cigarette-stained roof of the snug train compartment. The puns were awful, of course, but both Jock and Reg were happy that Hank was there, taking the lead, creating conversations and negating the burden of silence in that small confined space. The three youngsters, all aged nineteen, had only arrived on The Wirral the previous month. Within the first few weeks of training at the RAF camp, solid friendships were made and the ever-present worry of the uncertainty of what lay ahead was significantly eased.

For Reg, this train trip was vastly different from the previous one just a month earlier. On that occasion, he had set off from his home town on the Somerset and Wiltshire border, his parents waving him goodbye from the platform, and had travelled alone to the north of England. At Crewe station, he had to change trains. In the middle of a cold January night, he had waited for four long hours, pacing up and down the otherwise empty platform. At no time in his life before it, nor at any time after it, would he feel more alone.

But now, on his way to a new city with two friends – Hank’s jokes getting worse and worse – he felt a lot more relaxed and at ease. After four weeks of rigorous training, this represented his first day of leave and he was relishing the chance to spend time with his two new pals in the famous busy port city by the banks of the River Mersey. The plan had been to grab a bite to eat, flit around the shops and head down to the river and see the frantic activity of the ships around the dock area. Then, a couple of pints of bitter in a pub close to the station before catching the 8pm train back to camp.

“Give me the paper, Half Pint”, Hank said to Reg. “Wonder what language these Scousers use, up here. Blimey it’s in English, there’s a surprise.”

The two young girls sitting opposite were the ones rolling their eyes now. They had been sitting quietly, sharing a bag of sweets, trying not to stare too hard at the three young men in their immaculate RAF uniforms, each with accents far different than their own.

“I see Everton are playing a game at Goodison Park at two o’clock. Fancy it? Won’t be too expensive. It’s not Charlton, but it’ll do.”

Hank had made up the minds of both himself and the others before either Jock or Reg could answer.

The afternoon’s entertainment had been decided. The train did not take too long to sweep under the River Mersey and the three young friends soon found themselves at the ridiculously busy and congested train terminal. Outside, the Saturday morning air was damp. On the walk tothea tram stop, the grim realities of conflict grabbed at Reg’s senses. The German Luftwaffe had deposited many tons of bombs on the city during the previous two years and great tracts of the immediate city centre had been laid waste. The scene which greeted him shocked him to the core; suddenly, the war had become all the more vivid. There were hundreds of buildings – shops, workhouses, factories, offices – now reduced to piles of rubble. He found it odd how chimney stacks had remained. He thought it bizarre that the interiors of upstairs bedrooms – with wallpaper on show – were still able to be seen. He pondered the hundreds of lives which had been torn apart so brutally.

As the three of the young friends waited at the tram stop, they surveyed the desolation all around them. They were deeply shocked.

They stood in silence. Not a word was spoken, but much was said.

The crowded tram slowly wended its way through the city centre streets; past St. George’s Hall and the art gallery, past the shops full of Saturday bargain hunters, along Scotland Road and up the hill towards the football ground. The three friends were stood at the rear of the tram, hands in pockets, keeping warm. They were jostled from side to side with every slight change in direction. Busy local women nudged past them, their hands full of shopping, their hair in curlers, cigarettes lilting in the corners of mouths. Young boys, in tattered shorts and leather boots, ran alongside the tram, cheerily waving at the passengers. Dockers, with flat caps and white silk neckties, hopped on the bus at Kirkdale. With accents as thick as the fog which enveloped the grey city, these locals spoke quickly and it seemed that every word was spat, not spoken. The three young men looked on at the gnarled faces of these tough locals, with fading tattoos on their forearms, and soon realized that their home comforts seemed far away. Reg and Jock whispered to each other under their breath, not wishing to be heard. What they said to each other is not known.

As the tram suddenly veered to the left, Hank – the taller of the three – soon spotted the dark silhouette of the main stand of Goodison Park in the distance. At the next stop, the three friends stepped off the tram, trying to avoid the murky puddles of rain by the side of the cobbled streets. Out of nowhere, hundreds of men bustled past. It was obvious that they were headed for the game, too. Hank, Jock and Reg – without realizing it – increased their walking speed in order to avoid getting pushed aside. At the end of the street, lined with painted and polished doorsteps – the handiwork of proud Liverpudlian housewives – the gargantuan stand on Goodison Road stood waiting for them. Hank had been to see Charlton play at the Valley on a few occasions, but the vast bowl of that stadium was different. The Valley was a sprawling mess of a football ground. Here, at Goodison, the stand stood right on the pavement. It seemed neater and much more impressive. Neither Jock nor Reg were football fans. Jock was not a sportsman, but studied the horses. Reg’s prowess was in the swimming pool. But all three stood still, in awe, at the enormity of the structure which greeted them.

To the left, Jock spotted the frosted glass windows of a local hostelry. Without any words being exchanged, Jock quickly headed inside, his two friends left outside in his wake.

“A quick pint, Half Pint?” asked Hank to Reg. “It appears our Scottish friend is in need of liquid refreshment.”

They spotted Jock dart in the bar to the right of the main entrance of The Winslow Hotel and they quickly followed suit.

“Jock’s at the bar, Half Pint – this is a rare sight indeed. Let’s hope he doesn’t forget us.”

The cavernous bar was incredibly noisy and the three pals struggled to hear themselves be heard above the din of orders being taken, jokes being shared, vulgar belly laughs, shouts and groans. A young lad strode through the bar, bedecked in Everton favours – the blue and white standing out against the dismal colours of wartime England – and attempted to sell match programmes. He was not faring well. The locals were more intent on drinking. An elderly gent, with glasses and a pencil thin moustache, spoke engagingly to Reg about Dixie Dean, the great Everton centre-forward, who once scored 60 goals in a 42 game season.

As his knowledge of football wasn’t great, Reg wasn’t sure if this was the same Dixie Dean who had been ridiculed in the schoolboy poem of his youth –

“Dixie Dean from Aberdeen.
He tried to score a goal.
He missed his chance.
And pee’d his paints.
And now he’s on the dole.”

Talk of the imminent football match was minimal, though. It seemed that just being in an alien environment, so different from each of their home towns, was amusement enough. Hank looked at his watch and signaled to the others to finish their drinks. Outside, the rain had started to fall. The three friends quickly rushed across to the stand and did not notice that the narrow street, darkened under the shadow of the structure, was busy with an array of match day activity; grizzly old men selling programmes, young boys selling cheap paper rosettes, wise-cracking spivs selling roasted chestnuts and cigarettes and young girls selling newspapers.

The three friends stood together, three amongst thousands packed into the terraced area at the front of the main stand. Thankfully, the rain soon subsided. The game began; the blue of Everton and the red of the visitors. But the match almost seemed a minor attraction. The three friends gazed in wonder at the modern stands on all sides of the ground. Each one had an area for spectators to stand. Above, in the upper tiers, were wooden seats, though these were not particularly well occupied. In between the two tiers was the dark green of the balcony wall; the metal cross struts at the front of the wooden panels gave the stands a unique appearance. Reg turned around and looked up behind him at the towering upper tier of the main stand. This metalwork was continued around on the main stand too. Above, right at the top, a gable was perched on the very apex of the roof and Reg could hardly believe how high it was.

The football match was played out before them. The shouts of the players could often be heard above the quiet murmurings of the crowd. The boisterous behaviour in the pub before the game had been replaced with an almost muted reverence. In the corner, Jock spotted a church which abutted the lower terrace.

“Hope you’ve been a good boy, Reggie. You’re off to see the priest after the game.”

As the temperatures fell and the noise from the spectators grew quieter still, the three young men became mesmerized by the movement and physical strength of the footballers. Everton scored early and played the more-flowing football. The diminutive wingers hugged the touchlines and sent over cross after cross into the muddied goal mouths.

Further goals followed for the home side and the Everton fans were happy.

Towards the end of the game, the sun had set and the darkening winter evening was making life difficult for spectators and players alike. At the final whistle, there was a ripple of gentle applause from the Evertonians.

“Back to the pub for one more, boys?” asked Hank and the two pals concurred.

Inside the warm saloon bar of the pub opposite, the locals looked cheered. There was a buzz of appreciation that the local team had won. The daily worries of their mundane lives, further threatened by the menace of conflict, had been put to one side for ninety minutes. Football had been an escape for them, just like it had been for Hank, Jock and Reg.

After a few moments, the old pensioner with the glasses spotted Reg and chirped –

“Nice goal from Lawton.”

Reg thought to himself “yes it was – and unlike Dixie Dean, he didn’t have to change his shorts at half-time, either.”

It is 2012. The trip north from Somerset to Merseyside had started so perfectly as to be difficult for me to describe sufficiently. There had been an overnight frost and the trees and hedgerows were encased in hoarfrost. Snow remained on many of the fields. The skies overhead were of pure blue. I collected Parky at around 9am and we headed north on the Fosseway for a change. As we drove past Malmesbury, with its abbey high on the hill to my left, and then on to the old Roman town of Cirencester, I found it hard to believe how magnificent the Gloucestershire countryside looked.

It was a real treat. A joy to be alive. All this and Chelsea too. What lucky people we are.

As we descended the eastern edge of The Cotswolds at Birdlip and drove down into the Severn Vale, the snow soon disappeared. Our little winter wonderland had ended and we were now back on the M5; the road we seem to take every month on our travels up north to see the team play. It was an easy trip with little traffic. Maybe many had been scared off by the rumours of further snow. I strangely didn’t see any Chelsea colours on the 200 mile journey up the M5 and M6 to Meresyside, but I knew that we would be up at Goodison in force.

On this occasion, I avoided the usual route into the city and I headed east on the M56. I had a specially-planned detour to attend to. Deep in the heart of The Wirral, I broke off the northbound motorway and drove along the oddly named Saughall Massie Road.

My car quickly came to a stop and I pulled into a lay-by. There was a gate – closed – with what looked like a farm track beyond. But I knew better. From 1940 to 1957, that overgrown farm track once lead to RAF West Kirby; the very same camp that my father had attended during the very first month of his World War Two campaign. I had a moment to myself.

I looked around. I noted the hedgerows, the slight undulations of the countryside, the church steeple and the woodlands.

There is no doubt that my dear father, who I sadly lost in 1993, would have walked out of this very same track on that winter day, all those years ago, on his day trip to the city of Liverpool. My father had often spoken about his wartime visit to Goodison Park from his temporary home on The Wirral. It would be his only visit to a football stadium until he accompanied me to my first ever game at Stamford Bridge in 1974.

To the left, there is a stone memorial, neatly attended.

There is a large slab of local rock, with an airplane propeller attached.

There is a simple plaque –

“To commemorate all those who served,trained and worked at RAF West Kirby between 1940-1957.”

Parky took a few photographs of me alongside the memorial. It was a wonderful personal moment. Fantastic.

We hopped back in the car and – I guess – retraced the route that my father took on that day around sixty years previously. I drove through Birkenhead, then through the Wallasey Tunnel. I was soon in the heart of Liverpool, crossing over Scotland Road and heading up the hill. At 1.45pm, we were parked up outside not Goodison, but Anfield. Many Chelsea fans head for The Arkles, no more than two hundred yards from Anfield, when we play both Liverpool and Everton. This familiar pub was packed full of Chelsea and I spotted a few faces. All eyes were on the “Hate Derby” of Manchester United and Liverpool. A pint of Becks Vier each and we were good. We met up with that man Jesus once again, this time with two other Americans, all three of them on the same internship programme in London. Elaine was from Pittsburgh and Megan was from Cleveland. We welcomed them to the Chelsea family. I first met Jesus outside this very pub before that awful game – Carlo’s last – in May. We hoped for no repeat.

I was well aware that on the four and half mile journey, though, Parky and I had not mentioned the day’s game once.

Not once.

I also chatted with Paul, from Poole on the Dorset coast. He had an even longer drive than us; he had left Poole, the home of my father’s mother in fact, at 6.30am and had been in the pub since 11am. The pub was full of Chelsea, but there was a little band of young Liverpool fans; perched on small stools, faces gaunt, with old-fashioned haircuts, grey trackie bottoms – much loved by Scousers – and who were agonizingly watching the game on the TV. They howled with joy when Suarez made it 2-1.

It was 2.30pm and we needed to move. Jesus and the girls were outside on the pavement, trying to drink lager from the plastic glasses with one hand and eat chips from a small polystyrene tray with the other. I’m not sure if the three Americans were taking advantage of their perceived view of our relaxed drinking laws, but they had taken the beer glasses with them and were supping at the lager as we walked away from the pub. Fair play to them – I could see they were enjoying themselves. Jesus had even taught them the words to “Celery” in the boozer. The girls were giggly but Jesus just wanted to get to Goodison Park. However, we stopped for a moment or so at the Hillsborough memorial outside Anfield and I quickly tried my best to explain what had happened on that horrific Saturday in April twenty-three years ago. We walked on.

The winter air was chilling us all. At the bottom of Anfield Road, the main stand at Goodison was able to be seen just a few hundred yards away. The Archibald Leitch stand of the pre-war years – it was dubbed the Mauretania Stand as it was so huge – was partially demolished in around 1970 with the current stand taking its place on Goodison Road. We walked along Walton Lane; no time to waste now, the clock was ticking.

I got to my seat in the front row of the upper tier of the Bullens Road stand just as the “Z Cars” theme was ending and the players were in the centre-circle, waving to the four corners of the classic Goodison stadium. We stood the entire game and were in good voice at the start.

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If the last game of the 2010-2011 season was bad enough…and it was, believe me…then this game was even worse. It was quite simply the laziest and inept performance by a Chelsea team that I can remember for some time. We were 1-0 down after just five minutes when a bouncing ball caused paralysis in our defence and the returning Steven Pienaar pounced to slam the ball past Cech.

Oh great.

Here we go again.

It was the same old sad story in the first-half; lots of Chelsea possession but no real threat. Two shots from Daniel Sturridge and Frank Lampard were the only real chances that I can remember. Our threat was so poor that Everton hardly had to put in a shift. I lost count of the number of times that ball was played back along the defenders. Our midfielders were not worthy of the name.

Upfront Sturridge hid but Mata flitted around and tried his best. Torres was Torres.

There were gaps in our three-thousand seats. The singing wasn’t great. It soon subsided. A few fans in the back rows of the upper tier began singing the turgid and tedious “Ten German Bombers.” What that particular song has to do with Chelsea, or how it can inspire our team, is lost on me. RAF or not, I don’t think my Dad would have approved, either.

It was more of the same after the break. High balls into Torres; great. Whose idea was that?

Our midfield were playing so deep and our only threat seemed to involving a succession of nicely-weighted balls from Juan Mata out to Ashley Cole. But then – a woeful cross and you know the rest. Luiz was, again, the only player who appeared to be playing with anything near the level of passion required.

I am sad to say that the highlight of the match was an amazing shimmy from Pienaar over on the far side in front of the dug outs.

And yet, the Evertonians were so quiet. I have always said that they are the quietest fans by some mile…and hardly have a large repertoire, either. Torres was getting the “ladyboy” treatment from them. Even worse were the Chelsea fans that howled like wolves at the manager as he replaced Essien with Malouda. In an Arsenalesque moment, some Chelsea supporters regaled him with –

“You don’t know what you’re doing.”

OK – replacing a crowd favourite with a crowd pariah was never going to go down well, but this sort of behavior by our fans makes me sick. We should be above that. These ninety minutes where we have the opportunity to bond with our players should be full of positive noise only. We have the car trips home, the pubs, the offices and the internet chat rooms to dissect our team’s foibles and to berate them if necessary. But, for those ninety minutes, we should support The Boys In Blue From Division Two.

Everton scored a second after a tackle on Ashley Cole left gaping gaps in our left flank which Everton nimbly exploited. Stracqualursi rifled past Cech and it was game over. Quite a few Chelsea departed. Sigh. At last Everton sang a different song. It was a good day for the blue half of Merseyside.

“I’ve never felt more like singing the blues.
When Everton win and Liverpool lose.
Oh Everton – you’ve got me singing the blues.”

Our few attacking thrusts were easily dealt with by Distin and Heitinga. Tim Howard was virtually untroubled the entire game; only a block from the substitute Lukaku sticks in my mind.

This was a completely flat performance by manager, players and fans alike.

I, as with others, was numb at the end.

Andy from Nuneaton sidled over and succinctly said “he’s gotta go, mate.”

I sighed again.

I met up with Parky outside the old stand. There were no positives to take from the game. The post mortem had begun. We walked back through Stanley Park, past The Arkles and up to a fish and chip shop. A shared portion of chips warmed us up as I headed out of the tight terraced streets around Anfield. I was back on the M6 at 6pm and it was a reasonably good drive home in the circumstances. We stopped off at the Air Balloon pub at wintry Birdlip at around 8.30pm and enjoyed a quick pint, a roaring wood burning stove warming us up nicely. It was minus eight outside.

I eventually reached home at 10.30pm, almost fourteen hours since I had left in the morning.

Parky and I always – without fail – enjoy ourselves on these trips, but the agonizingly poor performance of the team detracted from this day out on Merseyside. Andre Villas-Boas, lauded by everyone at the start of his Chelsea managerial career, is quickly finding out how fickle football fans can be. I have no fool proof answers to our current problems. I’m not an expert. I just hope and pray we can override this period of substandard play. Rumours of player power, new managers being touted, injuries to key personnel and under-performing players are the over-riding negatives that continue to eat away at us. I can’t guarantee that Villas-Boas is the answer. I just honestly feel that we would be foolish to dispense of his services when he has clearly been tasked with the onerous job of clearing away the old guard, bring in his own team and yet win trophies at the same time.

Sounds like an impossible task to me.

Birmingham City at home next Saturday.

Let’s go.

* Dedicated to the memory of Hank Brooks and Jock Inglis – my father’s two closest friends during the Second World War – who may or may not have been present at Goodison on that day in the ‘forties and my father Reg Axon, who certainly was.

Tales From A Chelsea Pub Crawl

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 5 February 2012.

On the Saturday, most of England was hit with a snowstorm. As I hardly live around the corner from Stamford Bridge, I am always faced with a dilemma when the weather conditions take a nose dive. Even if the weather had cleared in the morning, there was always the risk of further snow on the Sunday, with the possibility of myself being stranded in London. Late on Saturday night, I decided that I would not be too upset if Chelsea were to call the game off. If so, this would have followed the same pattern as in 2010-2011. Our game in December against United was postponed until March. At the time, we were going through Ancelotti’s “bad moment” and so it all worked out for us. Obviously, we are hardly firing on all cylinders right now and so there was an additional reason behind my ambivalence to the game going ahead.

Let’s play United when we have a full set of players to choose from. Let’s regroup. Let’s beat them later in the season.

And yet, there was a further problem. I was well aware that there were five friends from various parts of the US who had travelled over to see the game. None of them had the added security of an extra Chelsea match, so my heart went out to them. What a terrible shame if their mission to see Chelsea play was derailed at the last minute.

I awoke on Sunday morning and quickly peered out of the window; no further snow in rural Somerset. The roads were icy but clearly navigable. However, I wondered now the Home Counties had fared. By the time I had collected Lord Parky at just after 10am, I had already received a text from Alan to confirm that Chelsea had confirmed that the game would go ahead. OK – glad to hear that. I knew that the guests from across the pond would be elated. On the drive east, the fields adjacent to the M4 showed more and more signs of snow with each passing mile. We diverted into Reading and swapped cars at my mate Russell’s. He had kindly volunteered to drive the last forty miles. This meant that I could relax a little and have a few beers as I wouldn’t be back in my car until around 7.30pm that evening.

The weather was actually quite mild, though the visibility wasn’t great. It was a murky old day in London. For a change, we didn’t head straight to The Goose. I have often commented on how lucky we are at Chelsea; Stamford Bridge is surrounded by pubs and restaurants, bars and cafes. There must be twenty-five boozers within a fifteen minute walk from the stadium. I can’t say I have visited everyone, but every season we say we’ll try out some new ones. To this end, Russ parked a good mile and a half away from Fulham Broadway and we had a mini pub crawl.

First up was The Pear Tree. Jesus was already inside, nursing a pint at the bar. Inside, the décor was of an Edwardian front room and the place was packed with Sunday diners launching into their roasts. To be honest, we stuck out like sore-thumbs. This was clearly a pretty expensive gastro-pub and we stood at the bar like uninvited guests at a society wedding. I have often wondered how far out Chelsea fans drink on match days. Well, there were no Chelsea fans in this one. The pretty Australian barmaid actually asked us the question –

“Are you watching the rugby?”

We gave her a withering look and explained we were off to Chelsea.

Soon after, Parky spotted another barmaid slowly pulling the pump on one of the draught beers.

“Looks like you’ve pulled” he said.

It was now his turn for the withering looks.

“Is that a joke?” she replied.

With that, we decided to move on.

A hundred yards along, we called in at The Idle Hours, a pub which had obviously been recently modernised. It was very quiet though. Still no other Chelsea fans. Jesus, who loves his stay in London on his internship, had decided that he could not afford to miss the United game and so had paid out a mighty £150 for his MHU ticket. He was very worried that he had bought a fake, but it looked fine to my trained eyes. The seller had made a tidy £90 profit on the ticket; nice work if you can get it. Jesus is clearly in love with football (he has already visited The Valley and Selhurst Park during the past fortnight) and is getting wrapped up in the football culture of these isles. He reminds me so much of Farmer John, who was with us for four months in 2009; a football fanatic, overdosing on Chelsea. As long as we have passionate overseas fans such as Jesus we’ll be fine. We chatted about the differences between sporting culture in the US and the UK. Jesus sneered that many US gridiron fans change their teams as often as they like. Over here, it’s different. We both quoted the famous line –

“You can change your job, your politics, your name, even your sex. But you can’t change two things; your mother and your football club.”

I like the addendum to this –

“Never trust anyone who changes their football team.”

The red brick wall of Queens Club was to our left as we continued our slow walk towards The Goose. The icy pavements were turning to slush and we had to watch our steps; Parky especially. I mentioned to Jesus about the Stella Artois tennis tournament which takes place at Queens, just ahead of Wimbledon each June. Next up was the tiny Colton Arms and at last a couple of Chelsea fans. I’ve often driven past this pub, but this was my first visit. The place was tiny and the snug was only around eight feet wide. Another bottle of beer, more football chat, more corny jokes from Parky. We even had the chance to give Jesus a little history lesson; 1066 and all that…King Harold, the Battle of Stamford Bridge, the Battle of Hastings and the Bayeaux Tapestry.

It was now 2.15pm and The Goose was calling us. We turned a corner and I pointed out a blue plaque on the side of one of the red brick houses, denoting the former residence of former Formula One champion James Hunt. As we approached The Goose, youngsters on a rooftop bombarded us with snowballs. Inside, the place was absolutely jam-packed with Chelsea supporters. Over in our corner, beneath a TV showing the Newcastle game, sat Starla, the first of the US visitors. It was great to see her again; having passed her degree recently, this was her gift to herself. Alan slipped my Napoli away ticket into my hand; what pleasures await on that little trip into that crazy city? It’s only two weeks away now and I just hope we get some of our big hitters back for that tough away game.

After quickly guzzling a pint, we had to make one last call before the game began. Starla, Jesus, Parky and I strode down the North End Road and entered the equally busy Malt House. Out in the beer garden, we quickly spotted the other American guests Andy, Tom and Steve-O. More chat and laughter, mainly at Andy’s expense. The last time I saw Tom and Steve-O was for Torres’ debut one year ago. Altogether now – where does the time go?

As we squeezed out of the pub, I bumped into a chap holding a replica of the FA Cup, asking for donations for a charity. Although I didn’t stop to ask for details, I guess the idea was for punters to have their photos taken holding the cup. I wondered if the chap would fare better outside the away turnstiles; the only chance United would get to hold the trophy this season. I walked the last four hundred yards alongside Steve-O, who hails from the far sunny climes of LA. The snowfall that he had witnessed the previous day was the first of his life. Its truly humbling to walk alongside fans such as Andy, Starla, Steve-O and Tom. All this way for one match. Fair play to you all. As we approached the West Stand, Jesus began singing along to the Chelsea songs which were being aired and he did so with a noticeable cockney twang. It made me chuckle. From his home on the US/Mexico border to Chelsea, Jesus was loving it.

He gets it.

At the turnstiles for the MHU, though, he was tense. Would that expensive ticket which he purchased prove to be legitimate or not? He held the ticket’s bar code up to the scanner and the message flashed up –

“Welcome to Chelsea FC.”

I saw him go through the turnstile and he punched the air as soon as he was inside.

The look of joy on his face was one of the highlights of the season.

I arrived at my seat just after the teams had lined-up, so was not able to witness the “will they / won’t they shake hands” nonsense involving Rio Ferdinand. I quickly scanned the players going through their pre-game hugs and I spotted that Branoslav Ivanovic was like a man-possessed, bouncing his chest off several players. Without John Terry, we needed leaders out there.

Over in the far corner, the three-thousand United fans were standing; a solid mass of black, grey and navy jackets with the occasional flash of red. Only two United flags were draped over the balcony wall. I looked over to the other side of The Shed Upper – the west wing – and wondered what was going through the minds of the CIAers. I quickly ran through the Chelsea team. With our squad so depleted through injuries and internationals, I am not so sure the manager had too many options. There was a call for the youngster Ryan Bertrand to start at left-back, in place of the suspended Ashley Cole and instead of Jose Bosingwa. I wasn’t so sure. With Gary Cahill’s debut in defence, I was worried that another fresh face in the back four would be too risky. We all know that Boswinga has his doubters, but I think I would rather play him at left back rather than risk Bertrand. This wasn’t Bolton. This wasn’t Blackburn. This was Manchester United, the reigning champions, never afraid to attack with pace on the flanks. I feared Bertrand being shell-shocked after being ripped apart by the flying United wingers. His time will come – against Birmingham City in the cup, maybe. He’s one for the future.

Elsewhere, the other contentious position was taken by the floundering Florent Malouda. I guess the only other option was to play a midfield of Romeu/Essien/Meireles. Against United, maybe that would have been a sounder bet. But who am I? I haven’t got any coaching badges.

This would be the 22nd consecutive season that I have seen a Chelsea vs. Manchester United league game. This run goes all of the way back to a cold and depressing Sunday afternoon in December 1991, as a Ryan Giggs-inspired United beat us 3-1. I had travelled up with my old school friend Pete’s brother Kevin (a United fan) and we watched in The Shed. Pete (also a United fan) had travelled up separately with his girlfriend’s son, and watched from the old West Stand. We were pretty dire. The weather was cold. The Stamford Bridge pich was shrouded in mist. The crowd was only 23,000. In those days, the away fans were treated to the vast expanse of the open north terrace, holding some 10,000. It’s unlikely that United brought more than 4,000 for that game. The game was live on ITV – quite a rare event really. As was the way in that era, live games would often result in lower gates than usual. Sky TV were not yet at the party, but that would change the following season with the advent of the Premier League. That 1991-1992 season was pretty grim from start to finish for us, under the blundering stewardship of the late Ian Porterfield. The highlight was a run in the FA Cup, but we lost to Sunderland in the heady heights of the quarter-finals (our longest run since 1982 in fact.) In those days – and I’m speaking for football fans in general – we would travel to see our heroes and expect a poor display. Football was more rudimentary in ‘eighties and early ‘nineties, especially the way we played it. Not the silky football of today. Our play involved the full backs pumping the ball up to the attackers, an aerial battle, the midfield tussle for the second ball, aggressive tackles…percentage football. In those days, we would attend games through blind faith that the occasional game would be entertaining. Foreign players were rare. Our foreigners were the twin pillars in defence Ken Monkou and Erland Johnsen. The days of super sexy football involving Gianfranco Zola, Joe Cole, Arjen Robben and Juan Mata were light years away. It’s hard to believe that it’s the same sport.

Maybe it isn’t.

At work on Friday, my colleague Mike – yep, another United fan – and I reckoned that the game may not be that great, with both teams going through a far from convincing period of form. Well, we couldn’t have been further from the truth. After the succession of crazy games involving the top clubs this season, this was another game that is quite likely to set this season apart from the rest.

Chelsea 1 Manchester United 0.

Daniel Sturridge weaved his way down to the goal line in his trademark move. This was right down at the Shed End, in front of both Parky and the visitors from the US. I was surprised that his dribble was not snubbed out by a United challenge to be honest. Next, in a scenario uncannily similar to our goal at Swansea on Tuesday, the ball was zipped into the six yard box. I will be honest; I didn’t have a clue how the ball ended up nestling in the goal. And I amazed by myself by not celebrating the goal. It just seemed a strange goal. A goal by default. An apology of a goal. The rest of the ground roared and I was alone and silent. I’ll have to improve on that. Most unlike me. Did we deserve the half-time lead? Only maybe.

“It’s not your own hair. It’s not your own hair. Wayne Rooney – it’s not your own hair.”

Chelsea 2 Manchester United 0.

A move soon into the first few seconds of the second-half found Fernando Torres wide right. He swung in a gorgeous, arcing ball towards the far post. Down below, eight yards out, Juan Mata was waiting. With a perfectly timed movement which took over his entire body, he swivelled his hips and volleyed high into the net. No messing about this time. I roared, I shrieked, I roared again. The entire stadium erupted. What a moment. Did we deserve to be 2-0 up? Perhaps.

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Chelsea 3 Manchester United 0.

A Juan Mata free-kick, in a deep position. The hustling Chelsea attackers pulled their United counterparts one way and then the other. Mata swung the ball in. The tousled head of David Luiz was first to the ball and the result was further pandemonium. The Bridge roared again. Did we deserve to be 3-0 up? Probably not, but who cares?

My colleague Mike texted me – “speechless.”

Chelsea 3 Manchester United 1.

A tackle from Daniel Sturridge, way in the distance. My first thought was of a fine tackle, but no. Howard Webb pointed to the penalty spot. Rooney, calm under pressure, hit the ball high into the top corner. Cech well beaten. Oh God. Here we go again. That very familiar Chelsea feeling.

Chelsea 3 Manchester United 2.

A United move. Edge of the box. A blur of two players came together. Webb pointed again. Disbelief and anger. Rooney despatched the ball, low. Now we were very worried.

Chelsea 3 Manchester United 3.

The crowd were on tenterhooks. I sat with my arms folded. Silent, yet knowing full well what was going to happen. A cross from the left and Hernandez completely unmarked in front of the goal. That sickening feeling once again. To my utter disbelief, a sizeable number of Chelsea “fans” could take no more and left.

Well, you always know how United will play. They will attack until the last minute. As the game progressed, there was a gnawing inevitability about this result. The introduction of Paul Scholes, as a deep-lying quarterback on Superbowl Sunday, was a key moment. That our midfielders then chose to ignore him was inexcusable. And yet…and yet. There were positive signs. Gary Cahill had a fine debut. The defence were steady. Torres and Mata flitted around and were at the heart of our best moves. But – the negatives…Malouda was awful and Sturridge was wasteful. I didn’t hear much positive spin on the way out. I guess that isn’t too surprising, really. We’re a moaning, miserable bunch of gits these days.

We listened to conflicting opinions about our play on “606.” Blimey, anybody would think we had lost. At least Parky and Russ tended to share my opinion that we were worth a point. Barring a very questionable penalty decision, we would have beaten the champions and stretched our unbeaten league record against them at Stamford Bridge to eleven games. We were then treated to a Blackburn Rovers fan, from my home county of Somerset, who had been a corporate guest at the Arsenal game on Saturday. He was full of praise for the hospitality afforded him at the game…”we were treated like Kings.” He then cheerily said that is only able to attend one Blackburn Rovers game a season, but was livid with the lack of passion shown by his team.

Pardon?

We returned home to various parts of Berkshire, Wiltshire and Somerset. I was keen to see the match highlights on “Match of the Day Two” and in particular, of course, the two penalty decisions. I had no complaints about the first one, but the second one was a joke. Shades of the two Wembley penalties in 1994. David Elleray and Howard Webb. They will go down in Chelsea infamy.

I went through the usual post-game routine of trawling the internet for the moaners and the groaners who were lamenting our latest performance. Without wishing to bore people rigid, let’s see the positives in this game. We drew with the champions, despite a make-shift team. We were a de Gea fingertip save away from winning it 4-3. I feel Andre Villas-Boas’ growing frustration and we just need to support him. In case anybody needs reminding, he is barely into his sixth month of competitive fixtures. Oh, and we’re unbeaten in 2012. In the background, the Giants and the Patriots were on TV in the Superbowl. I was paying such scant attention that it took me 15 minutes to realise the Giants were playing in white. It was time for bed.

Tales From The Mumbles

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Swansea City vs. Chelsea : 31 January 2012.

The long awaited trip to Wales for our game with Swansea City came on the back of two lacklustre performances against the other two promoted teams. With Brendan Rodgers’ team playing some lovely football this season, this was always going to be a tough away game.

I had booked a half-day holiday for this one, but the nature of my job simply meant that I had to stuff nine hours of work into four and a half hours. I had a busy and increasingly fretful morning. When I eventually finished work at 1pm, it took me a while to calm myself down and filter the worries of work out of my mind.

Parky had caught a couple of buses from his home in Holt in order to reach Chippenham. When I collected him from the Rowden Arms car park, he was already two pints of lager to the good. Just up the road from the Rowden Arms is a little memorial by the side of the road which marks the spot where American rock and roll legend Eddie Cochran was killed in a car accident, way back in 1960.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/wiltshire/conte…_feature.shtml

For once, instead of heading north at the M4/M5 interchange, I carried on in a westerly direction and was soon crossing the River Severn on the second Severn Bridge. The River Severn is very wide at this point and the bridge is a low sweeping structure, quite different to the classic high bridge of the earlier model, which is still used, three miles or so to the north. Back in the ‘sixties and ‘seventies, we would often visit Wales. I remember having a fantastic summer holiday in the town of Tenby in Pembrokshire when I was about four or five. We also used to visited relatives – Aunt Wyn and Uncle Jack – in Llanelli, too. The town of Llanelli – you have to take your dentures out to pronounce it correctly – is about ten miles past Swansea and I dare say we must’ve travelled through Swansea in those days in order to reach it. However, I have no recollection of Swansea. I certainly have never seen Chelsea play in Swansea before. For all intents and purposes, this would be a first time visit. As far as I can remember, the last time I visited Llanelli was in around 1974. I remember that Uncle Jack was heavily into rugby union and supported the famous Llanelli team of that time. He was – typically – quite a poet and I was given two printed poems that he had written. The first one was of the British Lions victory in South Africa in 1974; the second one commemorated a famous Llanelli Scarlets win against the immortal New Zealand All-Blacks in 1972. I was never a massive fan of rugby (even less these days), but looking back at the Llanelli team from that era – players such as Phil Bennett, Ray Gravel, JJ Williams, Tom David and Roy Bergiers – certainly take me back to my childhood.

http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport1/hi/rugb…9.stm#theteams

This was quite an achievement; akin to the 1972 Chelsea beating the Brazil team from that era. Llanelli still play at Stradey Park and every time I hear of Llanelli or Stradey Park, I think of dear Uncle Jack, rabbiting away in an almost decipherable Welsh accent.

There’s nice.

Seeing the old Severn Bridge always takes be back to those journeys to South Wales, stuck in the back seat of my Dad’s old green Vauxhall Viva, wedged between my gran and granddad.

At Magor services, we stopped for a few minutes and I noted Welsh national rugby jerseys being sold in the shop. As if any clue was needed, this confirmed we were in foreign soil. The Welsh, especially in the South, love their rugby. There is still quite a bit of antagonism between rugby followers and football fans in Wales. The rugby folk see football as an intrusion into their proud Welsh heritage by the English, much in the same way that the Gaelic football fans in Ireland look down upon the anglicised game of football.

There’s nice, look you.

Near Magor, there is a field, just off the M4, where Parky and I danced the night away at a Universe rave in the summer of 1992 (though we didn’t know each other at the time.)

1992 – almost twenty years ago. Bloody hell boyo.

We drove past the Celtic Manor hotel at Newport, where Europe won the Ryder Cup in 2010. We skirted Cardiff, with the picturesque Castle Coch guarding the valley of the River Taff, high on the hill to my right. Beyond were the valleys of The Rhondda, the rugby heartland of South Wales. Towns such as Pontypridd, Mountain Ash, Treorchy, Treforest, Ebbw Vale, Tredegar and Tonypandy; all mining strongholds in past centuries now fighting to stay alive.

I was making great time. On past Bridgend, the Brecon Beacons were visible in the winter mist, their summits dusted with snow. Then, infamously, Port Talbot. Nothing can prepare you for Port Talbot. As dire a stretch of the motorway network as exists in the UK. Five miles of agony. To my left, the huge, sprawling mess of the Margam steelworks. I turned off the M4 at Briton Ferry and was soon in Swansea, just two hours after leaving Chippenham. In Wales, all of the road signs are in English and Welsh. So, Newport is Casnewydd, Cardiff is Caerdydd and Swansea is Abertawe.

There’s nice, isn’t it.

Like many cities – Brighton, Hull, Liverpool – with seafront access, Swansea’s old dock area was undergoing rejuvenation with seafront apartments having been built recently. Parky and I had decided to forego the attractions of the city centre and head on to the area known as The Mumbles, a few miles west of the centre. Rather than struggle to hear ourselves being heard in a city centre Wetherspoons, drinking lager out of plastic glasses, we fancied something a little different. I headed out on a road which went right past the joint home of Swansea rugby and cricket teams. In the same way that Sheffield United and Northampton Town once shared their football grounds with their local county cricket teams, Swansea has the same arrangement to this day ( as do Bath Rugby and Somerset Cricket Club). The only North American example that I can think of, where two sports with dissimilar pitches are present, is Toronto’s Exhibition Stadium, home – until 1990 – of both baseball and Canadian football.

The most famous event to take place here involved the West Indian cricketer Garry Sobers, who became the first cricketer to hit six sixes in an over in 1968. Miraculously, this event was captured on film and remains one of the most incredible sporting feats that I have ever seen.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aWA7wYKcPGo

It was great just to catch a glimpse of the seats on the far side of the ground – it can hardly be called a stadium – as I drove past. There is just something about witnessing sporting venues – even those lying still and dormant – knowing what achievements have taken place within. Up on the ridge of high land overlooking the town were rows upon rows of terraced houses which reminded me so much of Llanelli.

At 3.30pm, I had parked up at Bracelet Bay, a promontory on the eastern edge of the fabled Gower Peninsula, just to the south of Swansea. On a small piece of headland stood the Castellamare restaurant. It overlooked a small beach, with a pristine white lighthouse on some rocks in the distance.

“This will do, Parky, my old mate.”

For an hour or so, Parky and I sat in the surprisingly busy restaurant, supping at a couple of pints of Grolsch, knocking back a plate of fish and chips, chatting about all sorts of nonsense. Crystal Palace 1976, Bristol City 1984, the usual stuff. It was great, actually. It seemed surreal to be in such a strange locale prior to a Chelsea away game. But I am sure we made the right choice. As the sun set behind us, the rocks leading up to the lighthouse subtly changed colour. For a few minutes, the scene was perfect. Hardly on the scale of the Grand Canyon at sunset, but still pleasing to the eye. Even in deepest darkest South Wales, there is hope.

We dropped back into the village of The Mumbles for one more pint in the Village Inn. The Mumbles is clearly the classy end of Swansea bay; it had a small harbour with a few yachts moored and there were a couple of half-decent brasseries too. We had a chat with a couple of locals and made half-hearted promises to return next season. On the drive back into Swansea, night had fallen and the lights reflecting on the ocean across Swansea bay looked almost continental. If you squinted. And didn’t look too hard.

To be fair, though, it had been a lovely pre-match. With Swansea looking like they will stay up this season, we looked forward to a few seasons of travelling to Swansea, taking in the attractions of The Mumbles, The Gower Coast and maybe even further afield. But – please Mr. League Fixtures Computer, not on a midweek evening in bloody January next time, eh?

At 7pm, I was parked up about a mile from the stadium, just off Neath Road. Outside, the weather was bitter. We were wrapped up like a couple of polar explorers. We set off for the stadium and were soon inside. Unlike the team’s former home at Vetch Field in the heart of the city, the Liberty Stadium is up to the north of the city. It was built in 2005 and is typical of the new breed of football stadia. It only holds 20,000 – it seems bigger. Inside, despite bright signs – in Welsh, in English – it is pretty bland, with acres of exposed concrete giving it a solemn feel.

So, no JT but no Gary Cahill.

Petr Cech the captain.

Lampard out injured still, so a Mediterranean Midfield ™ of Meireles, Romeu and Malouda.

As Gary said after a few seconds “there’s no leaders out there, Chris.”

The noisy corner section, tucked away behind me and to my left, were in full voice, singing a few rousing editions of Land Of My Fathers. Stirring stuff. There is no doubt, Swansea were infinitely better than us in the first period. Strong in the tackle, determined, energised. Just the way I would want my team to play. Chelsea were off the pace, lackadaisical, sloppy. Our players wanted two touches when one would do, three tackles when two would do. When we had the ball, the players in front stayed stationary. It was frustrating stuff. However, one chap behind me was full of negative comments, interspersed with aggressive swearing. I couldn’t take it any longer; I turned round and glowered. I semi-recognised him. He didn’t say anything. I’m sure one day I won’t be able to hold my tongue. OK, we were playing poorly, but this bloke was taking the art of slagging off the team to a new stratospheric level.

Swansea ran us ragged in the first period. On 16 minutes, Petr Cech raced off his line and Branoslav Ivanovic headed clear and then David Luiz was able to race back and clear off the line. But it was a warning sign for sure. Chelsea came into the game for ten minutes, but our chances were not worthy of the name. Sturridge wide, Merieles over. Nathan Dyer broke but shot straight at Cech. Then, a free-kick on the Swansea right. Scott Sinclair – of all people – deftly looped a delicate lob up and over Petr Cech. The ball appeared to be moving in slow motion, separate from the game, in another world. The stadium stood still. It then erupted.

“One nil to the sheep shaggers, one nil to the sheep shaggers.”

“Scotty Sinclair. Scotty Sinclair. He shags Rosie Webster – but Sally don’t care.”

Although the home fans in the corner were some of the noisiest set of fans I had heard this season, the rest of the stadium was relatively quiet. The Chelsea faithful tried to get a few songs going, but it was difficult.

Gloom and doom at the break. Cold and dispirited. After Norwich and QPR, this was turning into déjà vu. A tired and weary Chelsea team, lacking zip and fight.

The second-half was a strange one. Swansea allowed us tons and tons of possession and rarely threatened us. And yet, we still looked unlikely to score. On the hour, a great ball from Ashley Cole whizzed across the six yard box – it was a perfect ball in – but our attackers were out on The Gower coast, skipping merrily through the gorse on the cliffs overlooking the sands. They certainly weren’t in the attacking third.

Michael Essien, The Bison, entered the fray in place of the pedestrian Romeu and he soon sent a rising shot over the angle of post and upright. That was more like it, we thought. Get some energy in the team. However, shortly after in the same location, he sent a shot off for a throw in.

Oh boy.

Oh boyo.

Still we enjoyed the possession. David Luiz, for the third game in a row, was everywhere. No complaints from me about him. He showed commendable spirit; why can’t all of our players be like him. Torres, bless him, had nowhere to run and so didn’t. I would like us to hit him early just once this season. Just once. It’s not much to ask. Malouda was shocking, blah, blah, blah.

A Daniel Sturridge stab was so reminiscent of the Torres miss at Carrow Road. The fact that Torres was in space did not help. Lukaku came on for Malouda. A break at the other end saw the mercurial Nathan Dyer scream a shot wide. I didn’t see the Cole challenge which warranted his second yellow, but I knew from the reaction from the Swansea fans that it was a bad one. The assistant linesman signalled four minutes of extra time. With us down to ten men, this was a hopeless task surely? I thought back to my last ever visit to Wales for a Chelsea league game. In 1984, we were 3-0 down at Cardiff City with just 6 minutes remaining, but came back to draw 3-3. In those days, we had Dixon, Speedie and Nevin. Players with fight. Sigh.

Lukaku had his big chance when he had the entire goal to aim for, but his shot was easily saved by Vorm.

Then, Bosingwa – hardly flavour of the month at Chelsea – raced down the right and checked inside and shot from an angle. Unlike the rest of the other Chelsea fans, I remained remarkably calm when I saw the ball miraculously hit the back of the net. I was confused as to how it had escaped the clutches of the ‘keeper. I was bemused that such a woeful performance had resulted in a draw.

But I was happy.

“Got out of jail, there” I thought to myself.

The Swansea fans were quiet, their stuffing knocked out of them.

At the final whistle, we roared and Alan leaned over to say “we used the get out of jail free card there, son.”

We must be spending too much time together.

The Chelsea players half-heartedly applauded the away contingent, but at least David Luiz and Petr Cech showed the right spirit, tossing their shirts into the crowd.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50631876337658

Outside, I met up with Parky and we slowly made our way back to the car. The wind lashed at our faces and we knew it had been an awful game. We chatted briefly to a Chelsea fan from Belfast on the walk back to the car, but he had an accent almost as impenetrable as Uncle Jack’s.

Just before we reached the car, I overheard a Welsh voice saying to a friend –

“Just lost a mate of twenty years tonight. On Facebook. Chelsea fan. I told him to fcuk off.”

Tidy.

This was an easy away trip. I was back home by 12.30pm. I look forward to going to Swansea next season. With the Brendan Rodgers, Scott Sinclair and – now – Young Josh link, I think I can safely say that I will be wishing them well for the rest of their campaign.

(By the way, who thought that this one would be entitled “Tales From Wales”? Too easy.)

Tales From W12

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Queens Park Rangers vs. Chelsea : 28 January 2012.

I need to be brutally frank about this; I wasn’t really relishing our F.A. Cup appointment at Loftus Road. There can be few games over the past ten years that have so filled me with dread. The game at Old Trafford just after Mourinho departed immediately springs to mind, but there have been few others. There was a brief, fleeting chance of me giving it a miss. I just didn’t fancy all of the aggravation from the police and the stewards, the vindictiveness of the media, the tedious school playground name-calling from both sets of fans, the risk of a small section of our support letting the club down. The spectre of our name being dragged through the mud loomed heavily in my mind. And then came the date of when away season ticket holders were able to get their seats – 7am on Thursday 19th. January.

By 7.35am, I had bought my ticket.

At 10.10am on Friday 20th. January, the day of the CPO AGM, in an internet café opposite The Goose, I was with Parky when he bought his.

But that is not to say that my view had changed significantly. Ever since the John Terry / Anton Ferdinand game in October, the hate-filled world of racism has been again linked to the comings and goings of Chelsea Football Club. As the game drew nearer, I was still feeling depressed about what might unfold on the day of the game. Then we had to endure the story about the alleged bullet being sent to QPR by post on the day before the game. This sent me lower, deeper into a brooding mood of malcontent.

There are times when I simply adore football. From a purely aesthetic perspective, what in the world of sport is better than a Gianfranco Zola shimmy, a Didier Drogba turn and blast, a Peter Cech finger-tip save, a Pat Nevin feint, a Kerry Dixon volley, a David Luiz dummy? What makes my heart bump and my blood pump more than a last-minute winner? What makes me feel more at home and at ease with myself than being sat around a table in a pub, chatting and laughing with the very best of friends? What is more emotional than 40,000 like-minded souls singing in unison, in praise of our heroes in royal blue?

Football as a shared experience. A bonding mechanism for friends near and far. The sense of community and brotherhood. I owe it so much.

And then there is the other side. There is my growing irritation with fans who bellow abuse at players from both teams, not just the opposition. The attitude of agents. The arrogance of some players. The crass commercialism. The silliness of some fans, unable to view anything unless from a purely partisan position. The hate.

Sometimes in truly leaves me in a spin.

I had set the alarm for 6.30am and I awoke of my own accord at 6.29am. Maybe my subconscious was telling me something. I collected Parky at 8am and we were soon on our way; a little capsule of merriment and mirth, heading east once more, fuelled by coffees and a common love of The Boys in Blue from Division Two.

The plan was to park up at the same place as for that infamous game in October, barely half a mile from Loftus Road. We didn’t really expect to find a pub that would be willing to allow away fans in. Alan, Rob and Daryl had arranged to meet at a pub in Holborn as early as 9am for a fry-up and pre-match pints, but there was no point in us heading into town. However, as I edged through Acton, Parky spotted a pub which was open and he spotted a Chelsea shirt inside. I doubled-back on myself and parked-up. We spent an enjoyable thirty minutes in The Red Lion and Pineapple on the Uxbridge Road. It was a pub on the angle of two streets, with a lovely circular bar with pumps glistening and bar staff cheery. For 10.30am, the boozer was pretty busy. There were around eight Chelsea fans at two tables and a couple of Rangers fans too. There was a punter at a table, wearing a flat cap, sipping a pint, studying the racing form. Parky and I briefly spoke about QPR. In all of my life, I have only ever met three or four QPR fans. Certainly none at school and none at college. A couple through work. They are a rare breed. We spoke about the fact that they had failed to sell their 15,000 allotted tickets for this game to season tickets and members. The shame of it all; the tickets had gone on general sale. Still more shame; they hadn’t even sold all of their tickets, even for this big grudge match against “their” bitter rivals.

Now, no club should be ashamed of who they are. No club’s fans should have to constantly measure up against others. Just be who you are. But it has certainly felt like QPR seem to want to constantly prove themselves against us. To be blunt – and I really don’t want to be arrogant – QPR have always been something of an irrelevance to us. We seem to have engineered a strange relationship with Fulham over the years. They hate us, but we have a little soft spot for them, which winds them up even more. That’s a lovely position to be in, eh? That’s a winner. Several have likened Fulham to a little brother, with us forever ruffling the brother’s hair. No real threat. What of QPR then? Maybe they’re the unloved step-brother, forever wanting to be part of the London football scene, but never quite managing it. The step-father has lavished prizes and monies on the step-brother, but trophies and contentment are still no nearer. So, Chelsea, Fulham and QPR; the three brothers of the Borough of Hammersmith & Fulham. Two out of three ain’t bad.

The pub was around two miles from the QPR ground; too far to walk. We hopped in my car and quickly drove east. At 11.15am, we were scuttling along the last five hundred yards of the Uxbridge Road, our jackets tightly zipped and buttoned. There was a chill to the air. A few home pubs looked busy, but there just wasn’t the buzz of excitement that seems to envelope the area around the Fulham Broadway on big games.

Parky wondered if Michael Essien would be on the bench.

“Yeah, he’s just the person to bring on when we are down to seven men.”

On the walk up Bloomfontein Avenue, the Chelsea lads from the pub overtook us just as some noise bellowed out.

“Was that a roar from the home fans?” one of them asked.

“No, the sales are on at the Westfield Mall” I answered.

Outside the away entrance, we spotted the yellow jackets of the stewards checking the Chelsea fans for catapults, knives, machetes, guns, rifles, rocket launchers and celery. To be honest, it was no more severe than in the league game. The mood was quiet. There was a hush.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50621013567658

I was again up in the cramped confines of the upper tier of the School End. By goodness, the seats are crammed in. It’s a bloody good job we stood the entire game. I reached my seat at 11.45am and two lads – a father and son – from Bristol were next to me. They are regulars in The Goose. The Chelsea players were finishing off their pre-game routines and I took a few snaps. It didn’t take long for me to realise that the ignominy of QPR’s support was there in front of me…hundreds of empty seats in The Loft, the main stand and the Ellerslie Road stand.

And yet, the spiteful step-brothers were delusional –

“West London is ours, West London is ours – fcuk off Chelsea, West London is ours.”

I almost felt sorry for them. Nobody can help the team they support and I am sure there must be some decent Rangers fans out there somewhere. But please don’t large it with nothing to back it up. They couldn’t even sell 15,000 tickets for the visit of big brother.

Pathetic. Truly pathetic.

Chelsea soon gave it to them –

“Your ground – is too big for you.”

The teams entered the pitch and we roared our support of our heroes. It seemed that John Terry touched the ball twice as many times as anyone else on the pitch in the first five minutes. Maybe this was intentional; get the home fans all “booed out” as soon as possible. Apart from an early slip (oh how the step brother enjoyed that), our captain’s performance was impeccable.

But, really, what a poor game of football.

An early break from Juan Mata allowed our Spaniard a shot on Paddy Kenny’s goal, but other chances were rare. QPR still booed JT’s every touch, but thankfully – thank heavens – there was no silliness from my fellow Chelsea fans. Unlike Stamford Bridge, festooned with flags from all points of the compass, Loftus Road sported only five measly flags. While Chelsea has a global reach, maybe QPR’s global reach just about makes it to their training ground at Harlington. I noted that Torres was toiling hard, but venturing out of his comfort zone. After half-an-hour, he had hardly been played in at all in that central area. Why we don’t look to hit him early mystifies me.

QPR of course, were happy to defend deep and soak it all up. It was a surprisingly clean game.

Almost the highlight of the first-half was a delightful turn by former Blue, SWP. He then fell over and normality was resumed.

By 31 minutes, Chelsea had got bored with QPR and sung a derisory song about Tottenham, our natural rivals, and it was if we were making a statement.

QPR – quite pitiful, really.

Our play was again slow. We had masses of possession. QPR were much poorer than in October. Our efforts were rare; a looper from Meireles, a wide shot from Malouda.

I said to Bristol “this is Norwich all over again.”

The Chelsea fans then remembered who we were playing –

“We don’t hate you ‘cus you’re 5hit.”

At the break, there was bemusement amidst the ranks that the game had been so poor. Neither of the two goalkeepers had been really tested.

Soon into the second period, Torres made a nice run and dribble into the penalty box but his excellent pull back was blasted high by Daniel Sturridge. At the other end, a rare QPR attack resulted in Petr Cech saving from SWP.

The penalty? Well, it looked like there was hardly contact. I am not sure why, but I hardly celebrated it. I steadied myself, as did Juan Mata, and took a few photographs as he slammed the ball in. Now it was time to celebrate.

“Get in.”

The rest of the game reverted to type. Chelsea passed across the pitch so much that I wondered if the two teams had decided on a new set of rules at the break. The highlight for me was another delightful dollop of a Luiz lofted chip right into the path of Studge. I could watch those all day. Dan Marino eat your heart out. There were moans from a few fans about Torres, but I thought he did OK really. His control was neat and he never stopped running. I just wish we could use him properly.

As the game continued, we just couldn’t resist –

“Anton, what’s the score? Anton, Anton – what’s the score?”

While Ramires was receiving attention for his worrying injury, a lone QPR fan jumped over the balcony wall in The Loft and stood in a small, un-manned, TV gantry. He gestured towards us. The Chelsea fans had a response –

“Jump in a minute, he’s gonna jump in a minute.”

“Suicide. Suicide. Suicide.”

John Terry continued to impress, Florent Malouda continued to infuriate. One low shot from Luke Young was well parried by Cech and – after a full seven minutes of extra time – the final whistle blew.

It was a shocking game, but we were cheered by the win if not the performance. To be honest, I was so relieved that there had been no unsavoury chanting from the 3,000 away fans and for that reason alone, I was so grateful.

Well done us.

On the way home, we rued not only the trip to Swansea on Tuesday, but the visit from United next Sunday. With 2012 starting with four wins, one draw and for clean sheets, things could be worse. But, as we know, they could be so much better.

As for Loftus Road; I hope I never have to go there again.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Category Archives: Season 2011-2012.

Tales From The Blue Family

Tales From A Night Of Song

Tales From The Rainbow Stand In 1986 And The Smethwick End In 2012

Tales From Just Another Saturday

Tales From Curva A

Tales From Lillee Road

Tales From Then And Now

Tales From A Chelsea Pub Crawl

Tales From The Mumbles

Tales From W12