Tales From Nine Counties

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Norwich City vs. Chelsea : 21 January 2012.

Way back in June, when the fixtures for 2011-2012 were announced, the date of the Norwich City away game was one of the fixtures that I was keen to see. Along with the match at Swansea City, these were the two most eagerly-awaited away trips of the upcoming season; I had only visited Norwich once before, I had never visited Swansea. These fresh away venues are the business. How ironic, then, that these two games would be scheduled to be played within ten days of each other. And it is doubly ironic that we get to play away games at all three of the promoted teams in this spell, with the F.A. Cup game at Loftus Road sandwiched between the two league games at Carrow Road and the Liberty Stadium.

I was up very early on Saturday morning and left my home in Somerset at 6.45am. I collected Parky from his village just over the Wiltshire border at just after 7am and we were on our way east for the second time in 24 hours. On the Friday, we had travelled up to Chelsea for the AGM of the CPO. I only decided to travel up, taking a day off work, at the last minute; I had decided that it was too important to miss. Parky needed no coercing to join me. The meeting was held in the Harris suite and was attended by around 150 Chelsea fans.

This was the first time that I had ever visited the corporate areas of the West Stand; it enabled me to see a couple of items of Chelsea history that had previously been hidden from me. I especially enjoyed seeing, up close, the original painting by Chris Chamberlain of the bustling street scene outside the main entrance in 1953. Located by the lifts to the left of the main reception area, it’s simply stunning. I could have spent ages examining it for details of a slice of our history. I well remember going on a Stamford Bridge tour in 1997 and getting a rush of blood as we walked past the magnificence of the famous Charles Cundall painting of the “82,905” game versus Arsenal in 1935.

Both are superb paintings.

On the drive to Chippenham, where we stopped to refuel and devour a McDonald’s breakfast, we spoke about the events of the CPO meeting. It was a heated debate, for sure, and I am not wholly convinced that the new board mirror what I feel about our spiritual home. However, at least the board agreed to withhold the issuing of new shares until the next EGM comes around. New director Gray Smith seems a thoroughly decent person and has been tasked by Steve Frankham to oversee a thorough review of current policies within the CPO. The main talking point from the floor was – obviously – the block buying of new shares and the implications if block buying could be allowed in the future.

I hope that the board will go ahead with the much-mooted requests for “one man one vote” in future.

There is more – much more – to be discussed on this most vital of matters over the next few weeks and months.

To be honest, I felt a little cheated that this mammoth journey (a 490 mile round trip for me) was taking place in the middle of winter. Is it me, or does it always seem that our more popular away games always seem to take place in the more inclement times of the football calendar? For Blackpool last season, see Norwich and Swansea this season.

At the very least, I was hoping for clear blue skies and fields lightly dusted with frost on the trip to Norfolk. Unfortunately, for the most part, the weather on the trip to Norwich was grey and miserable, with only occasional moments of winter sun lightening the sky.

The M4 motorway took me from Wiltshire and into Berkshire. The M25 took me around the northern Home Counties which nudge against the capital city; Buckinghamshire, Hertfordshire and Essex. At about 9.30am, we turned off the M25 and headed north on the M11, up past Stansted airport, with thoughts of forays with Chelsea to Prague in 1994, Turin in 2009 and Leverkusen in 2011. The sun briefly made a cameo appearance, but then the clouds swarmed overhead once more. As we turned off the M11 and headed north-east, we listened to Terry Venables talking about his career in football on the Danny Baker Show on Five Live. A brief foray through Cambridgeshire was followed by a few miles in Suffolk.The A11 took us past Newmarket, one of the major venues for horse racing in the UK and home to the National Horseracing Museum. The main stand of the course was clearly visible to our east. We continued on, bypassing Mildenhall and Thetford, the traffic slowing as we hit some single-line roads. We were now in Norfolk. The landscape in East Anglia is rather uninteresting. It’s an agricultural area, with acres and acres of flat arable farmlands. We drove past fields full of sheep, then moorlands, then pig farms. The town names were solidly Anglo-Saxon – Attleborough, Wymondham, Wreningham – but the two US air force bases at Mildenhall and Lakenheath were close by.

As we neared the Norwich ring road at around 11am, a few landmarks looked semi-familiar from my only ever previous visit back in 2005. I have particularly fond memories of that trip as it signalled, for me anyway, the point in that tumultuous season when I felt that the championship – our first for 50 long years – was on the cards. I had travelled up with two mates from Frome – Glenn and Frank – and we had decided to stay overnight in a cheap and cheerful bed and breakfast. We met up with a few friends from London after a quick perambulation of the pleasant city centre. We had a few drinks in a city centre pub. On the walk down to the ground (it was a 5.15pm kick-off), we had heard that United had drawn 0-0 at Crystal Palace. On a bitterly cold Norfolk evening, we defeated Norwich 3-1 with goals from Joe Cole, Mateja Kezman and Ricardo Carvalho. We went eight points clear that night and, really, never looked back.

That night was a blast as we bar-hopped in and out of a few pubs and bars down by the River Wensum. One of our match day companions in The Sleepy Hollow – Rousey – joined in the fun and the sight of him on the dance floor is one of the surreal memories from that magical season.

Norwich 2005 was a top night – how would 2012 shape up?

Without knowing it, I drove right past Carrow Road as I followed signs for a city centre car park. Amongst the metal cladding of shopping malls and bowling alleys down by the river, the low main stand of Carrow Road easily blends in. We parked up at 11.30am, a full four and three-quarter hours after I had left my home village. We exited the multi-story and I soon realised that we were right in the middle of the pedestrianized walkway of The Riverwalk, the same entertainment complex where Frank, Glenn, Rousey and I had spent five hedonistic hours seven years ago. Since that visit, there had been substantial building work carried out along the river banks, with modern five and six story apartments looking over the fast-flowing river below. Norwich looked like a fine city and I lamented the fact that this would be just a fleeting visit.

We spotted a busy bar with a few Chelsea fans outside on the patio overlooking a pedestrian bridge over the river. We quickly decided to enter. Two girls just inside the pub were selling bottles of Carlsberg and we dived in…what a good idea; certainly saved time waiting at the bar. The pub was called “The Queen Of The Iceni” – named after Queen Boudica, who took charge of an uprising against the Roman Empire.

How appropriate, eh?

Parky and I spotted a few familiar faces as we settled by the doors looking out onto the patio. The home fans were of course in the majority, with the bright yellow of their home shirts prevalent. I looked on aghast, though, at the number of them who were wearing the short-sleeved shirts over normal shirts and sweatshirts. Now, this is never a good look, even in unsophisticated Norfolk. To be fair, there were a few casuals amongst the home support, though; not everyone had the dress sense of a sweaty computer nerd.

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Daryl, Alan and Gary soon appeared, clutching bottles of Carslberg and joined us for thirty minutes of chat. They had journeyed up by train from London. I updated them a little with news of the CPO. Worryingly, Daryl commented that on his two previous trips to Carrow Road, both games had ended goal-less. The Norwich fans in the boozer sang a song berating their great rivals Ipswich Town, but this then stirred the fifty Chelsea fans into life.

“Carefree, wherever you may be.
We are the famous CFC.
And we don’t give a fcuk, wherever you may be.
‘Cus we are the famous CFC.”

With that, we supped our beers and left. We were outside the away turnstiles within five minutes, shaking hands with a few mates, catching up for a few seconds, smiles and laughter.

Carrow Road is a neat and tidy stadium, with double-deck stands at both ends. The low stand opposite is one of the smallest in the top division. The east stand, the one housing 3,000 Chelsea fans, was completed just before that game back in 2005. It is a plain stand with around 7,000 seats in a single, deep tier. Despite a high roof, the wind was bringing in rain as we stood awaiting the arrival of the players. Grey skies overhead. The spire of Norwich Cathedral was visible above the roof opposite. In the north east corner, the rooms of the Holiday Inn overlooked the away fans. It was a strange sight indeed. The hotel is built right next to the stadium. Ring any bells?

Several yellow and green flags were waved enthusiastically as the music blared. Believe it or not, Norwich City chose the same piece of classical music which was used for the Old Spice commercials back in the ‘seventies (aka “O Fortuna” from Carmina Burana.)

AVB went with Lampard again in the midfield, with no place for Oriel Romeu. Studge was recalled. We began well and Raul Meireles was involved in a few interchanges. We dominated possession throughout the first-half in fact, but Norwich were the ones with more definite chances. Grant Holt, who looks more like a lorry driver than a footballer, shot wide and I wondered if he would be able to be suitably patrolled by JT. Fernando Torres showed great fortitude midway through the half as he held off challenges as he danced into the box, before shooting early. His neat curler with the outside of his right foot caught Ruddy off balance, but the ‘keeper did well to push the ball around the far post. From the corner, Sturridge blasted over. The Chelsea crowd, loud in the first ten minutes, were getting quieter as our passing became sterile. Both sets of fans exchanged those famous barbs from the 2005 game;

“We’ve got a super cook, you’ve got a Russian crook.”

“We’ve got Abramovich, you’ve got a drunken bitch.”

I presumed that Delia Smith, the former City chairwoman, was in the crowd. The other famous City fan, Stephen Fry, was attending; according to Alan, he had been spotted in an executive box. At last the sun came out for a few fleeting minutes and the spire on the cathedral stood out. Our football did not. Frank Lampard grabbed his calf and fell to the floor. While we were down to ten men, a shot from Johnson was deflected, only for Cech to adjust and save. Frank was replaced by Florent Malouda. In the last minute of the first-half, Juan Mata rode a tackle, cut in and settled to shoot, but blasted over wildly. It was one of those halves. We had most of the ball, but Norwich had the chances. Work that out. The one highlight was the performance of the much maligned David Luiz, who was cool, calm and collected; intelligent positioning and confident possession were the hallmarks of his play. One dribble out of defence was sublime. But, in general, our play was again slow and laboured. Save from a few Ramires toe pokes away from Norwich players, I can hardly remember a tackle in anger the entire forty-five minutes.

At the break, Georgie from Bristol appeared with a photo on her phone of her with Gianfranco Zola. I presumed that he was in town to take part in the TV coverage.

Soon into the second half, a high ball was brought down with consummate ease by Juan Mata right in front of us all in the away section. It was probably the single most impressive piece of skill the entire game and reminded me of a similarly beautiful piece if skill by that man Zola at Anfield over ten years ago.

Although all of us were stood, the noise became negligible. The rising levels of frustration resulted in anguished bellows from the away contingent.

Me : “Move for each other!”

Al : “Sharpen up!”

Gary : “Come on Chels!”

On the hour, the ball fell to Torres in a packed penalty area. We stood on tip-toe to see what he would do. Time was obviously of the essence and he decided to toe poke the ball goalwards. I just saw the ball squirm past the far post.

Norwich screamed “fcukin’ useless” to the tune of “Papa’s Got A Brand New Pigbag.”

We replied “fcukin’ inbreds” to the same tune.

Just after, a flowing move from Malouda to Sturridge to Mata ended up with a low shot at the near post being turned around for a corner by Ruddy. Sturridge was having a particularly poor game; he was hiding for the most part and that is simply not good enough. We had a few half chances, but were not convincing at all. We were all surprised when Lukaku was introduced in place of Torres, who was having a half-decent game. Michael Essien was our final substitute; the final twist of the card. He replaced the fading Meireles. The entire away support pondered how Sturridge was still on the field. A strong Lukaku run brought cheers, but the play continued to be lacklustre, without invention, without fight. A timid shot from Mata after a nimble turn idly passed the near post. A wild shot from Malouda on ninety minutes ended up a good twenty yards high of the goal and, by then, the away support had long given up. A few had started to leave. I can hardly remember a worthwhile attack on Cech’s goal in that second period, though. This was a game we could have easily won. At the final whistle, the home crowd roared as if they had won.

Indeed, it felt like we had lost.

This was as poor a performance as I can remember this season.

Juan Mata and Michael Essien turned towards us, walked a couple of steps and applauded us. They were already on our side of the pitch. My eyes were fixed on the rest, though. Only one made the effort to walk over to us. John Terry clapped us and did his trademark sweeping point to us all. Respect to him.

Contrast this to the QPR game. In that game, Chelsea had lost, but both the team and fans had given everything. All of the players had walked over to applaud us at Loftus Road. Them and us together – the way it should be. At Norwich, I guess the players knew, deep down, that they had massively underperformed. But that is – of course! – no bloody excuse for blanking the loyal three thousand who had travelled hundreds of miles to support their efforts. As we silently exited the bright yellow seats, fans muttered their disapproval of the manager.

I said to Long Tall Pete “I’m fully prepared to give him time, but he does himself no favours.”

Outside, Parky was waiting alongside Daryl.

“You and your bloody nil-nil draws, mate.”

Three out of three.

Parky, hobbling on his crutches, and I, hands stuffed in my pockets, made a bee-line for the car. However, my usually reliable logistical planning had backfired and my central parking location meant that it took us a full hour to hit the ring road. The long road home appeared never-ending. The rain lashed down and I gritted my teeth. However, I was so tired that I took a power nap of around 15 minutes at a filling station somewhere near Thetford.

Thankfully, a Red Bull – as always – revitalised me and we were on our way once more. Parky slapped on a Blondie CD and we fastened our seat belts for the return trip home. Bolton’s 3-1 win over the Scousers cheered us a little and our usual array of corny jokes and wisecracks kept us going. I will leave the introspection to others, but this game in deepest Norfolk annoyed me. The team just didn’t show any fight or passion. That, my friends, is inexcusable.

I eventually reached home at 9pm. It had been a long day.

Tales From Friday Night And Saturday Afternoon

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Sunderland : 14 January 2012.

I had a few things to do in Frome on Saturday morning. This delayed my start, but I left to collect Parky at about 9.45am. The countryside was white with frost and the sky was magnificent; cloudless and perfect. I had heard a few shots from a local shooting party (pheasants, not deer or foxes) ringing out in the clear winter air as I left the village. As I headed out towards Great Elm, I had a niggling bout of anxiety; it would have been nice to go out with my camera on this particular morning and take a few atmospheric shots of the Somerset countryside. I could lose myself in the quietness of it all, enjoy the moment, breath in some frosty air, and get some exercise.

But no. Chelsea were at home and I was on my way to my 210th consecutive home match.

These weekends are set in stone by now.

It occurred to me recently that I am not distracted with many other hobbies. Of course, I love travel, music and films, but so do most people. Photography ticks a few boxes for me, but I’m otherwise free of diversions. Other sports, save baseball, have fallen by the wayside and although I have a passing interest in a few other sports, football – or more importantly Chelsea – is it for me. I blame Ossie and my parents. Ossie for making me fall in love with Chelsea Football Club. My parents for taking to my first ever Chelsea game almost 38 years ago; once I ascended the steps up into the old West Stand and saw the verdant Stamford Bridge pitch, I was hooked.

Big time.

I collected Parky at 10.15am, refuelled with petrol and a McBreakfast at Melksham, and we were on our way. I had arranged to meet a couple of friends and continually updated them with later and later times of arrivals as I headed east. I dipped into Reading to collect my good friend Russell, who had just relocated there from South London. He gave us a quick tour of the house, a further coffee apiece and we were then headed towards The Smoke.

Russ is from Frome and used to come up with Glenn and me in the 1994 to 1997 period before he went to university in Birmingham. We caught up with each other as we drove along the M4 and I spoke particularly of the previous evening. On Friday, Parky and I attended another Ron Harris evening. This was for the fourth time in 14 months. We must know every anecdote word for word by now. This time, the venue was only five miles away and the evening was especially pertinent; it was a fundraiser in aid of the Frome Town new stand appeal. Only around 40 to 50 attended, but the evening was a huge success. It was held in a cosy bar at a local hotel and the intimacy made the evening. Over £1,000 was raised during the evening and the small room was soon rocking with laughter at Ron’s stories.

Good company, good beer, good food, plenty of laughter – a perfect way to spend three hours in deepest Somerset.

Amidst the tales of Tommy Docherty team talks, Peter Bonetti quips, battles with Emlyn Hughes and many stories, said in awe, of Peter Osgood and George Best, there were a couple of new anecdotes.

Ron Harris soon made it clear that he had been no fan of the former Chelsea manager Geoff Hurst. Early in the pre-season of 1979-1980, the playing squad were enjoying some banter in the changing rooms at the training ground. They were waiting for Hurst to come in and lead the training. A ‘phone call came through from Geoff Hurst and a young apprentice answered. Hurst asked the young lad to bring two cups of tea through to the manager’s office. Well, the banter was flying around and the apprentice completely forgot to take the two drinks through for Hurst and his assistant Bobby Gould. After about ten minutes, Hurst ‘phoned again and repeated his request.

“Sorry, gaffer, I forgot” apologised the trainee.

Hurst was annoyed and retorted “Do you know who I am?”

The trainee replied “Yeah, you’re Geoff Hurst, the Chelsea manager. Do you know who I am?”

“No.”

“Well, in that case, get the fcuking teas yourself.”

One other comment made me smile. One chap asked Ron Harris what he thought of Arsenal’s playing style and of their chances during the season.

“Well, to be honest, I couldn’t care less about Arsenal. Chelsea is my club.”

This was a telling comment since Ron grew up in Hackney as an Arsenal supporter and attended games at the old Highbury stadium with his father during his childhood.

As we headed down the M40, Russ and I spoke back to his very first game at Stamford Bridge. This had taken place a full twenty years after my first game in 1974. On a sunny afternoon, we watched from the temporary seats at the Shed End as we saw Chelsea beat Norwich 2-0 in the opening game of the 1994-1995 season. Russ’ first ever Chelsea game had been four years earlier in early 1990. And quite a game too – Bristol City 3 Chelsea 1 in the F.A. Cup; a game which was quite notorious at the time…a heavy defeat of a Division One team by a Division Three team. It was a bloody good job for me that I was in Vancouver at the time, not in Frome; I would have endured untold grief from my friends. In the League Cup in that same season, we had lost to Scarborough – and I was in Fort Lauderdale when that particular monstrosity occurred…again, thank heavens.

Ironically, I had only just seen highlights on YouTube a day or so earlier of the game at Ashton Gate.

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We spoke a little about Gary Cahill and, in particular, the protracted negotiations which have taken forever to resolve. We had heard rumours he would be at the match. I asked Russell if he could remember the last bona fide northerner to play for Chelsea. Not only have our English players been rare of late, they have usually been from the south. Sure Daniel Sturridge is from Birmingham, but who was the last Chelsea player to come from the ‘proper’ north; Yorkshire, Lancashire and above?

Russ came up with a great answer. More of that later.

Surprisingly, the traffic was clear and I was parked-up at 1.30pm. It did feel strange to be arriving at a – absolutely rammed – Goose so much later than usual. Russ bought me a pint and I quickly spotted the usual gaggle of mates in the corner. My mate Paul, from my paternal grandmother’s home town of Poole in Dorset, had arranged to meet me and we had a chat out in the less-crowded beer garden. He has eyes on the upcoming US Tour and we chatted about that for more than a couple of minutes. We are just waiting for dates to be announced by Chelsea and we’ll then get moving.

My other pre-match guest arrived at about 2pm; I had first met Jesus from California at the last game of the 2010-2011 season, that dour performance at Goodison Park. He announced to me – via CIA – that he had been successful in applying for an internship in London and was in town for four months. What a lucky chap.

Is anyone jealous?

This reminds me of Farmer John (mgoblue06) who was over at Reading university in 2009 and was able to join in with our little band of brothers in our weekly pilgrimages to watch the boys in royal blue. I last saw said Farmer John at Baltimore in 2009 and I guess he has, sadly, fallen by the wayside.

Jesus – you have to pronounce it with a certain Latin lilt – was absolutely buzzing to be able to be in London and was hoping to get to as many Chelsea games as he can afford. He hoisted up his Chelsea shirt to reveal a large Chelsea tattoo on his shoulder blades and Parky and I were impressed with his fanaticism. We retuned inside and Jesus was able to meet a couple more of my mates, both who no doubt bamboozled him with London patois.

“Don’t fackin worry, mate, we’ll soon ‘ave you tawkin’ like a Londonah by April, shun.”

Jesus was keen to down another pint, but it was 2.30pm and we needed to make a move. I walked down past the multinational grocery shops of the North End Road. He reminded me of his previous Chelsea matches –

Home to Tottenham, away to Valencia, Blackburn Rovers in the F.A. Cup semi-final at Old Trafford and away at Everton.

This would be his fifth Chelsea game.

It will be great for me to report on his findings about English football culture over the next four months; who knows, by the end of that period, his Chelsea replica shirt might even be replaced by a Fred Perry, a Rene Lacoste or a Ralph Lauren.

I reached the Matthew Harding Upper just in time to catch Steve Mantle helping to unfurl the “Carefree Since 1905” flag.

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OK, game time. Clear skies on a cold afternoon, about a thousand Mackems, very few empty seats, the pitch in good condition, Jesus down in the MHL, Russ next to Alan and me, a settled defence, Torres upfront for us and the idiot Bendtner upfront for Sunderland. Three points please my Blue Boys.

In the first few minutes, we had an early scare as a Sunderland attack ended up with a ball rattling across the six yard box. But then we had all of the ball and we were playing reasonably well for the first period of the game. Our goal came on just thirteen minutes. The ball found its way to Ramires on the right before he moved it on to Juan Mata who lofted a ball which arced over the heads in the Sunderland defence. Torres was waiting on the far post, but the ball seemed to be above and beyond him. In an amazing piece of artistry – for that is what it was – Nando jumped, fell back, and swung his right leg high above his waist. He connected with a magnificent volley which flew goal wards.

Surely not.

In a split second the ball ricocheted off the bar, but the crowd roared. In another split second, I tried to evaluate if the ball had indeed gone over the line…my initial celebrations were muted, but I then roared once I knew that a goal had been given. I didn’t know how the goal had been scored.

Did Torres’ effort bounce down and go in?
Did it go on to bounce off the far post and go in?
Did it go in off the ‘keeper?

Only when the name of Frank Lampard was flashed up on the scoreboard did I know what had happened. It was a total blur. But there, in a passage of play which had taken no more than one second to play itself out was an encapsulation of the enigma of Fernando Torres; the magnificence of his effort, but yet no goal to his name. Happiness and melancholy. Same as it ever was. Same as it ever was. What has this player got to do to score more goals in Chelsea blue? If I was to add all of the narrow misses, the strikes on woodwork and the last minute blocks that he has suffered over the past year, I am sure he would be on 15 Chelsea goals and not just 5.

Such is football. It can be a fickle friend.

As if to emphasise this point, a delightful dink from Ramires to Torres was met with a firm header on goal. With the ‘keeper elsewhere, the ball was headed clear of the line by a covering defender.

Make that 16 goals.

Despite the Chelsea lead, the biggest cheer of the first-half was when the Wolves goal at Tottenham was flashed on the screen above the Mackems.

The best Sunderland effort on goal in the first-half came from Bendtner, but his shot was dragged just wide of Petr Cech’s far post, with the ‘keeper beaten. The temperature was dropping by the minute and I jealously eyed the gloves being worn by both Russ and Alan. A Torres spin and shot flew past the Sunderland goal.

At half-time, Alan Hudson was introduced by Neil Barnett and he was applauded by the home faithful. How the passage of time affects some more than others; John Hollins is older than Hudson yet looks 15 years younger. I had a chat with Gary at the break. He now sits ten yards away and can often be heard barking out abuse at referees and players alike. He’s quite an attraction. He pointed out to me a chap who was sat just in front of him, blatantly wearing a red, white and black Sunderland scarf. Now, I’ll be honest, I’ve had friends of other teams sat next to me on a few occasions, but never have I seen an away scarf in the home areas at The Bridge before.

Shocking.

Back to the question about the last northerner; Russ suggested the flying full-back Terry Phelan, the wing back from Manchester, but although technically correct, Alan reminded us that he was officially an international for Ireland.

So – any advance on Terry Phelan?

The first-half had been one of mainly Chelsea pressure, but few chances. The midfield was solid, but creativity was in scant supply. As the game progressed, Russ and I repeated the Chelsea mantra of “we need a second” every few minutes, like a beating metronome. I commented that we were playing like an away team, with our attacks being limited to occasional breaks.

On 51 minutes, Torres was released and bared down on the Sunderland goal, but his strong shot was saved at the near post. Within two minutes of play, the referee Phil Dowd waved away three penalty shouts at both ends; first, a block on Torres, second a trip by Mignolet on Mata and third a shove by Ashley on Bendtner.

Sunderland, being cajoled by Martin O’Neil on the touchline, were fighting for every ball now and had a few good chances. McClean wasted a very good chance as he bobbled the ball wide following a cross by Larsson.

Next, fury as Fernando Torres was booked by Dowd for diving inside the penalty area. Torres looked crestfallen and pleaded with the referee for leniency, but it was not to be.

It was a huge surprise for me to see Michael Essien come off the bench in the last twenty minutes. How we have missed his physical presence and his bursting runs. To be honest, the Essien of yore may be long gone as his injuries are bound to take their toll. With our weaknesses at right back, I wonder if the manager has remembered that Essien played ahead of Ferreira in that position at the Luzhniki in 2008? The Bison thundered over from close in. The home fans groaned again.

Our last real chance came when the quiet Meireles calculatingly chipped from distance, but the Sunderland custodian back-peddled and tipped over. To be honest, both Romeu and Meireles had been quiet. Sunderland had a late charge and the nervousness of the crowd was mirrored by the team. Careless punts from Cech, crazy runs upfield from Luiz and misplaced passes by everyone heightened the sense of anxiety. At times our play in the final few minutes was laughable.

There were, however, more groans to come. In the final two minutes, Gardner shot wide from a central position after the impressive Sessignon drove past two defenders and then, the last move, Luiz was completely out-thought by Bendtner but the useless ex-Gooner bundled the ball over.

My goodness, it hadn’t been pretty. Chelsea had kept us on tenterhooks for eighty minutes. Sunderland had deserved a draw, no doubts.

All together now – phew.

One of the games of the season next Saturday; the long-awaited excursion to rural Norfolk and the game with Norwich City, a 470 mile round-trip, nine hours of driving and I for one can’t wait.

Mow that meadow.

Tales From The Second-Half Show

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Portsmouth : 8 January 2012.

In the early rounds of the F.A. Cup, it is all about getting the chance to experience new stadia, or at least getting the chance to venture to towns and cities which have not been visited for years. This has been a relatively new scenario; not so long ago, all we wanted was a home draw against a lowly team in the hope of progressing. However, when Chelsea was entrenched in the old second division, the focus was on getting a big team, with all of the inherent anticipation that went with it. It’s funny how the focus has shifted over the years.

In 1982, all we wanted was Tottenham, Liverpool or Manchester United at home.

In 2002, all we wanted was Plymouth Argyle, Crewe Alexandra or Lincoln City at home.

In 2012, all we want is Bury, Exeter City or Hereford United away.

Over 700 teams from across England and Wales enter this competition each year. The diversity of clubs taking part is quite staggering. My local team Frome Town lost in a replay to Basingstoke Town from Hampshire back in the autumn. In fact, Frome’s most famous game in its 108 year history was an F.A. Cup tie with Leyton Orient in the early ‘fifties. Over 8,000 attended that game at Badgers Hill. Not bad for a town with a population of around 14,000 at that time. I won’t dwell too much on how the F.A. cup has seemingly lost most of its lustre over the last 25 years, but it is something that does sadden me. The competition does, at least, open up opportunities for the match-going supporters to get their road atlases out as teams from across the spectrum of league and non-league football are paired together. Maybe this is the lasting legacy of this storied competition; the F.A. Cup Final itself has diminished in importance, but the journey to the final has remained as exciting and as romantic as ever. For example, recent seasons have seen me travel to Barnsley, Coventry City and Preston North End on the F.A. Cup trail and all of my mates crave fresh fields. I don’t expect I will ever reach the vaunted 92 club – I think I’m currently up to about 60 league grounds – but I certainly hope to visit some new stadia over the next few seasons. I’ve never seen Chelsea at a non-league venue (our game at Scarborough in 2004 was our only such game in recent memory in fact) and so I was secretly hoping for an away game at a non-league venue. Salisbury , only 40 miles away in the heart of rural Wiltshire, fitted the bill perfectly.

If not Salisbury , an away game at Fleetwood, Crawley, Bristol , Cheltenham, Wrexham, Milton Keynes or Brighton would certainly suffice. Imagine my disapproval when we ended up with a seemingly boring home tie with old adversaries Pompey in our first game of the 2011-2012 competition.

Oh well – maybe more enticing draws will await our advancement as the cup progresses.

Just the two of us made the trip for the game; I collected Parky at 9am and we were in the café at 11.15am. We were joined by a few friends and Daryl commented that it was 34 years to the day since we defeated European Champions Liverpool 4-2 in the F.A. Cup. Why would Daryl remember this? It was only his second ever Chelsea game. He’s entitled to remember dates like that.

Breakfasts were wolfed down and I decided to head on down to Stamford Bridge once again.

As I passed the Fulham Broadway tube station, I stopped and had a word with the chap who runs the programme stall. By some bizarre quirk of fate, my old school mate Steve happens to be his postman in deepest Somerset and had often mentioned him in despatches. I introduced myself and we spoke for a few minutes about an event which is planned for Friday 13th. January. None other than Ron Harris is appearing at a fundraiser for Frome Town’s new stand appeal and this chap – another Steve – was thinking about attending. I glanced down at all of the various items of Chelsea memorabilia on display and I thought back to my football-crazed youth.

Although I was an avid programme collector in my schooldays – we all were – I limit my purchases to games that I attend these days. I buy every home programme (I must have over 500) but I have stopped buying programmes from most away games. I suppose I must have around 1,500 programmes in total. In those halcyon days of my youth, I used to collect all sorts of bizarre programmes. Amongst others, I have a programme from the 1976 US Bicentennial Tournament and the 1980 Russian Cup Final, plus most F.A. Cup Finals from 1970 to 1982. I have around five Chelsea home programmes from the ‘forties and several more from the ‘fifties. My friend Rick, a Pompey fan, bought me the Chelsea vs. Portsmouth game from the championship year of 1954-1955 as a fortieth birthday present. When I used to travel up with my parents from 1974 to 1980, I always used to disappear inside the old Chelsea Supporters Club premises at 547 Fulham Road (the site of which is now where Mark Worrall has his match day stall.) Amongst the usual array of Chelsea souvenirs (silk scarves, rosettes, pennants, bobble hats and gloves) were hundreds and hundreds of match programmes. I have many from the mid-‘sixties through to the present day, but I stopped buying back copies in around 1980. Maybe I should start up again. Daryl has two complete sets of home programmes from that 1954-1955 season, plus one set of away programmes. Gary , too, has thousands upon thousands of Chelsea programmes. My private collection is miniscule in comparison.

I noted that there was a home programme from the 1954-1955 season on sale for £25. It made me smart. Even my small collection must be worth around £3,000. I can’t imagine how expensive – or rare – programmes from before the First World War must be. My maternal grandfather attended a game at Stamford Bridge in the ‘twenties; I have a suspicion that it was one of the three F.A. Cup Finals held at The Bridge in 1920, 1921 and 1922. If only he had kept the programme.

I used to subscribe to the home programme in the early ‘eighties and I fell in love with the articles written by the late Scott Cheshire about our history. I look back on those days as the start of my fascination past Chelsea players, teams, games and folklore. Through him, I learnt about such players as Tommy Law, George Hilsdon, Hughie Gallagher, Alec Jackson, Vic Woodley and Len Goulden. His words were so evocative and helped me to fully appreciate the trials and tribulations which have so often befallen Chelsea Football Club. Rick Glanvill lovingly continues this fine tradition in the current match programmes.

I bought a copy of “CFCUK” and then a match programme. With Pompey fans mingling with tourists outside the West Stand, I headed up to the hotel foyer, where I had promised to meet up with Gill and Graeme. Young Jack – he of the wonderful match reports and of the “shouty voice” – was also in attendance and it was great to witness his enthusiasm for the club. Gill and I briefly discussed the US Tour and when the club will eventually announce tour dates; it can’t be long now. I briefly chatted to Ron Harris about the Frome Town “gig.”

The Peter Osgood statue stood proud in front of the West Stand.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50573413387658

Kerry Dixon rushed past on his way to a corporate engagement.

I then retraced my steps all of the way along the North End Road and couldn’t believe how busy The Goose was. The Mancunian derby was on the TV and had everybody’s attention. United, of course, stormed into a 3-0 lead. It seemed to be a cracking match and I fully expected United to be hell-bent on getting some revenge for their 6-1 mauling in October. I expected further United goals in the second period.

What do I know?

I reached my seat in the Matthew Harding at 2.40pm, just in time to witness the players going through the last of their pre-match drills. Pompey had brought 3,000 (they were entitled to 6,000 if they wanted them) and were going through their usual, limited, song selection; the famous “Pompey Chimes.”

“Play Up Pompey, Pompey Play up.”

The manager had decided to play an experienced team and I approved. Juan Mata played wide right in Studge’s role, with the recalled Florent Malouda out left. Portsmouth almost scored after just 30 seconds when the flame-haired Dave Kitson (one of the few Portsmouth players that I recognised) raced past a faltering David Luiz but dragged a shot wide of Petr Cech’s far post. Despite a few nice touches from Fernando Torres, the first-half was a very drab affair indeed. Our Spanish centre-forward flashed a header towards the Shed End goal on 12 minutes, but the effort was saved. We passed and passed, but with little invention. A wild shot from Ramires on the half-hour and a strong run from Frank Lampard before the break were the scant highlights. Portsmouth had a rare shot between these two Chelsea chances, but this was skewed wide. Again, I could not believe how often Torres went wide, straying from the centre. I couldn’t believe how laboured our play was. I know that if I was a midfielder in that Chelsea midfield, I would be hitting Torres, or at least hitting the space beyond him, every single time. Too often, Torres stood separate from the action. The bloke needs to be more involved.

The Portsmouth fans were in fine voice and had the best chant of the half –

“We’ll take you on loan, we’ll take you on loan.
Fernando Torres – we’ll take you on loan.”

I think that was the highlight of the half.

Garry Stanley, one of the midfield stars from Daryl’s second game in 1978, was on the pitch at the break. I avoided the temptation to yell out “get yer boots on.” All was doom and gloom at the break; the first-half had certainly been a shocker.

The second-half was better, but it couldn’t have been much worse.

After only a few minutes, a lovely run by Florent Malouda (possibly the first half’s worst performer) deep into the Portsmouth box was followed by an intelligent ball back into the path of Juan Mata. Our little Spaniard slammed the ball in and we were on our way.

The next major incident occurred when David Luiz lost possession on the edge of the box. A shot reigned in, but Petr Cech parried. Ward was able to head back towards goal and we all expected the worse. Miraculously, John Terry scrambled back to clear off the line. I’ll be honest, both Alan and I thought that it was handball. For a few minutes, JT lay hurt having collided with the post. I knew that Parky was watching from the front row of the Shed End and I joked with Alan that His Lordship should have lent over the advertising hoardings and offered up a crutch to our captain.

The highlights of the rest of the game?

How about some mesmeric shimmies from David Luiz on the left wing down below me? It was gorgeous to watch, but what was our central defender doing ten yards from the corner flag? Best not answer that really.

Fernando Torres then headed back for the energetic Ramires to stoop and direct a diving header, but the effort was saved.

In the last ten minutes, we scored three times and gave the game a rather lop-sided scoreline. Mata crossed for Torres to head down and Ramires was able prod in from close range. Soon after, Torres set up the advancing Ramires who adroitly flicked the ball in with the outside of his boot. With only seconds remaining, Frank Lampard found a spare yard to turn and guide in at the near post.

4-0.

I was more than happy that all four goals had been scored at the Matthew Harding end and I was able to take photographs, of varying quality, of each of the four sets of celebrations.

Back at the car, Parky was soon to tell me that he had been seated adjacent to the away fans, right behind the Shed End goal, and had been engaged in friendly – and unfriendly – banter with Pompey throughout the game. I just pictured the scene. Soon after, heading out towards Shephards Bush, we listened to the draw for the fourth round –

Milton Keynes Dons or Queens Park Rangers vs. Chelsea.

There’s that away game we wanted. I hope it’s at Milton Keynes.

People might see QPR as “revenge” but I just see loads of aggravation, hundreds of police and tons of nonsense. I hope the “Dons” win the replay and I get to cross off another ground on the list.

Tales From A Work In Progress

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Wolverhampton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 2 January 2012.

As our manager said after the painful Aston Villa defeat, it was fortuitous that we only had to wait 48 hours for our next game; with any luck we could put New Year Eve’s defeat behind us with a win – any win – and move into the New Year with a little more confidence.

Yep, 2012 was to begin for Chelsea Football Club with a visit to Wolverhampton, with everyone hoping for three points.

The changing weather within the first hour of travel was ridiculous. For twenty minutes, the sun shone on a perfect winter morning with the blue sky looking perfect overhead. As I headed towards Bradford-on-Avon, I was amazed at the sudden mass of grey cloud ahead; there was even a double rainbow. As I collected His lordship at around 10.15am, the heavens had opened. However, after heading past Stroud on the M5, the skies were clear and a brilliant blue once again.

Parky and I had a rattling good conversation about all sorts of various topics and the time flew by. Despite our recent run of dodgy form, I commented that there is nothing like an away game on a bright winter day to get the pulses racing. Even at Wolverhampton. Even when we are seemingly in the middle of a depressing run of form. Even when we are at sixes-and-sevens. Even when we are the butt of many a joke amongst the football cognoscenti.

We encountered some travelling Swansea fans at Strensham services for the second time this season; we bumped into them as they visited Anfield and they were now heading off to Villa Park. We decided to stop off at a pub near Stourbridge for a pint and a bite to eat at around 12.30pm. The pub was busy with families enjoying their lunches but Parky noted that a couple of locals had overheard our accents and had mentioned us being “glory boys” on the way to Wolves.

Big deal.

Parky – first game 1961.
Myself – first game 1974.

Show me the glory from 1974 to 1997. I don’t remember much.

We manoeuvred our way through the red brick houses, the industrial units, the steel clad warehouses and the tattered shops of Dudley and were soon parked-up in the middle of Wolverhampton. My goodness, the temperature had dropped and their was a shrill wind whistling around our ears as we got out of the car, stretched our legs, donned jackets and sought liquid refreshment. We headed for the Walkabout pub – last visited in 2009-2010 – and we soon realised that this had turned into the dedicated “away fans pub”, being relatively close to both bus and train stations. We had to show our match tickets to the two bouncers. Inside, I soon spotted San Francisco Pete and two of his mates from Kent. As I queued at the bar, I also clocked Alan and Gary a few feet away. Alan told me of the Chelsea team and I tried to work out how the attacking six would line up. I doubted if it would be 4-2-3-1, but I wondered if Ramires would really be playing wide in a 4-3-3. Next to me was Terry from Radstock, a town no more than five miles away from my home, and I hadn’t seen him for three years or more.

Chelsea World is a small world indeed.

We were in the boozer for around 40 minutes. The place was a big cave of a pub – and full of Chelsea fans. Quite a few familiar faces of course. Generally speaking, hardly any colours. The drinkers were exhibiting the usual dress code of a Chelsea away game; quilted jackets, baseball caps, winter coats, thick pullovers, polo shirts, jeans, trainers and boots. The occasional sighting of a Chelsea replica shirt or a scarf only accentuated the fact that such items were relatively few in number. Towards the end of our spell in the Walkabout, a lone “Zigger Zagger” roared around the pub. It signalled the moment for us to brace ourselves and head out into the bitter winter weather and walk down to Molyneux, barely ten minutes away. We strolled past quite a few pubs on street corners, with locals with gold and black favours, and headed on. I loved the fact that two former Wolves players were mentioned amongst the commercial properties in that town centre; the Ron Flowers sport shop and The Billy Wright public house.

I spotted the roof of the new stand above the buildings to our left. Molyneux is nicely situated, just half a mile away from the town centre. It has changed beyond compare since my youth in the ‘seventies. It once hosted one of the deepest Kops in the UK, but went into disrepair in the ‘eighties. The ground was completely transformed in the early ‘nineties and became a trim stadium, with the use of the old gold club colours making it an aesthetically-pleasing mid-sized ground. I was surprised to hear that the club had to enlarge further to be honest; surely a capacity of around 28,000 would suffice? The North stand had been demolished during the summer to be replaced by a new two-tier structure. Work was obviously progressing well and the extra tier would bring the capacity up to around 31,000. For a stadium buff like me, I was keen to check on its progress over the past few months. I luckily stumbled across a fantastic site on the internet which details all of the new stadia developments around the world –

www.skyscrapercity.com

This excellent website contains photos, discussion points, diagrams; it’s superb. Further development at Molyneux is planned as and when finances permit…if and when Chelsea Football Club decides to launch their Battersea battle-plan, I expect to see a thread emerge on this website too.

Inside Molyneux, I was centrally located – row G – on the halfway line. Alan and Big John were reminiscing about their visit to the same ground in April 1977 when our fans were officially banned, but around 4,000 fans still attended. A Tommy Langley goal gave us shares in a 1-1 draw and secured our promotion. Those were heady days. That was a cracking season. I only saw three games in our promotion push, but the memories of those games against Cardiff City (won), Bristol Rovers (lost) and Millwall (drew) are strong. On the day of the Wolves match, I can vividly remember running up the slope outside my grandparents’ house once I had heard that we had secured promotion and jumping in the air. But then the realisation that, as the lone Chelsea fan in my village, I had nobody to share my enthusiasm with.

Just before the teams entered the pitch, the Wolves PA played “Fanfare For a Common Man” and the Chelsea fans began roaring, in an attempt to stir the team, but also to keep warm no doubt.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50560120287658

So, it was true – Ramires was playing wide right in a 4-3-3.

Within one minute, our pre-match concerns about defensive frailties were realised when right-back Jose Bosingwa cheaply gave the ball away to my left, but Wolves did not capitalise. I was reminded of last year’s abysmal game at Wolves – the nadir of Ancelotti’s reign – and Bosingwa’s starring role in that 1-0 defeat. After that initial scare we dominated the first quarter, and Fernando Torres set up both Juan Mata and Frank Lampard within a few minutes, but both shots were parried. Ramires was getting a lot of the ball out wide – making space well, but his final ball was often poor. The midfield three were rather slow in finding the front three. Where have we heard that before?

Frank Lampard was obviously very fortunate to stay on the pitch with a “studs up” challenge on a Wolves player. Alan and I looked at each other and each pulled a face to say “lucky, lucky, lucky.” I am sure that it was due to his previous record as being a relatively “clean” player that kept him on the pitch.

After thirty minutes of Chelsea dominance, but with few clear cut chances, Wolves came into the game. At the same time, fouls increased and yellow cards were brandished by Peter Walton. The Wolves fans in the south stand began baying – for five minutes or more, they were booing everything and even came out with a ridiculous chant –

“The Premier League Is Full Of 5hit.”

They’re obviously playing the underdog card a lot these days in the Black Country.

Two headed chances – close in – from Johnson and Ward flew past our post. The Chelsea support was groaning as the first-half came to an end. The gallows humour of those around me was reassuring, but the game seemed to be headed for a 0-0 draw. Two contrasting texts from home at the break; my mate Steve reported that Frome were 1-0 up at Chippenham in the derby, but Glenn said that, according to Sky Sports News, Drogba and Kalou were off.

The game grew more interesting with each minute of the second period. I was impressed with Torres’ ability to wriggle away from his marker and his luxurious dribble set up a corner. Juan Mata swept it in, JT rose and managed to glance the ball on. The ball ended up at Ramires’ feet and the diminutive Brazilian spun and thumped the ball into the top corner of the net.

Yes!

The Chelsea support roared and soon serenaded the team with a boisterous “Hey Jude.”

At last, Lampard was breaking forward and Mata was twisting and turning. Meireles was quiet however. Chelsea chances came and went; a shot from Torres flew over, a bursting run from Ramires ended up with a shot straight at the goalkeeper, an effort from Mata went wide…and every Chelsea fan was rueing these misses. Wolves then got back in the game and a header was parried by Cech. The Chelsea support grew increasingly restless. Lo and behold, in the last ten minutes, a deep cross was swept back into the box and the ball was smashed in from close range. Chelsea’s defence had been punished for a second’s hesitation and the Molyneux crowd erupted. I turned around to see the line of Wolves fans in front row of the upper tier behind me; they were going berserk. One fan was “flicking Vs” at us all. I just groaned.

Oh God – yet another 1-1 draw.

But no…with the Chelsea crowd, stretched out along the length of the pitch, yelling for continued pressure, one final twist. The ball fell to Torres outside the box. He delicately played in Ashley Cole with an exquisite ball between two defenders. Our left back whipped the ball in at waist-height and we all anticipated a Chelsea strike. The pace of the ball surprised me, but there was Frank Lampard to stab the ball home.

Delirium.

After an initial roar, Alan and I turned to each other – our faces twisted with joy – and for some inexplicable reason, we began punching each other. I guess we needed to release some pent-up frustrations.

Superb.

I jumped up on to my seat took a few photographs of Frank gesturing towards the 3,000 Chelsea supporters. It was a wonderful moment. After almost 38 years of seeing Chelsea live, I will never tire of such wanton joy.

Then, wickedly, more bloody drama. In the last minute, a Wolves throw in was flicked on and a point-blank header was pushed over his bar by Petr Cech. Immediately after, the referee blew his whistle and we roared again.

Phew.

We rushed back to the waiting car, while Alan and Gary had to hang around until 6.40pm for a train back to The Smoke. They were headed for a few pints in a warm pub and I envied them. We made good time on the return trip south. I happened to tune in to an interview with Frank Lampard on the radio. Typically, the BBC were keen to focus on his wild foul rather than his goal. Frank was then asked about his allegedly strained relationship with Andre Villas-Boas and Frank replied that our manager “has his own style.” The reporter then made a meal out of this, implying that there was still distance between our manager and our number eight. How typical.

Not to worry, we had eked out a great win. Ramires, Torres and Romeu were excellent. Meireles, Bosingwa were not so. But these three points at a cold and blustery Molyneux afternoon certainly warmed the spirits of Parky and I, not to mention the other travelling fans.

It’s only one win, but let us hope that it signals the start of a more tranquil – and successful – period in our transition from the Chelsea of 2011 to the Chelsea of 2012.

Tales From The Last Day Of 2011

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Aston Villa : 31 December 2011.

A day of poor performances on and off the pitch and a day of quiet contemplation as one year drew to a close, with another one ready to start.

I was back in the hot seat once again. I love driving, to be honest, so it’s never a chore. I pride myself in not knowing anything about cars – I don’t get turned on by engine capacities, turbo systems or leather interiors – but I love driving as a means to travel and as an activity in itself. I love the buzz of driving, the allure of new cities, observing new architecture, and I relish the joy of seeing magnificent countryside as I hurtle past. Combining driving with football is an added perk for me.

You might have noticed.

Of course, if a new ground is involved, even better. I especially enjoyed driving up to Burnley two seasons ago on a bitterly cold day and heading into alien territory. It was one of my very special personal memories from that momentous closing period of The Double season. We have away games at Norwich City and Swansea on the horizon and I am already looking forward to those two; a shame they come within ten days of each other. What is the expression about eggs being kept in the same basket?

Parky had unfortunately missed out on tickets for the away game at Norwich when they went on sale this week, though. The club had stupidly decided not to use loyalty points to decide who gets the chance to apply for this prime ticket and Parky missed out during the mad scramble.

It is my view that the right to purchase tickets for the away games at the three newly promoted teams should always be on loyalty points; this invariably results in the “new ground” scenario. Look how crazy it was for Blackpool away last year; the hottest ticket for an away game for years. Likewise, QPR in October. Tickets went on sale for that game with no loyalty point system in place. Yet another example how out of touch the club is with regards to their rank and file support.

High profile away games really are a mad scramble. For the Norwich City game, Chelsea receives 2,389 tickets. The 550 folks in the away season ticket scheme (of which my friends Alan, Gary and Andy, along with myself, are members) are assured tickets. The remaining 1,839 get split 60-40 amongst season ticket holders (1,103) and members (736). So, around 25,000 season ticket holders got the chance to apply online for just 1,103 tickets with no loyalty weighting in place and is it any wonder that Parky missed out?

Parky and I had a new travelling companion for the game with Villa. Young Jake – he will be known as Young Jake in these chronicles as he is only 23 – is a friend of Parky’s son-in-law Kris and he goes to a few home games each year. We first met him in The Goose at the start of this season. He would be taking Glenn’s season ticket alongside me for this game so I had arranged to collect him in Trowbridge at 9am. A few minutes later, Parky was on board, too.

This would be my 48th Chelsea game within the calendar year of 2011. My highest ever total was 57 in 2009. I can’t see that ever getting beaten to be honest. I briefly looked back on the year. After the euphoria of 2010 (a stunning year for Chelsea, but also a deeply enjoyable one for myself on a personal level), is it any wonder that 2011 has not lived up to expectations? When one considers that the year of 2011 involved three losses at Old Trafford within seven months and three home defeats by Liverpool, it never was going to be a classic Chelsea year. My favourite personal moments of the past twelve months are easy; beating United 2-1 in the league, a great week of the Royal Wedding and victories over West Ham United (the Torres goal still makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand to attention) and Tottenham Hotspur at either end of it, the amazing games in Kuala Lumpur and Bangkok, the noise and passion of the defeat of Manchester City a few weeks ago and – the highlight – meeting my old friend Mario for the Leverkusen away game in November.

Actually – think about it. What fan of Lincoln City, Leicester City or Leeds United would not want to experience what I did in 2011?

We drove in via the M25 and then the A40 again. Jake usually travels up to London by train and so this was a little treat for him. I usually get a little frisson of excitement as I ascend the elevated section of the M4 on my approach to Chelsea, but this other approach is not without merit. In addition to driver, I acted as a tour guide to Jake as I pointed a few sights on our quick journey into London. We passed the art deco magnificence of the Hoover Building and we then caught a quick glimpse of The Shard away on the horizon, amongst the skyscrapers of The City. The Shard will soon become the tallest building in Europe and is designed by Renzo Piano. This architect was first brought to my attention when he oversaw the transformation of the old Lingotto Fiat factory in Turin; the one with the test track on the roof as featured in “The Italian Job” and where my friend Tullio’s grandfather worked.

Past the floodlights of Loftus Road to our right and Jake got a proper buzz in being able to see a new stadium, only yards away, for the first time. As we drove past the Westfield Mall, I mentioned that the BBC Television Centre at White City was nearby. I spoke about the classic BBC sitcom “Steptoe & Son” being based in Shepherd’s Bush and Parky piped up

“Oil Drum Lane.”

With that, we treated Jake to a gravelly rendition of the series’ theme tune.

We zipped through Earls Court and I explained how the area’s moniker of “Kangaroo Valley” got its name and then we sped past Brompton Cemetery; the final resting place of the club’s founder Gus Mears. I pointed out the roof supports to the Matthew Harding to Jake as we neared the end of our 136 mile pilgrimage. I thought back to my childhood; seeing the embankment of the old North Stand as the District Line train came out of the tunnel was always a tantalising moment for me on my childhood forays to Stamford Bridge.

I got the feeling that Jake was getting those same feelings.

At the Yadana Café we breakfasted like kings.

Bacon, egg, sausage, mushrooms, tomatoes, baked beans, fried bread, black pudding, toast and coffee.

The Full Monty.

Young Jake’s pre-match prediction was of a 3-1 Chelsea win and he repeated this forecast at regular intervals throughout the day.

Jake and Parky popped into The Goose and I flew down to The Bridge. I wanted to take a quick look at what was on sale in the shop. I just bought one item – the book “Chelsea Uncut” – and that was quite enough for me. I rarely spend my hard-earned on club merchandise, though I did see a few reasonable T-shirts on sale, including one which said something about the club being founded in The Rising Sun; nice, a bit different. The place was packed, though. It was too crowded to be enjoyable, though. I only stayed about ten minutes.

I popped up to the hotel foyer, had a quick word with Mick and bought a pint of lager. I noticed that none other than Kerry Dixon appeared with a few guests. Kerry was a big hero for me during his time at the club and I have been very lucky to spend a few hours in his company on two events in the West of England. These were undoubtedly two of the best nights ever. On the second occasion, a friend of a friend took us on to a country pub in his small Vauxhall Corsa. Being wedged in the back seat of a small car next to Kerry Dixon as the driver navigated the narrow country lanes around Farrington Gurney is one of my most surreal memories as a Chelsea fan.

I waited to catch his eye and offered my hand. He wished me a Happy New Year and we both uttered the phrase “always a pleasure” at the same time. Always embarrassing that, isn’t it? The same words. D’oh.

I sat myself down and had a flick through the book that I had just bought and I loved it. There can’t be many Chelsea photographs from our ancient history that I am yet to see, but the book contained several. I especially enjoyed the old black and white photographs from the early years. A favourite photograph is of a Chelsea goalkeeper – almost certainly Vic Woodley – pumping the heavy leather ball up field on a cold and misty afternoon, with the terraces out of view.

There’s a superb snap of Pat Nevin, the dribbler supreme, crouched and about to spin away from a Newcastle defender from “that” game in November 1983.

There is the iconic photo of the substituted Johnny B patiently waiting in the tunnel during the closing moments of the Leeds game later that season.

Photographs of Matt Damon, Raquel Welsh, Tiger Woods, Lana Turner, Kobe Bryant , the New York Giants and the Chicago White Sox.

Superb stuff.

At the bottom of the escalators, I spotted Gill and Graeme and waited for few minutes for the players to walk through.

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

I then battled the crowds of match day tourists on my scramble out of Stamford Bridge and back up to the pub. I made my way to the bar and glanced up at the TV screen to see that Blackburn Rovers were winning at Old Trafford.

Get in.

Just one more pint, but plenty of chat with the usual suspects. I welcomed the two Texans Wes and Jeff back to Chelsea; Wes now resides in Southfields, but Jeff was on a flying visit. He was last over two years ago and we spent a few moments dissecting the recent performances of the team. We agreed that – altogether now – this is a season of transition.

It really is.

Does anyone not believe this?

If we have to down before we go up, so be it.

I chatted to Andy about the away games at Swansea and Norwich. Andy had decided that he wouldn’t be travelling down on the Tuesday evening for the Swans game, so he sold his ticket to Parky. To complete Parky’s good fortune, Daryl sold him his ticket for the game at Norwich. Parky had a beaming smile after these two transactions.

Excellent.

Andy and I had the briefest of chats about Rangers – he is more a fan than I – and we ended up chatting about the Rangers legend Davie Cooper. I spoke about a goal I saw him score against Celtic in around 1979 in the pre-season Drybrough Cup. I promised to send him a YouTube link if I could find it. It is one of my favourite goals of all time.

The inevitable fight back by United was met with typical groans, but we then exploded when Rovers miraculously went ahead.

Young Jake and I walked down to the ground and we overheard that, indeed, United had been beaten. I quickly texted my Blackburn mate Mark.

“Keen Must Stay.”

We were inside with only a few moments to spare. I just caught Neil Barnett running through the Chelsea subs and caught Neil Barnett saying “Number 27 Sam Hutchinson.”

What a lovely moment for the lad; welcome back, Sam.

Villa had brought down around 800 fans from Birmingham and they didn’t waste too many moments in asking us if we had won a European Cup. Elsewhere, there were empty seats, but the crowd was larger than the Fulham game.

The game? Sigh.

Villa last won in the league at Stamford Bridge in May 2002 and I didn’t expect them to provide a massive threat to us. We enjoyed the early possession but shots from Daniel Sturridge (high) and Didier Drogba (wide) didn’t threaten the Villa goal. Villa had a few chances, mainly involving Agbonlahor on the break. The move which lead to the foul on Drogba was the best passage of play in the game to that point. Drogba seemed to have a verbal spat with Mata over who would take the penalty; there was only going to be one winner, there, with Didi just one goal away from Roy Bentley and Peter Osgood on 150 Chelsea goals.

It wasn’t a clean strike but he scored and I captured it in film.

It was fitting that Didier scored his 150th from the penalty spot at The Shed, in front a banner proclaiming “Born Is The King.”

Bobby Tambling – 202.
Kerry Dixon – 193.
Roy Bentley, Peter Osgood, Didier Drogba – 150.

However, five minutes later Villa equalised with a poorly-defended and scrappy goal from Stephen Ireland. In a poor first-half, our only other chances involved a half-chance from Mata and two free-kicks from Drogba, who clearly fancied himself as the star of the show. Ramires had been surprisingly quiet, but Luiz was steady at the back. Our play was so slow, though, and we didn’t take advantage of the occasions when the play opened up due to Villa’s frequent breaks. At the half-time whistle, there were audible boos.

Soon into the second-half, a lovely run from Juan Mata down below me was exhilarating to observe at such close quarter. I really do have a great seat at Chelsea and Jake was loving it too; his first ever time in the Matthew Harding. On this occasion, Drogba’s run was too soon and the ball rolled away behind him. A Villa free-kick came close, and we had been warned. A Chelsea move broke down and a rapid break from the visitors found the pacey Agbonlahor. We expected the worst, but his weak shot was easily saved by Peter Cech and the covering Luiz averted further danger.

Frank came on for Oriel Romeu and we hoped for the best. How odd it must be for Frank, now, to be limited to rare starting appearances. From that game in 2002, only John and Frank remain. How frustrating for him and for us to watch on as his prolific career undergoes a heart-breaking decline.

Daniel Sturridge was having a very poor game – shirking his defensive responsibilities and rarely threatening up field. He was replaced by Fernando Torres and virtually his first touch almost resulted in a goal. He moved the ball onto his right foot, shaped nicely, then unleashed a cracker which dipped wickedly and slammed against the bar. I know I am biased, but how damn unlucky has Torres been during his Chelsea career? He should be on 15 goals, not 5. If only that first chance in the first-half against Liverpool in February had gone in.

If. The biggest word in football.

The promising Albrighton bamboozled Ashley Cole but Cech saved. A lovely move involving Frank and Fernando set up Drogba, but a week shot ended up well wide and didn’t bother Guzan in the away goal. By now, the natives were restless and the support – hardly ever rising to more than a muffled groan – was now being even more derisive. Chances were as rare as an Arsenal trophy parade.

The newly arrived substitute Bosingwa – for Ferreira – gathered the ball from around thirty yards out and I uttered the line –

“Not from there, Bos.”

Well, what do I know? He sent in a wickedly dipping blast which the ‘keeper palmed over. This optimistic effort from distance proved to be our last real scoring chance. In a cataclysmic final ten minutes, we conceded not one but two goals, both from typical Villa breaks. Just after two penalty claims were waved away, Agbonlahor raced through a massive gap in our rear guard to slot cleanly past Cech.

We groaned and I noticed people leave their seats. More and more blue seats appeared and the mood was of dismay and annoyance with the team. Then, the final wound; a wayward Lampard pass and Ireland advanced on goal before squaring for substitute Bent to score. Thousands more now departed and I sat in stony silence. To be fair, the residual 4,000 in the bottom tier of the MHL were stirred with a defiant “COME ON CHELSEA.”

I’m proud of them for that.

At the final whistle, half the crowd had departed and a few hundred around me booed.

I’m not proud of them for that.

As Jake and I walked miserably down to street level, there was a horrible tone amongst the supporters, accusing various players of lack of effort. I hate to hear these words, but I had to agree that our fight was missing throughout the game. In football, you have to fight for the right to play. Once in possession, you have to move and support the man with the ball. There was little evidence of that too.

A solemn day in SW6.

I felt like saying “Good Riddance 2011.”

However, I suddenly remembered Jake’s 3-1 prediction and playfully took a swipe at him.

It was a pretty reasonable journey home – time wise – but it wasn’t the easiest of drives to make. The usual self-inspection after defeat is never easy is it? A double espresso at Reading put bounce in my step, though, and the music emanating from Parky’s 80’s CD cheered us. On the closing moments, we spoke with Jake about his love of the team and also of his past games and we were, at last, able to put things into perspective. His Dad was a Chelsea fan and took Jake to his first game in the autumn of 1998 for a game against ‘Boro. Sadly – and neither Parky nor I knew this – his father passed away three years ago and Jake said that, poignantly, he feels closer to his father at Stamford Bridge than anywhere else. Through a shared sense of belonging amongst friends, at the stadium where his father spent many an afternoon no doubt, Jake felt better placed to cope with what life could throw at him.

I returned home at about 8.30pm and hated the idea of seeing our game on “Match of the Day.” I watched, through fingers covering my eyes, as our team was taken apart by Alan Shearer and Mark Lawrensen. How typical for Lawrensen to incorrectly miss-read the muted celebrations after Drogba’s penalty as a sign that he was off, siting his solemn waving to the crowd as a “goodbye.” The truth, of course, was that he was showing considerable class in pointing to the penalty spot where The King Of Stamford Bridge lies…

Just before we hit 2012, I quickly scanned the internet for that Davie Cooper goal. While Scotland was celebrating the alcohol-fest that is Hogmanay, I watched open-mouthed as the great Rangers left-footer continuously juggled the ball against Celtic at Hampden Park in 1979. Cooper was a “tanner ball” player in the mold of our own Scottish dribblers Charlie Cooke and Pat Nevin and I just couldn’t resist playing and re-playing that amazing clip time after time.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=js4PK73nIRs

Superb stuff.

A trip to Molyneux awaits. Let’s hope that 2012 starts in decidedly better health than which 2011 ended.

Tales From The 41,548*

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Fulham : 26 December 2011.

For the first time this season, I was having a day off. That is to say, the driving duties were not mine. At last I could relax and let somebody else worry about the traffic and the timings. Glenn called for me at 8am and we were soon on our way. Parky was collected at 8.30am, resplendent in a new Duck & Cover top, thankfully now recovering from his recent ailments.

The three amigos on the way to football once more.

Another season, another Boxing Day game, another game at The Bridge. Admittedly, we don’t have a game every December 26th (our last Boxing Day game was in 2009 at Birmingham City), but Chelsea invariably get home fixtures on this date.

As I live over 100 miles from SW6, it took until 1992 for me to see Chelsea in a Boxing day game; until then the friction of distance, plus lack of finances, prevailed against me. On that particular day, I drove up to Chelsea for the very first time and parked near the Lots Road gasometers and watched Chelsea scramble a 1-1 draw against Southampton. I remember I took an old-school camcorder up with me for that game and – quite illegally – recorded around ten minutes of match action from the East Upper. I also took a few shots of the old tube station, the souvenir shops on the Fulham Road, the forecourt, The Shed. I’m glad I did; within a few years, the old Stamford Bridge would be no more. That 15 minute film from Stamford Bridge – shrouded in midwinter mist, atmospheric, bleak – is a cherished part of my Chelsea archives. I remember how every time Chelsea (Dennis Wise, Eddie Newton, Frank Sinclair et al) managed to cross the halfway line, there were encouraging cheers and claps from the Chelsea support in the East Stand. I watched this video film a few years ago and it was quite endearing to be honest; refreshing to see – and hear – Chelsea fans supporting the team’s pursuit of goals and glory. These days, the notion of Chelsea fans cheering each time we get past the centre-circle seems absurd.

1992 was my first ever CFC Boxing Day game, but my first ever trip to Stamford Bridge during the festive season was ten years earlier, during that bleakest of seasons, the 1982-1983 campaign. During that winter, Chelsea were stumbling along in the old second division and gates were hitting new lows. Despite drawing 25,000 for the visit of Leeds United in October, gates had dropped to as low as 7,000 in late 1982. Our neighbours Fulham, paradoxically, were flying high under the management of former player Malcolm MacDonald and with players such as Ray Houghton, Sean O’Driscoll, Gordon Davies and Dean Coney. I travelled up with my parents for the Chelsea vs. Fulham derby on December 28th 1982 and wondered how big the gate would be. If memory serves, the cancellation of a set of fixtures the previous week had resulted in massive crowds on the Boxing Day that year; everyone wanted their fix of football. Well, the Chelsea crowd did not disappoint on that afternoon in December 1982. I watched from The Shed and my parents watched from way up high in the East. The game was a scoreless draw, but the abiding memory is of the huge 29,000 attendance. Our average during that 1982-1983 season was just 12,672 (our lowest ever, from 1905 onwards), so getting a gate of 29,000 reconfirmed what I knew; we were a sleeping giant, we did have the fan base…with a little success, the crowds would return. I remember little of the day, apart from waiting at the bottom of The Shed after the game had ended. Thousands upon thousands of fans strode past as I waited for my parents to join me. I was overawed by the numbers and the wait seemed to take forever. I can see my father now, in his hat and overcoat, trying to keep warm in the cold December air. My mother alongside, with her face cheered for seeing me.

Lovely memories.

So much for Chelsea versus Fulham in 1982. What about Chelsea versus Fulham in 2011?

McBreakfasts were purchased at Melksham and were consumed “on the hoof.” Glenn made great time and we were rolling along nicely. We bumped into a few Cardiff City fans at Reading Services, en route to Watford, and then continued on our pilgrimage east. With the tube strike undoubtedly causing more fans to travel in by car, plus the closure of the A4 at Hammersmith, we had planned a different route in. We drove north on the M25, then came in to London on the A40, past the iconic Hoover Building near Hanger Lane. I quickly spotted Park Royal tube station and it brought back warm memories of my first ever trip to Chelsea in 1974; we had parked nearby, and then caught the tube in from that very station. My father was always fearful of the traffic in central London, bless him.

Past the floodlights of Loftus Road, then the new and architecturally brutal Westfield Mall – right in the heart of QPR land – and then past more familiar sights; Earls Court, Salvo’s restaurant, West Brompton Cemetry…Chelsealand.

We were parked-up at 10.40am and it had been a breeze. The weather was surprisingly mild.

A knot of customers were already waiting for The Goose to open up. As more punters joined the throng, I walked over to meet Nathan (a CIAer from the Bay Area of California) and his parents. He had previously visited HQ for the 3-0 thrashing of Birmingham City in the Double season, but his parents – Laurie and Paul – were first-time Bridge visitors. They had just raided the megastore. There is a sale on at present and I have my sights set on a couple of books which I’ll probably purchase before the Villa game.

Into The Goose and I could enjoy a few beers. I took my jacket off and got the beers in. A few pints of Peroni – currently my favourite by far – went down well. Paul, Laurie and Nathan settled down for a lovely pre-match and we covered tons of sport-related topics in the 90 minutes which was afforded us. Parky and Paul exchanged awful jokes, Laurie proclaimed her hatred of the Yankees and I gave her a hug. Paul and I chatted about the Brooklyn Dodgers while Nathan and I spoke about the upcoming Chelsea tour to the US in the summer. It was a fine time.

The Goose was terribly quiet, though. There was probably only 50% of the usual numbers present. I wondered if The Bridge would be well short of capacity on this particular Boxing Day.

Our American guests, fortified by the beer and the laughter of a Chelsea pre-match, set off for The Bridge. I had thoroughly enjoyed their company – sports mad, the lot of them – and I had said “we’ve only touched the tip of the iceberg.” Parky and I soon followed. I couldn’t help but notice how quiet the streets approaching the stadium were. It felt very odd.

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

There wasn’t even much of a line at the turnstiles.

I reached my seat, buzzing from the alcohol intake, as the flags were ending their travels along the two tiers of the Matthew Harding Stand. In front of me were two empty seats. The Bridge appeared full, but after a glance around all four stands, it was clear that hundreds – no thousands – of seats were unoccupied. It wasn’t clear in my mind how Arsenal could call off their game on this day of tube-strike induced chaos, while Chelsea did not. Of course, it all became clear. Chelsea had sold all of the 41,500 tickets; why should they care if thousands couldn’t travel in and attend the actual game.

1-0 to Arsenal.

For the first time since September, Glenn, Alan and I were at The Bridge together.

It felt right.

I won’t dwell too much on the game. I thought that we had enough chances to win, but that much cherished commodity luck was not with us on this particular occasion. That is, of course, not hiding the fact that we did not play well. The first-half was particularly poor, with hardly any urgency in our attacking play.

The first real chance of the day fell to Clint Dempsey and his Barnes Wallace of a shot caused Cech to scramble to his right and turn past the post. Fulham had three thousand fans, but one flag; a Japanese flag. They don’t do flags, Fulham, do they? It goes without saying, the away fans made more noise consistently throughout the game than the Chelsea fans.

Mata played in Fernando Torres and the maligned Spaniard did well to bounce the ball off his chest to enable a swivel of the hips and a shot on target. Unfortunately, as is the way with Nando, the ball was struck straight at Stockdale in the Shed goal. Our approach play was laboured and The Bridge fell silent.Two wayward efforts from Torres left Tom with his head in his hands. A cross from wide rattled straight across Petr Cech’s area and we were lucky Fulham were only playing with one up.

A corner on 38 minutes typified our poor play; Mata sent in a corner towards the penalty spot, but it was headed clear by one of three defenders, with not a Chelsea player within five yards of the ball. I had signalled to San Francisco Pete, way up at the back of the MHU, to join me for a pint at the break. While lining up in line, we watched as Studge laced a shot wide.

It was good to see Pete again and we had the usual moan, huddled under the upper tier in the area by the refreshment stand. Chelsea has chosen to decorate this area with a set of large photographs of past Chelsea players and I approve of this. It adds character to an otherwise functional part of the stadium. While we supped away at our pints of Singha, photographs of Dickie Spence, Dennis Wise, Peter Bonetti, Ruud Gullit and others looked on. It is just the sort of detail which is so sadly lacking at the bland Wembley Stadium, which depresses me more each time I visit.

Unfortunately, Pete and I missed two important things due to our half-time chat. We missed the appearance of former striker Jimmy Greaves, who was on the pitch at the break. I wonder if he is aware that, rather ironically, there is a bar in the Matthew Harding called “Jimmy’s”, named after him. As a sad victim of alcoholism and now a teetotaller, I’m sure he would find the funny side of that.

We also missed the goal. We were chatting about some nonsense, just finishing our pints, when we heard a roar.

“Oh well.”

We smiled and toasted Chelsea.

I soon had an incoming call from Alan in the stadium, but twenty yards from me.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.”

I don’t miss many goals at Chelsea matches – I’ve probably only missed five or six Chelsea goals in over 800 games.

I re-joined the boys at my seat in the MH wraparound and hoped for further goals. It was pretty lacklustre stuff to be honest. We seemed to have all of the possession. And then a defensive blunder and Dempsey struck from close in. It was a weak goal to let in and we all groaned.

AVB replaced the insignificant Frank Lampard with Florent Malouda and our form improved slightly. Fulham were happy to defend and we regained the upper hand. Alan came out with a Christmas cracker of his own –

“Come on Chelsea. This is as one-sided as Heather Mills.”

As the time passed, our chances piled up. The best move thus far involving Malouda and Terry found Sturridge who forced a fingertip save from Stockwell. From the corner, our bad luck continued as an opportunist back heel from Malouda, two yards out, was blocked.

Didier was given a chance to play, replacing Sturridge with twenty minutes to go. Torres was shunted wide and became marginalised. Alan and I had said that we wanted to see Torres on the shoulder of the last man while he was in Chelsea Blue, centrally, ready to pounce. We didn’t care to see him chasing back and turning up in all sorts of deep lying positions. We wanted to see him played to his strength. I’d like to know if AVB tells him to chase balls back in his own half. I’m not a great tactician, but I’d prefer to see Nando as goal poacher and goal poacher only during his time in SW6.

The two highlights for me were two majestically crafted lobs from David Luiz, both with just the correct amount of fade and spin to allow the ball to die as it hit the turf, allowing team mates to gather with the minimum of effort.

Truly great passes. Almost scooped up with Luiz’ right foot. Perfect.

A Drogba shot from the second one of these was hit straight at Stockwell. A curling effort from Meireles agonisingly missed the far post. Malouda set up Meireles with a header which flew over. The last chance, a Drogba effort from a free-kick, did not bother the Fulham ‘keeper.

It was one of those days.

There was a short bout of booing at the final whistle. On exiting the stadium, the Chelsea supporters around me were full of complaints about Andre Villas-Boas, Frank Lampard, Didier Drogba, Fernando Torres, Winston Bogarde, Slavisa Jokanovic, Keith Dublin, Graham Wilkins, Peter Houseman, Keith Weller and Fatty Foulke. I found it a shame that these same fans couldn’t find time to cheer the boys on during the game.

There you go – the usual moan from me about the lack of noise from our home support.

Merry Christmas.

We returned back to Glenn’s van and were soon on our way. There was the briefest of post-mortems as Glenn wended his way back through the streets of West London, out past Ealing and Acton, past the urban sprawl of the inter-war years, out of London and back towards home.

My mate Steve texted me with updates from the Frome Town vs. Weymouth game as the afternoon became evening. Two missed Weymouth penalties, a Frome sending off, no goals, but a disappointing crowd of 533 in arguably Frome’s biggest ever home league game. Maybe there had been an unexpected tube strike on the Buckland Dinham and Trudoxhill underground lines.

From the Chelsea FC website –

Best Moment of the Match.

“The announcement that 41,548 resourceful fans had managed to fill Stamford Bridge despite travel problems on the tubes, trains and west London roads.”

The five thousand empty seats tell a different story.

Tales From Seven-Sisters And Beyond

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 22 December 2011.

For the second year in a row, the league computer had churned out another away game at Tottenham in December. Last season, a bleak Sunday afternoon and this season a grey Thursday evening. This was another solo mission for me. Parky had missed out on a ticket for this away game, but was still feeling the effects of his recent bout of gastro-enteritis in any case. I had finished work on Tuesday, but I dropped into the office in Chippenham on the drive up to London; I finished off a couple of spread sheets and collected a few Christmas gifts from some suppliers. Working in European road haulage has its perks; my plunder included a twelve pack of Peroni from an Italian supplier and a selection of chorizo from a Spanish one.

If I am perfectly honest, I was sick to the back teeth of all of the unwanted bad press involving John Terry leading up to the game. I was also dreading the vitriol that would be yelled at him by the Spurs supporters. I was hoping we would not buckle. Of all games for us to play just after his court appearance was announced, too. There is no other fixture in the Chelsea calendar which has had such a back catalogue of venomous chants – from both sides – as Tottenham. My work colleague Mike, a United follower, acknowledged the toughness of this fixture for JT and Chelsea alike. I agreed. As I left the office, Mike suggested that a 1-1 score line would be just fine.

Music from Keane’s second album and a festive gingerbread latte from Costa at Reading Services fortified me on my drive east. As the journey continued, the negative vibes were disappearing and I began thinking about the chances of getting a positive result at White Hart Lane.

I soon found myself hurtling over the elevated section of the M4 just as the sun began to set. There was a line of twelve illuminated Christmas trees at Fullers Brewery to welcome me to Chelsealand and I was soon parked up at my usual place at around 5pm. I walked to Earl’s Court, stopping in to see my good friend Salvo at his restaurant en route. He was nursing a glass of red wine and was looking forward to watching the Chelsea game on TV. I had a cappuccino on the house and promised him that I would return after the game.

I reluctantly paid the £7 for the return fare to Seven Sisters; I was overdressed with a thick pullover and coat and the tube journey was very uncomfortable. Out into the cool evening air and I was glad to be able to have a relaxing stroll up the High Road. The one and a half mile walk took me thirty minutes and I was able to focus on the night’s game. But also of other games over the years, too.

As I crossed a road, I spotted the site of a former pub that my mate Glenn and I nipped in before the game in August 1987. On that particular day, we lost 1-0 to a last minute Nico Clausen goal, but the thing I remember from that game was the size of the Chelsea support in the massive 37,079 crowd. In those days, that was a very large attendance. We had opened up with two wins and the Chelsea fans responded in typically enthusiastic fashion. Glenn and I had seat tickets above the Chelsea terrace in the original Park Lane stand. We watched with growing pride as more and more Chelsea fans appeared. If memory serves, there seemed to be a lot of concern that the masses of away fans were being tightly squeezed in the available pens, complete with fences. I remember that the outcry from the Chelsea fans forced the police to open up a couple of pens in the terrace in front of The Shelf. This was a massive statement of intent from Chelsea.

Take that Tottenham.

Our away section was rammed and the atmosphere was red hot. If anything, this was the quintessential Chelsea memory from that period; without any silver wear for 16 years, we still took massive volumes to away games. How I miss the days when we could simply turn up on the day and fill away sections with 5,000 to 10,000 fans. Great times. For the record, despite the good start to that season – on until Christmas in fact – a second-half slump saw us relegated.

Altogether now; Typical Chelsea.

As I neared the centre of Tottenham, I noted blue and white Christmas lights adorning the street lights. I wondered if this was an attempt by the local council to spruce up the area after the ignominy of the riots in the summer. To be honest, I expected more burned-out shops, but the around White Hart Lane is never the most salubrious. Three police vans, sirens wailing flew past me. At Bruce Grove, police vans were parked outside The Ship pub. I’ve only ever had drinks at Tottenham on a couple of occasions and it isn’t pleasant. There are no designated away pubs.

You pay your money and you take your choice.

An enterprising vendor was selling Arsenal toilet rolls opposite the entrance to the Park Lane stand. There was hustle and bustle. Four folk dressed as cockerels were collecting for a charity. One major Spurs boozer was busy. I noted that a previously derelict pub, on the corner, was now the Tottenham ticket office. More police vans blocked the entrance to Park Lane. No hint of trouble, but the threat always there.

I ascended the several flights of stairs to the upper tier. Soon inside the bar area, I met up with Simon from Atlanta and it was great to see him again; our paths last crossed in the madness of Baltimore and the heat of Texas. We waited for other people to arrive. The access to the upper tier area at Tottenham is through a double door. Waiting for familiar faces to arrive was strangely akin to the wait for friends at an airport arrival terminal. The doors would be pushed open and faces would suddenly appear. Lots of unfamiliar ones, but then a few friends emerged from the stairwell. We all agreed that the game ahead could be a proper “backs to the wall” performance. We had heard that Bale was starting and the mood deepened.

The commonly held view of giving Fernando Torres a start was not shared by the manager and a few “tut tuts” were uttered by various mates.

Into the seats and I quickly spotted Alan and Gary. We have been away season ticket holders together since the autumn of 2006 and we must’ve seen around 80 league away games in each other’s presence since then. It’s always a pleasure to see them. We went through the teams, murmured something about it being a tough old evening, and then got behind the team. Just before the teams appeared from beneath the West stand, the Chelsea Christmas Choir sang a carol in praise of our captain.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50537927377658

Alan said that Drogba pulled up in the pre-match stretches, but he was playing. Jose Bosningwa was given the unenviable task of marking Bale. The atmosphere was prickling with barbs from both sets of fans.

White Hart Lane, despite being home to one of my personal enemies, is a great stadium. However, I liked it more when the idiosyncratic East Stand towered over The Self below and the rest of the other stands. The rest of the stands have since caught up, with a constant roof level, and the East Stand now looks half the size as the original despite it being exactly the same size. The mind plays tricks, I guess.

Spurs came at us straight from the off and we were encamped in our own half without relief.

The home fans began their slow dirge-like “Oh When The Spurs…”

A lightning break from that man Bale down the left and I was quickly reminded of the threat he poses. He advanced a yard or two past the chasing Bosingwa and sent in an inch-perfect cross into that part of the penalty area that TV commentators have dubbed “the corridor of uncertainty.” Cech seemed worried to commit fully and Adebayor bundled the ball in from close range before ambling over to our section and rubbing our noses in it with a silly dance.

Never mind players getting booked for taking their shirts off when they score; they should be cautioned for purposefully running to wind up the away fans. So, our worst fears were realised and I sent out a text –

“It’s going to be a long night.”

Up until that point, we were second best to everything and the home fans were roaring.

Well, we were never as low again during the whole night and we ended up producing one of our most invigorating displays of the season. Soon after I sent out that doom-mongering text, Juan Mata unleashed a long shot which Brad Friedel could only parry into the path of Daniel Sturridge. Unfortunately, the ball came at him on his right side and he screamed it over from an angle. Alan commented that our chances would be rare and we needed to take them.

Our support, not exactly quiet, were now in full flow and taunted the surprisingly subdued home fans with a classic –

“You burned your own town, you burned your own town – you stupid bastards, you burned your own town.”

The home fans simply had no answer for that. I’ve noted, actually, that the Spurs’ support always seemed to be more rabid – to put it bluntly, there was more pure hate – when we were on our historic run of dominance against them.

What was it? 32 league games home and away without defeat.

These days, The Lane…like The Bridge…has grown quieter.

Spurs’ early dominance was subsiding and we were getting more of a toe-hold in the game. A stinger from Raul Meireles was held by Friedel. A sublime piece of control by Drogba – letting the ball hit his chest, a turn, a volley – struck the near post with the Spurs ‘keeper beaten. That was just classic Drogba. Spurs countered on a few occasions, but our defence held firm. Neither Modric nor van der Vaart seemed at ease.

The Chelsea fans were in great voice.

“You are my Chelsea. My only Chelsea. You make me happy, when skies are grey. You’ll never notice how much we love you until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.
LA LA LA LA LA.
LA LA LA LA LA.
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH.
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH OH.
until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.
LA LA LA LA LA – OO!
LA LA LA LA LA – OO!
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH.
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH OH.
until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

This roared for minutes on end and Tottenham were silent. The spirit of 1987 lives on.

There’s another song which also draws silence from Tottenham –

“We won 6-1 at The Lane.”

However, we experienced injuries to first Ivanovic and then Mikel. We substituted these two players with Feirreira and Romeu. With memories of Paolo’s catastrophic game at centre-back against Sunderland last season fresh in everyone’s minds, we were placated by seeing him take up residence at full back.

But Bosingwa in the middle alongside JT? Not sure.

Talking of JT, it goes without saying that his every touch was loudly booed by the Spurs fans, but he just used that to stir him on. He hardly put a foot wrong as the first-half drew on.

I met up with Simon and also Burger at half time, out in the bar area, in the crowded walkway. I think this was Burger’s first visit to White Hart Lane. While I was lining up to use the facilities, I wondered to myself where the toilets actually ended and the rest of Tottenham began.

On the balcony walls at Tottenham, there are hardly any flags or banners draped. Instead, they have gone for a few choice Spurs phrases which appear every few yards. There is the asinine “Come On You Spurs.” But there is also “To Dare Is To Do” which is the translation of the club’s motto “Audere Est Facere.” Well, this should be changed to “To Dare Is To Win Fcuk All.”

In fact, if there was any team doing the daring on this crisp night in N17, it was Chelsea. We attacked and attacked throughout the second half and it seemed like we were the home team. With every prolonged bout of possession, or with every Ramires run or Sturridge dribble, the home fans grew quieter and quieter. We were revelling in the ascendency and the same old chant kept echoing around the packed stands.

“Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.
LA LA LA LA LA – OO!
LA LA LA LA LA – OO!
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH.
WOAH OH OH OH OH – WOAH OH OH OH OH.
until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

A magnificent through ball from Drogba set Ramires on his way, but he took an extra touch and missed the target. He was full of energy, though, and encapsulated our fine display. A JT header from a corner was saved by Friedel.

Oh how I would have loved to see him score.

I kept saying to Alan that this was a mightily brave performance from us. Full of movement, running and endeavour. Tackle after tackle upset Tottenham’s flow. The performance against Wigan seemed light years away. What a strange game football can be. Still the chances came; a flicked header from JT from a free-kick flashed agonisingly over. However, a free header from a whipped-in corner by Sandro flew past the far post and we heaved a massive sigh of relief.

Sandro found room for another effort on goal and his shot spun up off a Chelsea defender’s leg. Cech changed position in mid-air and palmed it over; quite an exceptional save, reminiscent of a Carlo Cudicini save at White Hart Lane many years ago.

This was pulsating stuff. Still we pressed for the winner. Tottenham were given a new lease of life with those close efforts on goal and William Gallas flashed wide at the near post. He held his head in his hands and I wondered about the way his career path has changed since he left us in 2006. There was always a lot of noise from the Arsenal supporters immediately after the infamous Gallas / Cole swap in that year. A lot of Goons claimed Arsenal had the best deal.

Ashley Cole has since won three FA Cups, one league title and one league cup.

William Gallas has won sweet FA.

“To Dare Is To Do”, eh William?

The game progressed at a pace. Torres replaced the redoubtable Drogba. Heartbreaking stuff now as a Mata free kick found the leaping Ramires – unmarked in the box – but his header flew narrowly wide. Oh how we rued that miss.

In the last Spurs attack of the game, an Adebayor break down the left. He took the ball on into the box. We held our collective breaths.

Memories of a late Robbie Keane goal at that end in 2008.

Adebayor swept the ball goal wards. It flew along the floor and from my seat I was not able to see how it drifted wide. The resultant corner suggested a Chelsea touch, but by whom I did not know.

At the final whistle, a massive cheer from the three thousand Chelsea loyalists. The players, God bless ‘em, slowly marched towards us and several threw their sweaty shirts into the crowd. John Terry, his every movement shadowed by a TV cameraman, gave his shirt away and stood before us, pounding his chest with his palm.

An iconic site.

He had been quite magnificent all evening to be honest. I thought that it was his best performance since his equally spectacular showing on the same pitch just over a year ago.

Outside on the High Road, I drifted away and quickly walked down to the Seven Sisters tube station. A lone police surveillance helicopter was whirring overhead, but I didn’t see or hear of any trouble. My three mile cardiovascular workout completed, I reached Salvo’s at 11.15pm and treated myself to a single Peroni and a pizza. It looked like Salvo had finished off a bottle of red wine since my previous visit and he was full of smiles and laughter, chatting about all sorts, but mainly football.

It was a great end to a lovely night in London Town; a battling performance at one of our main rivals and a hearty sing song to boot. My fellow Chelsea fans did me proud.

I eventually reached home at 2.30am and soon discovered on the internet that it was none other than John Terry who had blocked Adebayor’s goal bound effort; I should have guessed really.

John Terry – Captain, Leader…you know the rest.

Tales From The Roller Coaster

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Wigan Athletic vs. Chelsea : 17 December 2011.

There were reports of snow “up North” on Friday and on my brief foray around Frome on Saturday morning, I noted areas of black ice. I will be honest; I briefly wondered about the validity of the long trek up to Wigan for the evening kick-off. What if there was a calamitous fall of snow while the game was taking place. Would I then be stranded in deepest Lancashire?

Parky had been suffering badly with a stomach bug all week and had pulled out of the familiar journey to the former mill town of Wigan. It was going to be a solo trip north, just like a few years ago, before His Lordship chose to accompany me on the majority of my Chelsea adventures.

So, in the words of Joe Strummer; shall I stay or shall I go?

At just after 11am, I set off for Lancashire but I added a clause. I would return south as soon as I hit any serious weather. The long trip filled me with a little foreboding, but I quickly tuned the radio to Five Live and settled in for a few hours of football chat. Part of the Saturday programme was being recorded live from the iconic Salford Lads Club, in the shadows of Old Trafford, and I was reminded of the time that Gumby and I visited this famous building prior to our game at United in 2006. Its most famous role in popular culture was as a setting for a photograph used inside The Smiths’ “The Queen Is Dead” album in 1986.

“The queen is dead boys and it’s so lonely on a limb.”

Without the detour to collect Parky, I headed through Peasedown, touched the southern edge of Bath and skimmed Bristol before hitting the motorway network. There were periods of rain showers but sunny intervals, too.

The constant football banter on the radio helped the time race by. The Malverns around Tewkesbury were dusted with snow. I stopped for a coffee at Strensham, surprisingly quiet for a change; I guessed that neither United nor Liverpool were at home. There was a delay signposted ahead and so I broke off the M6 and headed through Stoke for the third time this season. All of the adjacent fields were covered in a thin covering of snow here, too. I passed The Britannia Stadium and then, five minutes later, I spotted the more down-at-heel Vale Park, the home of Port Vale. I refuelled at Sandbach, and then listened to a few minutes from Newcastle, where a Welsh tenor sang a stirring version of “Bread of Heaven” before a moment’s applause for the memory of Gary Speed.

As I neared Wigan, I half-heartedly listened to the first half of the Blackburn Rovers vs. West Bromwich Albion match. The radio people were continually returning to the fact that three of the lesser lights in the North West’s footballing landscape were currently occupying the relegation spots. After victories at Bolton and Blackburn, I certainly hoped for a win at the DW stadium to wrap up a trio of wins in Lancashire this season. And yet…there was a bit of me that half-expected Wigan to beat us. Call it my Chelsea sixth-sense. After a euphoric win against the leaders, how “Chelsea” for us it would be to lose to a lowly team a few days later. Maybe I have just been a fan of this club for too long.

The slow traffic on the M6 had resulted in the 200 mile journey to Wigan taking four-and-a-half hours. The diet of football on the radio had eased me through the late morning and afternoon. Thoughts of the next round of the Champions League certainly helped too. In a whirlwind few hours on Friday, I had booked some time off work and sorted out a flight from my local airport at Bristol to Rome, where I am staying a night with Alan and Gary, before heading down to Naples for the game. If that doesn’t excite me, something is wrong. It is a great dichotomy that most of Chelsea’s fan base was praying for an easy draw on Friday, whereas the match-going loyalists were craving for a great trip. Never mind the opposition, let’s get a good country, a great city and a new team.

I missed out on the Milan game in 1999 and the Inter game in 2010 due to work commitments, so I was long overdue a visit to the Stadio Guiseppe Meazza with Chelsea, although I had visited the stadium for two Inter league games in 1987 and 1990. Napoli was a different matter. If I am being honest, Napoli was my number one choice heading into the draw. An iconic city in the mezzogiorno. The city of the camorra. The home to a passionate and misunderstood populace; all football mad and delirious for success. The team of Maradona and all that. I briefly visited Naples in 1988 and 1990 but only got the briefest of tastes. It was a city like no other in Europe; maddening traffic, street urchins, noise, motorcycles, poverty… a city clinging on to Europe.

I can’t wait to return.

I parked up in my usual place at 3.45pm and I quickly decided that pre-match drinks were out of the question. With a potentially long and tiring return journey to come, I wanted to stay as fresh as I could. There had been mixed weather on the trip up, but there were clear skies at Wigan. The sun was setting and the air was cold. I walked to the stadium and noted a few locals wearing Santa hats. The Pogues’ “Fairy tale of New York” was playing on the stadium PA. I spent a while taking photographs of the exterior of the stadium. My two loves of football and photography enable me to combine two passions and I take a shedload of photographs on any given match day.

That I am a lover of stadia helps too.

At a Chelsea away game, I’ll be the one taking photos of roof trusses, turnstiles, illuminated signs, balcony walls, goal nets, corner flags, floodlights and statues.

The DW is a pretty bland stadium, located next to a retail park to the south, with a disproportionately large car park to the north. It will win no prizes for stadia design, but acts as a suitable home to the town’s football and rugby league teams. This would be my seventh visit to the stadium with Chelsea – probably the only stadium where I have seen every single one of Chelsea’s games. My mate Steve had been texting me with news of my local team Frome Town throughout the day. The final score brought a smile to my cheeks on a cold day; the Robins had continued their fine away form with a 2-0 win at the sublimely named Swindon Supermarine. There is a definite disappointment that I will be otherwise engaged at The Bridge on Boxing Day when Frome Town host Dorset’s biggest non-league team Weymouth. A gate of between 750 and 1,000 is expected for that one. I would love to be there for that; Frome’s biggest home league game for decades.

Before the game, I met up with Gill and Graeme and took a few photos of the Chelsea team going through their pre-match drills. I looked hard for Fernando Torres but couldn’t spot him; I couldn’t believe that he wouldn’t start. The stadium took ages to fill up and at 5pm, the place only held around 3,000 people. I looked over to the side stand, where 400 noisy home fans were based and saw a nice banner; quite self-deprecating –

“We Come From Wigan And We Live In Mud Huts.”

During the last few minutes of the pre-game ritual, an old Christmas cracker from 1973 boomed around the stadium.

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I scrambled back to my allotted seat in row M just as Alan and Gary arrived.

“Hiya boys. Cold enough for ya?”

I was reminded of how steep the rakes of seats are at Wigan. I’m not sure how many we took to the game – maybe 3,500 at only £25 a pop – but the majority stood throughout.

I was wrong; Torres was on the bench yet again and Didier was playing. Lampard was in for the injured Ramires; no complaints.

This was a poor Chelsea performance on a bitter Lancashire evening. As the game developed, the Chelsea support grew more and more frustrated with our lack of desire and running. The songs were quite fragmented. I was expecting a full bodied reprise of “One Step Beyond” to be roaring around the away stand but I guess that particular song is difficult to replicate during a match.

Chelsea had most of the ball in the first-half, but that is to be expected. However, a John Terry thunderbolt after 15 minutes was the first meaningful attempt on goal. We’re still all waiting for John’s first ever blooter from outside the box; all of his Chelsea goals have been close range headers and prods from inside the box as far as I can remember. One day it will come; I have a feeling he is saving it for a Cup Final.

Oriel Romeu’s low drive, which was turned around El Habsi’s post, and a stooping header from Drogba represented our only other notable chances. Wigan, however, seemed content to soak up the pressure and hit us on a few breaks. Several contentious refereeing decisions which went against Wigan raised the hackles of the home support. Ivanovic, especially, was lucky not to have been penalised for a handball. A few nervous Cech clearances brought howls of complaint from the Chelsea faithful. At times our play was staid and unimaginative. Sturridge had started enthusiastically, but faded as the game developed. At times our midfield were like statues. In the last move of the half, a Wigan break resulted in a ball whipped across the box, just a few yards away from us all, which evaded everyone. A simple Wigan lunge was all that was required.

At the break, Gary summed it all up –

“Come on, we’re fcuking 5hit.”

At the break I bumped into Burger and Julie; they are excitedly bound for Italy on their first ever Chelsea European adventure.

I think we were all surprised that Oriel Romeu was substituted at the break. On came Kalou and I never really managed to work out who was playing where. Sometimes the raw emotion which I feel at games hinders my ability to fully understand subtle changes to team shape and methodology. We attempted to sing our support, but – like the team – that was disappointing, too. Kalou was soon involved and his typically tricky, heart-in-the-mouth, “he’ll lose the ball in his next kick” run into the box found Drogba, who prodded the ball into the side-netting with the outside of his foot.

On the hour, a great cross from Ashley Cole found Daniel Sturridge out on the edge of the box, just to my left. With a lovely move, he brought the ball down and despatched the ball into the net with his right foot.

The Chelsea support heaved a sigh of relief, I took a few blurry photographs of Studge’s celebratory stance and Alan and I did our usual “THTCAUN & COMLD” post goal routine.

Phew.

Rather than grow on this, we retreated into our collective shell, allowing Wigan several long range shots. The defence were looking decidedly shaky too, with several errors causing gasps and gulps amongst the 3,500 away fans. Our support grew more and more tense. The Wigan fans in the corner, the brave 400 from the mud huts, kept singing though. The rest of the home crowd was so quiet, but at least that corner section kept going. Fair play to them.

I could hardly believe that Torres couldn’t get on the pitch. Malouda and Mikel came on, but added nothing. Torres, bless him, must be wondering what he has to do. Was AVB’s plan to save him for Thursday? Highly unlikely.

And then it happened. It all unravelled before us in agonising “we’ve seen it all before” slow motion. A break down the right; Ivanovic out of position, trying to cover, but failing. A cross come shot spilled by Cech and a Wigan player pounced.

1-1.

Expletive deleted.

AVB’s uncharacteristically cautious approach almost paid off, but as Ruud Gullit once said “football is all about small moments” and our game at Wigan boiled down to Petr Cech not being able to gather that shot on 86 minutes. A header over the bar from a Wigan attack saved us further embarrassment and it remained 1-1.

The final whistle blew and my only thought was to get back to the car. Standing all game, my legs took a while to jump to life. My knees especially hurt like hell. I got back to the car in just 15 minutes and I wish that our players had shown similar urgency.

This seemed like a loss.

Despite stopping off for the usual Chelsea away day combination of carbohydrates and caffeine at Keele Services, I managed to return home in just three and a half hours. I won’t say it flew by, but with music from Everything But The Girl, Depeche Mode, Sex Pistols and Echo and The Bunnymen, I was at least I able to try to avoid thinking too hard about those dropped points.

But it was difficult to ignore.

Everyone had underperformed, to be honest. I do not relish the role of critic – my job is to support – but the manager made some strange decisions and our players were lackadaisical. I remember saying a few weeks back that this season will be a roller-coaster and the events of Saturday 17th. December have clearly not changed my opinion.

Tales From The Rock-Steady Beat Of Madness

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester City : 12 December 2011.

From a long way out, the Monday evening game with unbeaten Manchester City always felt like a big game on a big night. Our uplifting victories over Newcastle United and Valencia, plus the absence of a game for six days, only heightened my sense of anticipation. Two formerly under-achieving clubs, now enjoying a much more prosperous time. Two moneyed clubs heading for a showdown. It felt good.

With Manchester City going on such a tear this season, I could not help thinking back to our championship in 2004-2005. There are certain similarities, of that nobody can deny. And I wondered if we could inflict on City the same sort of wound on them that City inflicted on us. Think back to October 2004 and a single Nicolas Anelka goal gave City a 1-0 win at Eastlands. It was to be our only defeat throughout that entire league campaign.

During the day, I was upbeat about the match and told a few people that I felt that we would win. I could feel it in my heart. I could feel it in my bones. I could even visualise it in my head.

Parky and I had a new travelling companion for this game. Simon works in Bath for my company’s client Herman Miller. He drove over to the Chippenham warehouse and offices in the afternoon in order to enable us to get away dead on 4pm. We made better time than usual on the drive east. The weather was OK, the roads relatively free of heavy traffic. I cut the recent three hour trip by 30 minutes and we were inside The Goose just after 6.30pm. We joined up with the usual assortment of mates at the end of the bar. Andy was there with his father; a nice treat for them both. A few handshakes with the boys and I then looked down at the table. And there he was –

It was a quarter to seven and Rob was tucking in to a fry-up. It was his match-day breakfast.

Old habits die hard, eh?

With the game kicking off at 8pm, the three of us from the shires of Somerset and Wiltshire had a full 45 minutes of pre-match reverie. The Goose was packed with loads of familiar faces. Two pints of lager for me. They left me rather light-headed and I knew that I had to stop there. The vibes were good, the pub was boisterous. But then I saw City’s team flashed up on the nearby TV screen and their forward line made me stop in my tracks.

Silva, Aguero, Balotelli.

Gulp.

We were in for a tough one.

However, I was certainly happy with our team and, for once, AVB chose exactly the same team that I would have. Significantly, Romeu was in and Lampard was on the bench. The times they are-a-changing.

Just as I put my jacket back on, Alan asked me –

“Did you realise you are wearing a sky blue cap?”

To be honest, I hadn’t realised the significance of my light blue Hackett cap, adorned with the badge of the Chelsea Supporters Group. It is my favourite cap at the moment – it fits well – and the fact that I was wearing the colours of our opponents had completely slipped my mind.

Simon and I headed off down the North End Road, leaving His Lordship to finish swilling the last of his lager. As we walked past the tube, past the CFCUK stall, the wind whistled around our ears, fallen leaves swirling around in circling patterns. Spectators were in a hurry, bustling along to get inside, jackets tight, scarves and caps to the fore. The familiar match day aroma of burgers and onions. The lights of the stadium beckoned us in.

Inside with a good ten minutes to spare, we could relax. Simon sat next to Alan and I. Tom, our spritely 75 year old companion, was wearing a hoody to keep himself warm and I couldn’t resist a photo. 85 year old Joe handed over a Christmas card to me; he has done so every year for the past seven years. I well remember the little message he wrote in the first of these in December 2004 –

“Chelsea will win the league this season.”

The pre-match rituals; The Liquidator, the flags, the entrance of the teams. The rain was lashing down, but we didn’t care. With everybody in place, I realised that Manchester City had only brought half of their potential allocation on this big night in SW6. This really surprised me. I could imagine the United fans, ironically watching from their Old Trafford season ticket seat on their sofa, laughing at this. United always bring three thousand, City hardly ever. Only three City flags. Poor showing, the team of Manchester.

I’m not sure why, but as this Monday night game kicked-off, I was reminded of a previous match, as I so often am. Way back in 1994, our second home game of the season was a Wednesday night game against City. I’m pretty sure they wore their famous red and black stripes in that game, too. Maybe that is why I was sent swirling back through the years. We won 3-0 that night, but what I remember most is the attendance. We were on the up, having qualified for our first European campaign in 23 years and had begun the season under Hoddle in good form. With The Bridge undergoing its long awaited rebuilding programme, the capacity was cut to around 23,000. A full house on the opening day against Norwich was followed eleven days later with a game against City. We are used to full houses these days with every game over 40,000. Gone are the days when “Guess the Gate” was such an integral part of the Chelsea match day experience. Back in the old days, we all got rather good at this.

“Poor last week, not many away fans, midweek game – I reckon 15,000.”

“Two games in a week, bit better last time – how about 17,000?”

In those days, the number of spectators present was an easy indicator of how big Chelsea was, as opposed to how big it thought it was. Back in August 1994, I was hoping that we would get over 20,000 for the City game, but was certainly preparing for a “typical Chelsea” midweek gate of 15,000. Well, I remember being immensely happy with the gate of 21,740 for that midweek game all those years ago. It was a sign that, perhaps, the momentum at our club was changing for the better.

Small details from all those years ago – it seems a different age, a different game, in some respects. Crazy, really. How both of the two clubs have enjoyed varying fortunes since 1994.

Chelsea – always improving, year on year, but with a few minor setbacks.

City – down to the old third division but now back with a vengeance.

Well, City were in sublime form during the first twenty-five minutes of the game. I wasn’t paying particularly strong attention on just two minutes – taking a photo, no doubt – when our high line was breached and Balotelli broke and rounded Cech to almost embarrassingly pass the ball into the net. This was only after two minutes and The Bridge fell silent. Out of sight, the Citizens were celebrating, but my eyes were fixed on the nonchalant shrug of Balotelli. A plastic bottle from the MHL flew past him.

City purred in the opening exchanges, finding spaces in all parts of our final third. There was a supreme fluidity to their play, with Silva at the heart. Passes were exchanged at will and Chelsea’s best was clearly not good enough. We all feared for the worst. Simon, who runs a local Saturday team, was passing comments about our defensive failings and we were lamenting our play. A Gareth Barry shot whizzed past. A Silva penalty claim was thankfully waved away.

Texts from Glenn in Frome and Steve in Philadelphia came through within ten seconds of each other saying that we had been lucky; it was a penalty and only Silva’s theatrics saved us.

Slowly, but surely – I can’t say how – we enjoyed more of the ball, more of the territory, more of the game. I guess we stood up as men and Chelsea players. Somehow, we got closer to City, we became less scared.

A delightful dribble and shimmy from the lively Daniel Sturridge, way down in front of Parky in the Shed Lower, and a dagger into the heart of the City defence.

Meireles arriving, a stab at goal, the ball crashing against the net.

What a strike – a truly dramatic moment.

We were level and the crowd, already stirring before the goal, were roaring.

A text from Michigan –

“Get the fcuk in there Meireles.”

We were getting back into the game, for sure, and the rest of the first-half was played out with growing confidence as the players fed off the support roaring from the four stands, cascading down on the team. Heartening for the Chelsea players, but disquieting for the visitors. Just before the break, the crowd were bellowing scorn on City’s Champions League exit –

“Thursday Night – Channel Five, Thursday Night – Channel Five.”

Not even the United fans at home could join in with that one.

At the break, a star from that 1994 game was on the pitch with Neil Barnett; our Russian goalkeeper Dmitri Kharine .

As Joe Hart approached the Matthew Harding, he was clapped by a few hundred fans and I realised how this old-fashioned tradition has almost died in modern day football. As Hart is an England international, I guess he is one of the few visiting goalkeepers who will warrant such a response from the Chelsea faithful.

If the first-half was eventually shared, the second period belonged to us. A Mata free kick was belted over by Sturridge from an angle, but we were enjoying much more of the ball. Romeu was closing space and tackling hard, his passing clean and intelligent. Mata was the magician, twisting like Gianfranco in his prime. One sublime piece of skill below me drew a foul from Kompany, but the free-kick was wasted.

Soon after, a run by Ramires – another player growing as the game progressed- and he drew a foul from Clichy. It was his second yellow and he was off.

The home crowd roared. Things were getting better by the minute.

It struck me that there were growing similarities to the home game with Manchester United back in March; a goal down, outclassed, an equaliser through dogged perseverance, a sending-off. I mentioned this to both Simon and Alan.

The game was brewing nicely. I kept looking at the clock and wanted the game to stir us further in the remaining 25, 20, 15 minutes.

On 72 minutes, Frank Lampard replaced the excellent Ramires and I thought back to that night in March when Frank struck a late penalty past Van de Sar. City had already taken off Aguero and Silva; they were settling for a point. This pleased me further. Their attacks were infrequent now and Chelsea were fighting for possession, though efforts on Hart’s goal were rare commodities.

Then, in a moment of play which was a blur, the fresh Lampard found Studge, whose shot struck the raised arm of Lescott. The crowd stopped to a man and all eyes centred on the referee Mark Clattenburg.

He pointed to the spot and the Stamford Bridge crowd exploded.

More thoughts of that game against United.

Frank placed the ball on the spot, retreated and the crowd waited. I held my camera steady and clicked just as Frank struck.

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Straight down Broadway, straight down Regent Street.

The ball thundered past Hart and the net flew back as the white ball crashed into it.

We exploded again and I watched as Frank dived into the first few rows of the MHL. He was soon joined by his team mates down below me and I clicked away, then celebrated wildly with Alan and Simon, who I inadvertently thumped in the stomach.

Wild scenes on a wild night.

I was right about comparisons with that United game.

Again the home fans were united in voice, as that lovely old standard echoed sublimely around all four stands –

“And it’s super Chelsea. Super Chelsea FC. We’re by far the greatest team, the world has ever seen.”

I looked around in awe – it really did seem that every one of the 40,000 Chelsea fans were joining in.

What a moment. The best noise at Chelsea for years.

The rest of the game really was a blur.

The final whistle blew and we all hugged and clapped. It had been a truly thrilling game and it was oh-so enjoyable. Before I could stop and think further, the PA was ignited and these words blasted out into the dark, wet, London night –

“Hey you, don’t watch that –
Watch this!
This is the heavy heavy monster sound.
The nuttiest sound around.
So if you’ve come in off the street.
And you’re beginning to feel the heat.
Well listen buster
You better start to move your feet.
To the rockinest, rock-steady beat
Of Madness.
One Step Beyond!”

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…and the Stamford Bridge stands bounced as thousands of Chelsea fans turned nutty.

What a night. We got absolutely drenched on the trudge back to the car, and the long drive home was horrible; full of rain, spray, gusts of wind, surface water.

But I didn’t care. This had been a superb night, long to be remembered in the history of our beloved club. We had stood up to the challenge and had overcome an excellent Manchester City team. More importantly, perhaps, the crowd had supported the team in a way that I thought had almost disappeared. It had been a lovely night.

Well done Chelsea.

Tales From A Love Affair Rekindled

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Valencia : 6 December 2011.

This is Chelsea’s ninth consecutive season in which we have competed in the Champions League. On all other eight occasions, we have qualified for the knockout phase. Our first season was in 1999-2000, but we then dipped-out for three seasons before qualifying again in 2003, just in time for Roman Abramovich to join the party. Way back in our inaugural season, which began with that pulsating 0-0 draw with Milan at Stamford Bridge in September 1999, the format was different with two group phases. In that campaign, we advanced from both group stages to eventually lose to Barcelona in the quarter finals. Every autumn for the past nine years, our football fixture list has been speckled with foreign names and it has been a wonderful period. Of course, we have been the nearly men of European football in these seasons, with heroic failures, unjust refereeing decisions and plain bad luck holding us back from the ultimate prize in club football. However, in our tenth Champions League season, we had a proud record to uphold; we had never failed to get out of the first round of matches.

Parky and I were in no doubt that we would prevail against Valencia. Failure was simply not an option.

Within a few minutes of joining the traffic on the eastbound carriageway of the M4, the weather became atrocious. There was rain and there was mist. There were low lying clouds and there was spray from the cars in front. At one point, the horizon was not able to be perceived. I was simply driving into a mass of grey.

I was relishing this match at Chelsea. Work was behind me and I could relax. But this weather was a pain.

We spoke briefly of the game.

“Surely Lampard and Torres will start, mate.”

But then we spoke of other things and the time passed quickly. We joined the mass of cars making the final slow approach into London. At Chiswick, the Porsche garage was having an open evening and we spotted a band of musicians setting up some instruments to provide entertainment for the moneyed customers. Leggy blondes were teetering on high heels, offering champagne.

It made me realise how affluent parts of London have become.

Parky and I made a few jokes and pressed on.

After three hours of battling the inclement weather and the heavy traffic, we joined the regulars in the decidedly working-class Goose pub, right on the crossroads of the North End Road and Lillee Road. The place seemed quiet. We soon got the drinks in – a pint of lager apiece. Time was against us, though. Only time for the one, rapidly quaffed in 15 minutes, amidst chat with a few mates about the night’s upcoming game.

“No Lampard and Torres, mate.”

At 7.15pm, I set off for The Bridge.

At 7.43pm, I was in, just as the Champions League anthem was echoing around the packed Stamford Bridge stadium. I couldn’t evaluate how The Goose was so quiet, yet the ground was full. I guessed that there were fewer regulars and less locals at the game – but more tourists. No doubt that tourists are more likely to spend a pre-match in the immediate high end bars around the stadium and are unlikely to venture up to the hardened end of the North End Road, amongst the Polish food stores, the Ethiopian cafes, the discount shops, the second-hand furniture stores and the launderettes.

Our pre-match habits are long engrained and we don’t often venture too far from The Goose. We know which side our bread is buttered. But I’ve often thought that it would be good to experience a few more boozers in and around HQ. To be honest, we would, if it wasn’t so expensive.

Alan reminded me that the Valencia players were wearing plain white shirts, with no commercial adornments. We made up for it with an extra line of text – “Right To Play” – beneath our rather large numbers on the backs of our home jerseys. I can’t say that I find this aesthetically pleasing to be honest.

The game began amidst vibrant support from the home stands.

“Chelsea” – clap, clap, clap.

And what an opening few minutes. Daniel Sturridge, again deployed in the wide right berth, played in a ball to Didier Drogba. He laid off the ball to Raul Meireles, in the Lampard role arriving on time on the edge of the box. He unleashed a powerful drive which was well saved by the Valencia ‘keeper Diego Alves. Right after, Juan Mata did well to recover a ball from Studge down inside the Shed penalty area. He played the ball back to the waiting Didier Drogba who had time to take an extra touch and coolly placed the ball into the goal.

After just three minutes, we were 1-0 up and boy it felt good.

Just after, it was Valencia’s turn. Jordi Alba’s run beat our offside trap and his angled drive thudded against Petr Cech’s near upright.

We had been warned. This was a lively game, with lots of running and intelligent passing. David Albelda tested Cech with a long drive, but our ‘keeper managed to claw it away at full stretch.

We had been warned again.

Midway through this pulsating half, Drogba at his finest. A ball was played up to him inside his own half and he leapt well, bringing the ball under his control before spinning away from his markers, bludgeoning through the opponent’s defence and laying a divine ball into the path of Ramires. Our lithe Brazilian advanced, shrugged off a challenge and swept the ball into the net with the ‘keeper stranded.

We had a lovely purple patch towards the end of the first period, with Mata at the heart of our best moves. Sturridge, wide on the right, was often involved but his final ball often lacked purpose. But I felt for him; he’s not a winger. We continue to be a mix-match of personalities in positions which are often unfamiliar. We are in search of a new methodology and we’ll get there eventually.

With the crowd buoyed by the two goals, the atmosphere was louder than usual – at times – this season. We were playing well and in a moment of clarity in this season of change, I settled on the opinion that if we were changing our personnel, let us have some fun and some goals along the way. In the seasons when Chelsea habitually won nothing, the least we desired was entertainment. We can’t say we haven’t been entertained this season, can we? High-scoring games, tons of goals and a thousand talking points.

A right royal blue roller-coaster of a season lies ahead.

Yes, the first-half belonged to Chelsea and I saw some nice positives in our attacking play, but a few nervous errors from Ivanovic at the back. Luiz was thankfully on the fringes. I’m still not sure about him. Sturridge and Meireles had additional chances, but Valencia managed a share of the ball.Thankfully, we kept their forward thrusts to a minimum. The away fans seemed to be pretty subdued.

John Dempsey was on the pitch at half-time and he got a warm reception from the Stamford Bridge crowd. The Steve Miller Band’s “Abracadabra” gave way to Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believing” and I was transported to ‘eighties America, all naff denim and big hair.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50502387062658

After the break, Valencia kept plugging away but the most clearcut chances fell our way. A Drogba free-kick whistled past a post. A lovely ball from the maturing Oriel Romeu released the speedy Sturridge, but his shot was saved. On the hour, I suddenly realised that Valencia were enjoying their most dominant spell of the game.

The Chelsea supporters were hushed and nervous. Both Alan and I joined in with every slight sniff of a supportive chant, but we were in the minority. Feghouli slammed a ball at the Chelsea goal on 62 minutes, but Petr Cech threw himself at the ball and made a superb save.

Mikel replaced the effervescent Ramires and this decision was met with a few boos and catcalls.

The old standard was sung heartily for a few moments –

“Come On Chelsea, Come On Chelsea, Come On Chelsea, Come On Chelsea.”

Next, it was the turn of a rampaging Drogba, released by Sturridge, to bear down on goal with nobody chasing him. Maybe he had too much time, but he took an extra touch and his shot went wide. He lay prostrate on the ground for a few seconds, exhausted with his physical exertions. As he got to his feet, the Matthew Harding serenaded the Ivorian and it was clear that there was a rediscovered love for this most complex of characters.

This was his night. The Drogba of old.

Twisting into space, battling and fighting, then sprinting away from attentive foes.

Fearsome stuff.

Then, some interplay betwixt the two sets of fans, with the home fans answering the cries of the visitors.

“Valencia!”

“Chelsea!”

“Valencia!”

“Chelsea!”

“Valencia!”

“Chelsea!”

“Valencia!”

“Chelsea!”

“Valencia!”

“Chelsea!”

“Valencia!”

“Chelsea!”

“Valencia!”

“Chelsea!”

“Valencia!”

“Chelsea!”

Soon after, Mata played in Drogba and the night’s hero calmly drew the ‘keeper before rolling the ball into the waiting net.

The place erupted and I watched as Drogba raced over to my corner of the pitch. He gestured “thanks” to Juan Mata, posed in a typically iconic stance and then was engulfed by his relieved team mates. It was a lovely moment.

We could sigh a massive breath. We had ridden the storm and we were through. Over in Belgium, we had heard that Genk were helping us with a goal against Ballack’s Leverkusen, but then the news came through of an equaliser.

It did not matter.

Malouda and Torres were late substitutions, but their contributions were of no importance. Another great save from Petr Cech – low down, on the line, from a header – simply reinforced the feeling that this was our night.

This was a great game. I really enjoyed it. Valencia were no mugs. It reminded me of recent seasons in Europe when our will to win always seemed to carry us through. I was very impressed with Romeu, Meireles and Ramires in the midfield. Mata again was involved everywhere. In one memorable moment, both wingers were overlapping each other on the right flank. Never has a left winger been given so much licence to roam wherever he likes. Sturridge drifted out of the game, but he shows great promise. The defence was solid, John Terry the star. Petr Cech had one of his best games for ages.

But the main man – the terror of the Valencia defence – was the number eleven.

Welcome back Didier.

We have missed you.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Category Archives: Season 2011-2012.

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