Tales From The Carling Cup Quarter Final

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 29 November 2011.

During my recent report from the League match a week or so ago, I had already established that one in nine of all the Chelsea games I have seen have involved Liverpool . So, it’s fair to say that there was a certain element of truth to the old saying about “familiarity brewing contempt” as I anticipated the Carling Cup Quarter Final against them.

There were very real fears of another potential disaster against Liverpool , but also – after the reasonable level of improvement against Wolves on Saturday – a growing expectation that we could gain revenge for the two most recent painful home defeats against them.

We live in a town called Hope, in a county called Hopeshire, in a country called Hopeland.

You get my drift.

I had a busy day at work but left Chippenham bang on 4pm. I collected His Lordship. He was still groggy with a cold and I had a slight headache. Not the best of conditions with which to set off on a drive up to London. As Liverpool had taken the full 6,000 allocation for The Shed, Parky would be displaced for this game, instead watching down in the quietness of the West Lower. As I drove towards Swindon on the M4, I could not help but notice the dark foreboding clouds which were ominously awaiting me in the east. These compared unfavourably with the clearer skies behind me in the west, past Bristol and beyond, the setting sun tainting a few white clouds with an orange glow.

Thankfully, the rain abated and the weather was reasonable, but – oh boy – I felt tired. I pulled in at Membury Services for a large Starbucks cappuccino and then battled the growing traffic as I headed towards Reading. This rush of caffeine invigorated me and I was able to relax a little. There was even the occasional thought about the imminent game. At Heston, just past Heathrow airport, I stopped for a Red Bull to keep me from flagging. Throughout it all, Parky was alongside, chattering away about all sorts. These midweek dashes from Chippenham to London are well-chronicled in these reports and I suppose that there will be a game in the future when I will say to myself –

“No. Enough is enough. I’m not going.”

The home streak will come to an end and I will find myself at home, maybe listening to the game on the radio or watching the game on TV or my laptop.

Until then, I’ll keep battling the rush hour traffic, the occasionally malevolent weather, the headaches and the tiredness.

The traffic grew slower as we approached Chiswick and then Hammersmith. We soon realised that we wouldn’t be able to join the regulars in The Goose for a pre-match tipple. With the traffic crawling down the North End Road , I took evasive action and parked a good few hundred yards further out than my normal parking place. I had just received delivery of a new hire car at work – a black Volkswagon Polo – and this was my inaugural journey.

I made special note of where I had parked. There was a slight risk that I would not be able to locate the new car, with an easily forgettable set of number plates, in an unfamiliar setting. I had visions of us at around 3am, stumbling around in the darkness of West London .

“Well, it must be around here somewhere, Parky.”

It had taken me a full three hours to reach my destination. We strode on past The Goose, barely slowing our pace to glimpse inside to see if any of our mates were inside. I quickly spotted the baseball cap, festooned with Chelsea badges, of Digger. Another Chelsea character, “Shorts Al”, was also spotted (so called because – go on, guess – he wears shorts at every Chelsea game, irrespective of the weather).

With tickets a reasonable £25, I expected another full house and the Fulham Road, past the old tube station to the West Stand entrance, was packed with people. I detected a few stray Liverpudlian accents.

As I waited in line outside the turnstiles outside the entrance to the Upper Tier of the Matthew Harding, I looked down at the Chelsea fans milling around and filing past to enter the Lower Tier turnstiles. To my left was the wall which marked the northern perimeter of the stadium, with the embankment of the District Line beyond. This would be the site of the oft-mentioned northern walkway which Chelsea have allegedly contemplated building to ease egress from the stadium should expansion take place. Just above a couple of large refuse bins, just to the right of a hot dog stand, perched on the top of the wall, was a fox.

The Chelsea fans walked past it, barely within four or five feet away. It slunk down on its haunches, hiding in the shadows, possibly waiting to pounce on a half-eaten burger. It had a decrepit appearance, its fur bedraggled and its eyes mean. It looked rather pathetic. It had seen better days.

It made me wonder if it really should have been down at The Shed End.

I made it to my seat with barely five minutes to spare before kick-off. Yes, another full house. A few more Liverpool flags and banners than the home game. They looked in a boisterous mood.

Before the game, the players assembled in the centre circle and the crowd fell silent as Stamford Bridge paid respects to Gary Speed. What a tragic story. Within seconds, both sets of supporters began applauding and this lasted a full minute, with everyone clapping for the entire time. This is a relatively new phenomenon in the UK, borrowed from Italy. The first time I can remember this happening was down on the south coast on a murky December evening in 2005, when Portsmouth and Chelsea fans broke years of protocol by spontaneously erupting in applause after 20 seconds of silence at the memory of George Best.

Gary Speed – A life lost way too soon.

Rest In Peace.

Andre Villas-Boas rang the changes and played Torres, Lukaku and Malouda in attack, It was great to see Young Josh alongside the freshly shaven Oriel Romeu and the recalled Frank Lampard in midfield. At the back, young Ryan Bertrand took the left back position, with the Brazilians Luiz and Alex in the middle. Bosingwa at right back, Ross in goal.

Two Brazilian centre-backs. I suppose at that moment I should have been prepared for a rough old night.

The all red of Liverpool versus the classic blue, blue and white of Chelsea.

My 56th. game involving the two teams.

After just two minutes, a forward run of David Luiz resulted in a fall inside the box at the Shed End. We all presumed a penalty, but no! Referee Phil Dowd (never a favourite at Chelsea) booked the Brazilian for diving. I really could not see clearly enough to see if this was the correct decision. Chelsea and Liverpool shared possession in the first few minutes, but the next talking point came on 21 minutes. Carroll went up for a high ball in the Chelsea box and, as soon as he landed, raced over to the referee along with three or four team mates. Again, I couldn’t see what the problem was. But Dowd didn’t do anything. I presumed that he would wave them away and continue.

To our disbelief, he pointed to the spot and I was stunned. It had been a good 15 seconds after the initial incident. The lino wasn’t flagging. Was his decision down to the boisterous appeals of the away players?

Shocking.

Not to worry – Ross Turnbull did well to block the penalty from Andy Carroll.

A massive roar.

After the penalty misses by Fulham and Everton, the trend in this year’s competition was continuing.

The highlights of the rest of the half were few and far between. Chelsea had most of the ball, but did very little with it. The midfield overpassed and the front three were impotent. A good ball into the path of Lukaku in the inside right channel, but the youngster was easily brushed aside. He then made amends with a strong run down to the goal line, but his ball into the box was blocked. Liverpool came back into the game as the half came to its conclusion, with the irritant Bellamy buzzing around like a pest. Sadly, Josh had received a knock and was replaced by Ramires.

Chelsea now contained three Brazilians.I filmed a few seconds from the tight and narrow area beneath the upper tier seats, looking out at the pitch from one of the vomitories.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50486569672658

Eventually, at some stage in the future, I will have captured every brick, every seat, every blade of grass, every angle, every inch of Stamford Bridge.

Just before the break, our best chance of the game. A superb early ball from Bos found the head of Lukaku. His firm header looped over the intersection of the far post and the bar. It missed by a whisker.

Throughout the first-half, the Liverpool fans had stood, singing the usual songs…the “History” song, the “Li – ver – pool” dirge and the (stolen from Celtic) “Fields of Athenry / Anfield Road.”

At the break, they unfurled a new banner which said –

“Christmas is coming.
Lampard’s getting Fat.
Torres is a lady boy.
Mereiles is a twat.”

Ooh, that Scouse humour.

Neil Barnett introduced a face familiar to a certain generation of Chelsea fans.

“He scored 24 goals in the 1976-1977 promotion season. I toured with him in 2009 with the American fans and he hasn’t been able to stand since – Jock Finnieston!”

My mate Gal came over to chat for a few minutes at the break. He is a French polisher by trade and is still employed on a daily basis at Stamford Bridge, where his work has taken him into the executive areas of the West Stand. He quipped –

“Yeah, I’ve been here longer than some of the managers.”

It had been a poor first-half from Chelsea, but we began the second period in a far livelier fashion. This invigorated the home supporters and the noise levels increased. On 54 minutes, a Lampard free-kick ended up with an odd effort from the quiet Florent Malouda which eventually bounced onto the bar. David Luiz couldn’t quite turn the rebound in.

Soon after, the defence went missing as a ball was played out to Craig Bellamy on the right. From my biased perspective, he looked offside. He played in an early ball and there was Maxi to pounce at the far post. The away fans went ballistic and I felt nauseous.

Soon after, a Liverpool free kick and the slightest of touches from Kelly.

2-0.

Anelka and Mata came on, but our form did not improve. On 74 minutes, Anelka was one on one with Reina, but took too much time to decide what to do and the moment was gone. Just after, a Lampard corner picked out a great leap by Fernando Torres, but his header was ably saved by the ‘keeper. Our frustrations grew louder and the Chelsea players became more frantic and dispirited. With ten minutes to go, the home fans headed home and by full time, the place was about 60% full. I received a text from 612steve in deepest Philadelphia.

“They’re leaving by the dozen. What I wouldn’t give to be there.”

Steve is yet to visit Stamford Bridge and I felt his pain. It seems that our support needs a kick up the arse in addition to the playing staff. Over in The Shed, the away fans were singing long into the night. At times, they were the noisiest I have heard at Stamford Bridge for a while. I suppose – thinking about it – it shows how far we have come. Ten years ago, Liverpool would not have been overly excited about a League cup victory over us.

Since then, we have grown, they have stagnated.

But the rivalry has moved on further.

We simply don’t like each other.

Liverpool are the new Leeds.

After the game, I met up with Parky and Josh outside The Goose and we spent an enjoyable hour or so in The Lily, drinking lager, eating curry and chatting about Chelsea. Josh had loved his time in England – and Germany and The Netherlands. He was already talking about his next visit in 2012. He had watched the match from a central location in the front row of the East Upper.

Great view, poor match.

We said our farewells and I managed to find the car.

I eventually reached home at 2am.

My head was still racing. I surfed the internet and spotted a few comments about the game. I was too numb to think too much about things really. Time for introspection would come later.

Bloody Liverpool.

Tales From A Different Angle

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 26 November 2011

Well, I won’t lie. After all of the travelling to and from Germany, I would have preferred the League game with Wolves to have been taking place on the Sunday. Saturday was just too quick. Too soon. I think that my head was still over in Germany. You know how it is when you go away on holiday. It takes a while to adjust and get back to normal. Then there was the dark cloud hanging over everyone at Chelsea. The fact that we are going through a dip in form certainly did not help.

The alarm sounded at 6.30am and I struggled to get out of bed.

“Here we go again.”

I called for Lord Parky and we were on our way. I told him of my malaise and he knew how I felt. He was under the weather with a head cold and we both spent the first few minutes a-mumbling and a-grumbling about our recent run of poor form.

Parky has such an infectious personality though – don’t tell him I said so – and so it didn’t take us long for the melancholy to subside and for us to get back into our stride. We were soon making silly quips and puns as I drove to London. I relayed a few stories from my few days in Germany, too. The time soon passed.

Straight into the Yadana Café on Lillee Road and a Super Breakfast. Then, around the corner to The Goose. We heard on the grapevine that there were loads of spare tickets floating around for the game. The pub, actually, seemed quieter than usual.

There was quite a showing from the North American continent in The Goose. Beth, Josh and Andy were in already – plus the four Beltway Blues who had travelled to Leverkusen; Stephen, Lizabeth, Allison and Cassie. Mike and two of his members from the New York Blues suddenly appeared out of nowhere and then none other than Gumby joined the fold. I limited myself to just two pints as I was driving. The days of having five or six pints before games seem a long way away.

Oh well.

I made my way to The Bridge and walked towards the turnstiles for the Matthew Harding, with the montage of the West Stand wall to my left.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50479273207658

My good mate Andy often goes to watch Rangers north of the border. The reasons for this are many and varied, but I remember his comment that the game in Scotland still exudes a working class feel, with allied atmosphere and noise levels. Andy goes up to Ibrox around five times each season and has got to know several Bears. He had contacted me about freeing up my mate Glenn’s season ticket for the Wolves game for one of his Rangers mates. Part of the deal was that I watched the match from the opposite corner of the Matthew Harding, while Andy sat with Davie alongside Alan in The Sleepy Hollow. I didn’t mind that at all.

In fact, I jumped at the chance to see the game from a different perspective.

I took my seat in Gate 15 – two rows from the back, just in front of Daryl and his mate Chris from Guernsey – just as the Chelsea flag ended its course of travelling above the heads of the spectators in the Upper Tier. I quickly zoomed in on the Upper Tier of The Shed and took a photograph of the Americans and Canadians in Gate 4, just above the goal defended by Wayne Hennessey in the Wolves goal.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?f…type=1&theater

Yes, there was a substantial amount of surprise in the ranks that Drogba was again starting ahead of Torres. Lampard was on the bench too. The mood amongst the nearby supporters was of typical Chelsea cynicism at the start. I had said to a few friends that the game might turn out to be as enjoyable as a trip to the dentist’s.

We opened brightly and a spirited dribble from Ramires after just five minutes resulted in a low shot which Hennessey did well to turn around his right post. From the corner in front of the 1,500 Wolves fans in the south-east corner, John Terry rose and headed the ball down and in to the Wolves goal. I clicked away as the captain was joined by several team mates and watched through my lens as he raced towards the Chelsea bench. He stopped short of the manager, though. I noticed that Villas-Boas was almost ignoring the advancing players and was instead gesturing across to other players, concentrating on the job in hand.

Soon after, a low cross from Ivanovic was met by Juan Mata but the effervescent Spaniard blasted over. A great move down the left resulted in Mata skipping past several lunges from desperate Wolves defenders. He slotted a low ball across the six yard box for Daniel Sturridge to slam home from close range. It was a goal reminiscent of Studge’s equaliser against the Scousers – although it was not celebrated quite so wildly. Sturridge then had a drive which was palmed over.

I admired the way that Drogba controlled a high ball on the halfway line. He then advanced before pushing the ball back to Ashley Cole who swept the ball into the path of that man Mata. A crisp and instinctive finish and we were three up and coasting.

Crisis? What crisis?

To be honest, it was all Chelsea in the first-half and the visitors were unable to ask many questions of our under-fire defence. From my viewpoint high up in the corner of the MHU, I was able to see how John Terry often played the ball through to Mata and Cole. Our best moves often came down the left. In the middle, the composed Romeu looked settled and put in a fine performance. It was noticeable how often Mata left his left-wing berth and came inside in search of the ball.

I met up with San Francisco Pete at half-time and – for once – there were no moans. We both agreed that we would quite happily take the 3-0 scoreline. We both realised how important it was to keep a clean sheet.

Every great journey starts with a single step.

Despite the pleasing performance in the first-half, the atmosphere in the Matthew Harding was pretty woeful. To their credit, more noise seemed to be coming from the opposite end, and the Shed Lower appeared particularly animated. Down in that fat corner, Parky and Andy Wray were but 15 seats apart.

I was enjoying being able to watch a Chelsea game from a different part of The Bridge. I had watched a few games from that corner before. I was able to take plenty of photographs of the game, but I was also able to pick out new angles of the four stands too. I could hardly believe how many seats were not used in the expensive tier in the West Stand. I noted all of the differing supporters’ club banners in the West Stand.

Ramires tested Hennessey after 50 minutes with a looping effort from the inside-right channel. Our little Brazilian gem was having a fine game; tons of energy and enthusiasm. On 52 minutes, David Luiz seemed flat-footed and allowed Stephen Ward a shot on goal, but Cech was untroubled. Daniel Sturridge then made a super run from deep right down below me and advanced to within eight yards of the goal. His final pass across the goal was awful, though.

With Fernando Torres warming up in front of the family section, the Stamford Bridge crowd were baying for his appearance –

Torres! Torres! Torres! Torres!

Wolves had a little spell of possession and forced Cech to scramble two efforts away within five seconds. It would be there last real efforts on our goal. Villas-Boas rang the changes with Lampard coming on for Meireles and then Bosingwa and Torres replacing Ivanovic and Drogba. The Torres one we understood. The Bosingwa one not so.

Oh well. He’s the manager. It wasn’t as if the game was on the line.

Torres looked keen in the final fifteen minutes and we certainly willed him on. But he still looks leggy and low on confidence.

I hope he starts on Tuesday.

The most bizarre part of the day’s play was John Terry taking ages for a throw in over on the far side. He was unsurprisingly booked and I couldn’t believe what I had just witnessed. With hindsight, it appears that it was all very intentional.

Tut tut.

On the drive home, Parky and I both admitted that Wolves had been poor, but we were just so grateful to evade our first three-game home losing streak since 1993. We are not out of the woods yet, but let’s build on this. As I raced home, we listened to some classics from Kraftwerk, that seminal band from our youth. It was quite clear that Germany was still lingering in my thoughts.

The games are coming thick and fast with hardly a pause for breath.

Liverpool next – and there is revenge in the air.

Tales From The Chelsea And Juventus Fans In Leverkusen

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Bayer Leverkusen vs. Chelsea : 23 November 2011.

This trip to the heart of Germany could not come quick enough. This would be my first trip to Europe for a Chelsea away game in around two years; the enjoyable jaunt to Atletico Madrid was the last one. A mixture of work commitments and lack of finances have contrived against recent trips. Additionally, there are other destinations which, if I am blunt, have not tempted me.

Others fancied a return trip to Valencia or an excursion to Genk in this autumn’s mix of games, but for me there was only one choice – Bayer Leverkusen. I booked my flight way back in August and gleefully counted down the weeks and days before I would be away.

There was an extra special dimension to this trip. My old friend – in fact, my oldest friend – Mario is now living in nearby Bergisch Gladbach and we had often spoken about meeting up should Chelsea play any of the nearby Bundesliga teams to his home city in the Champions League. I have spoken about Mario previously, ahead of my momentous trip to Turin with Chelsea in 2009.

“In June 1975, I stayed in the Ligurian resort of Diano Marina on my first ever family holiday abroad. At that time, I had seen Chelsea play three times at The Bridge and I was hooked. Relegation in May of 1975 hit me hard, possibly even more than the loss of my idol Peter Osgood to Southampton a month before my first ever game the year before. At the age of nine, my Chelsea life had already taken a battering. We had a great time in the Italian sun. My parents had visited the town back in the ‘fifties and had regaled me with stories of its charm. All well and good, I thought, but I needed a diet of football, even on holiday. I was aware of a few of the Italian clubs – I had recollections of a Juventus vs. Derby game being shown on TV ( 1973 – the Juve forward Pietro Anastasi stood out ) and I had bought a Juventus magazine on a day trip to Genova.

During the last few days of the holiday, we became friendly with the guy on the beach who hired out deck-chairs and pedalos. His name was Franco and his German wife Hildegard was often on the beach with their two children Mario and Sandra. I could not speak Italian and Mario could not speak English. But Mario owned a yellow and black plastic football and, for what seemed like hours on end, we played football at the water’s edge, the warm ocean lapping at our feet. I remember Dad even took a few magical seconds of us on cine film. I wasn’t a bad footballer, but little Mario, only six, was sensational.

https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?f…type=3&theater

And so our friendship began.

Our two mothers had swapped addresses and I was told to write to Mario soon after our return home. I still have the little postcard and a letter which Mario wrote back to me. I must have mentioned that I was a fan of Chelsea – of course! – but also a fan of Juventus and my favourite player was Franco Causio, the moustachioed winger. Mario replied that he too was a Juventus fan, but liked Roberto Bettega, the young striker.

I guess we had been so devoid of communication skills that this was not already established out in Italy.

So – Mario was a Juventus fan. Perfect. Over the next four years, our letters zipped across Europe as regular as clockwork. He sent me letters that were 100% full of Juventus results and news, often with Panini stickers illustrating his words. I did wonder what he ever thought of Chelsea, mired in the Second Division at the start of all this. I remember Causio and Bettega combining to defeat England in Rome in 1976. That match had extra resonance due to my friendship with Mario. How proud I was when Ray Wilkins became a regular in the national side. This was proof for Mario that my team wasn’t completely rubbish! Butch became a beacon of hope!

Throughout this period, Juventus were dominating Italian football, with players such as Zoff, Scirea, Gentile, Causio, Bettega – how those names trip off the tongue – Cuccureddu, Boninsegna, Benetti and the youngsters Tardelli and Cabrini. Juve were in their pomp. Chelsea, by the time I visited Diano Marina again, in 1979, were back in the Second Division and Wilkins was soon to be sold to the hated Manchester United. On that visit, Mario’s family presented me with a black and white striped cotton shirt, and I was proud to wear it. I have no doubt I took him some Chelsea things.

We visited Italy in 1980 and 1981 too, each time going back to the same town, but his father had since moved on to work at an expensive hotel, the Gabriella. During the 1981 holiday, we heard that none other than Roberto Bettega was to stay at the hotel…a few weeks later, a signed Bettega photograph arrived on my doorstep. Whenever we met up, Mario and myself played football and talked football. I bet it amused our parents. In 1981, I met Mario’s friend Tullio, a boy from Juventus’ city of Torino – and yes, you’ve guessed it, he was a Juventus fan too. I have a photo of the three of us, posing on the beach beneath a Union Jack. Sadly, on the 1981 trip, we were also to learn of the cancer that would cause much worry for Mario’s mother. In July 1982, with an Italian team containing six or seven Juve players, the team won the World Cup in Spain – and I was happy for my Italian friends.

The letters between Mario and me reduced over the next three years…but every now and then, Mario would send me a letter detailing his hopes for Juve’s new players. The 1983 European Cup Final loss to Hamburg hurt us both. Then, towards the end of my first year at college, I sat down to watch the 1985 European Cup Final between my Juventus and Liverpool. What unfolded over the next three hours would haunt me to this day. However, the sense of disgust and sadness could easily have been so much greater. Unbeknown to me, Mario had a ticket for the ill-fated neutral section ZZ adjacent to the Liverpool fans. Thank God, Mario had a lot of schoolwork that week – he was sixteen – and so mercifully did not travel to Brussels. Around fifteen members of his local Juventus Club all returned safely.

That summer, I travelled around Europe on an Inter-Rail pass and spent ten wonderful days in Diano Marina. Tullio was there too – the days were spent sunbathing, playing football and I was invited back to Mario’s house for lunch and an evening meal each day. Hildegard, his dear mother, was still undergoing treatment for cancer and I will never forget her hospitality. Her smiling face will live with me forever, as will her willingness to make me feel at home.

Sadly, Hildegard lost her brave battle with cancer a few weeks before I visited Mario, Franco and Sandra in 1986. I felt the loss – their house missed her busy nature and her “good eats” translation of the Italian “buon apetito” before each meal. My friendship with Mario and Tullio went up a few notches over the next few years. I had a real wanderlust period after leaving college and was forever travelling around Europe on the trains.”

I last saw Mario, in his home town, in 1988. Well, as luck would have it, Mario now lives around 20 miles from Bayer Leverkusen’s stadium. After the draw was made, we soon spoke on Facebook about the game and I was so pleased when he offered me the chance to stay with him and his family for the three days.

Fantastic!

As the days crept past, Mario and I spoke more and more on Facebook and my excitement rose.

The Liverpool game on Sunday came and passed, work on Monday was endured and lingering last minute arrangements were made. Due to the very real threat of fog, I gave myself an extra hour to drive up to Stansted airport. I only had three hours sleep on Monday night.

Tuesday 22nd. November.

At around 1.45am in the very small hours of Tuesday morning, I was off.

Germany – here I come.

My trip to the airport went well. I was buoyed by a couple of cups of coffee and my mind was soon wandering, looking back on all of the other Chelsea European trips, looking ahead to the imminent new one. I painstakingly counted the number of previous games…Moscow 16, Rome 17, Madrid 18…Leverkusen would be number 19.

And this would be my fourth Chelsea game in Germany, after previous appointments in Stuttgart, Bremen and Schalke. I personally love Germany; a frequent visitor in the wanderlust years of my youth, I have visited it on many occasions. Great beer, tasty food, decent people. Superb.

As I drove around the M25, I remember thinking to myself –

“There’s not a bit of this I don’t like.”

The planning of the flights, the talk amongst friends of the accommodation options, the anticipation, the final sense of excitement, the car trip to the airport, meeting friends, the thrill of a new city, the beer, the laughs, the camaraderie.

Chelsea in Europe Rule One; it is often the case that the actual football often gets in the way of a perfect trip.

By 5.30am, I was sat in the airport reading the current edition of “CFCUK” when I heard my mate Daryl’s voice.

“Morning mate.”

Daryl and his brother Neil, plus a few other Chelsea friends, were on the same flight as myself.

Thankfully, the threat of delays due to fog did not materialise and we were soon in the air. Daryl, Neil and myself had been together on our first ever Chelsea away game in Europe way back in 1994 on that memorable venture to Jablonec to see the Viktoria Zizkov game. That was from Stansted, too. Remember, that was Chelsea’s first European away game since 1971. Rarely have I ever been more excited about a Chelsea game. Superb. We spoke of our vivid memories from that crazy two day trip. It is hard to believe that Chelsea is the same club now, with our support spoilt by constant exposure to Champions League footy year after year.

The flight only lasted an hour. I was sat next to Tim from Bristol and attempted to have a power nap.

We touched down at Koln-Bonn airport at 10.30am.

We strolled through the arrival gates and there was Mario, with his arm outstretched, greeting me after a gap of 23 years. Daryl and Neil were off to meet up with Alan, Gary and Rob in Dusseldorf.

Oh boy, it was superb to see Mario once again. He was wearing the Chelsea / Juve scarf I had sent him two years ago.

Mario’s lovely wife Gabi was waiting in the car outside the airport and it was constant chatter from all three of us on the twenty minute drive back to their house. Mario updated with news of their three boys – Reuben 10, Nelson 5 and Valentin 15 months – and it was just lovely to be chatting away after all so many years.

Back at Mario’s house, Gabi went out to collect Valentin from the kindergarten while Mario and I sat at the table, drinking cappuccinos and reminiscing about our childhood and the routes that our lives have taken since our last meeting twenty-three years ago. On that occasion, in March 1988, I had called in to see Mario, Franco and Sandra during one of my crazy months on the trains. I slept in the lounge of their house, on the sofa I think, and I can remember Franco fussing around me, making me a cappuccino and preparing some sandwiches for my onward train trip. Meanwhile I had a morning shower in a bathroom that stunningly looked out onto the Mediterranean Sea. It was a cold but supremely sunny Italian morning, with deep blue skies over the Med. It was a moment that I will never forget.

Mario spoke about his footballing career as a player with the local Dianese and Imperia teams, but also of a very promising career as a referee. Mario was always a better player than me and it came as no surprise for me to learn that he had enjoyed some degree of success in his youth. After he moved to Germany in 1997, Mario continued to play football in the regional leagues, but also continued his career as a referee. He told me that he was the linesman at a game which featured Rot Weiss Essen, a team that used to play in the Bundesliga, against the reserve team of Borussia Moenchengladbach. The attendance was over 8,000 and he told me the story of how his first decision of the match – an offside decision against the home team – was met with a massive roar of disapproval from a few thousand rabid fans behind him.

We laughed as he told me how noisy the crowd was.

The stories of football continued all morning and I realised that this was just so typical of what had happened on every occasion that we had met, from the ‘seventies through to the ‘eighties – two young lads consumed by football, by players, by personalities.

Mario also updated me with news of his father Franco – a Genoa fan – and his sister Sandra. Franco had been with Mario for the recent Leverkusen versus Valencia game.

Gabi returned with Reuben and Nelson, the elder boys, and we ate hot dogs for lunch.

In the afternoon, I walked down to the little village of Moitzfeld in order to take a few photographs of the local area and to have a few moments by myself. I was feeling weary as I walked back to his house.

Chelsea in Europe Rule Two; power naps are good. Very good.

We had a lovely meal in the evening and we then continued our conversations about our lives, our families, or friends and our jobs.

Mario opened up a few bottles of kolsch – the local beer of the Cologne area – and the talk returned to football. To finish the night off perfectly, we stayed up to watch the Serie A highlights on German TV.

Football. Always football.

Wednesday 23rd. November.

I was up at 8.45am and Mario was soon making me a morning cappuccino. He kindly volunteered to drive me into Koln. The weather was overcast, with murky low-lying clouds enveloping the trees which lined the autobahn into Germany’s fourth largest city. The blue road signs overhead reminded me of where I was; in the dreamy world of a Chelsea match day, it is easy to forget the location. The hard consonants of the local place names soon reminded me of my locale.

Bruck.

Kalk.

Buckheim.

Bickendorf.

On the twenty minute drive, Mario enjoyed telling me about his love of Depeche Mode and we exchanged a few stories of the band. I’ve seen them three times. He has seen them five times. At the first concert, way back in the small Ligurian coastal resort of Pietra Ligure, the lead singer Dave Gahan dried himself down with a towel and threw it straight at Mario, standing but three yards away. Although around twenty fellow fans lunged at Mario and tore it into twenty pieces, Mario still owns a strip from that concert a quarter of a century ago.

He has also seen them in Milan, Koln and Dusseldorf. The three concerts in Germany all took place during the pregnancies of his three boys and Mario clearly puts a lot of importance into this. They are easily his favourite band. All of the way through his dialogue, I was itching to tell him that Dave Gahan and Andy Fletcher are big Chelsea fans.

I looked over to see his reaction.

“Really? Chelsea fans. Oh. Great.”

Mario smiled.

“What about Martin Gore?”

“No – I don’t think he likes football”

It was my turn to smile.

We approached Koln and away in the distance were the twin towers of the massive Gothic cathedral, dominating the misty city skyline. As we crossed the massive Rhine, for some reason I was reminded of Philadelphia, crossing the Delaware River on the Benjamin Franklin Bridge.

By 10.30am, I had said my goodbyes to Mario and was walking through the pedestrianized streets of the busy city centre.

This was my time. A few hours of solitary confinement. Echoes of days when I travelled around Europe on the trains and found myself in a new city. I aimed for the magnificence of the Dom and took a few photographs. We stayed two nights in Koln for the Schalke game in Gelsenkirchen in 2007, so it was a familiar sight. Nothing but impressive, though.

I spent an hour or so walking around the Christmas market and the shopping streets to the south of the cathedral. I couldn’t resist some German food; a tasty wurst with very peppery sauerkraut was just fantastic. I followed this up with a frothy cappuccino. I stood at a table, nursing the coffee, watching the passers-by, looking out for fellow Chelsea fans. They were starting to gather together in small groups. I had the first couple of glasses of kolsch in the Europa am Dom Hotel while I waited to meet up with San Francisco Pete and his mate Mike. A Depeche Mode song was playing and I thought of Mario.

I picked up the local paper and reviewed the previous night’s games. I looked up just in time to catch a sighting of an infamous Chelsea fan from the good old bad old days. He was grinning at the size of some steins in a nearby shop; his hair cut in the same style as in years gone by and was wearing a green bomber jacket and jeans. He was with a little band of mates. Hicky was in town.

Pete and Mike soon arrived and joined me for a beer. They had driven over by car. The next few hours were spent flitting in and out of various bars with a few mates. I met up with the newly-arrived Alan, Gary, Daryl and Neil – and then the Nuneaton trio of Neil, Jokka and Jonesy – but then sped off with Pete and Mike down to The Corkonian in the Altstadt to pick up Mario’s ticket from Cathy.

Chelsea in Europe Rule Three; the sighting of several police vans means that an Irish bar and some Chelsea hoodlums are not far away.

Plenty of faces there. In a quiet corner, I spotted that green bomber jacket. I bumped into Andy and Josh, the Californians, who had been in town since Monday. Michelle and Joe from Chicago were also in the bar. The Beltway Blues were basing themselves in Leverkusen itself, but most of the Chelsea were using Koln as HQ. I then back-tracked to the other bar on Am Hof for a beer with the boys. I was beginning to wish I could be cut into several pieces, like the Sorcerer’s Apprentice, so I could simultaneously spend time with different groups of friends. Back amongst my mates, there was talk of the CPO, the shame of the 39th. Game, the way our club is going…the same old gripes and the same old moans.

We decamped into another bar for a few more beers and the chat continued apace. Good times with great mates. Jonesy spoke about the recently-departed Jim Lewis who played a part in our championship season of 1954-1955. Because of his amateur status, Lewis never received a penny in his Chelsea career, nor even got a suit, along with the professionals in the squad, to mark the championship win. Alan suggested that Villas-Boas should explain about Jim Lewis, playing in a championship-winning team without payment, to the team before the game. One suspects that several players would simply not believe it.

In search of food, we sped down to the Christmas market in the Altstadt – sausages on sticks for me! – and I then went back into The Corkonian to catch up with Andy, Josh, Joe and Michelle. Time was moving on and I had arranged to meet Mario outside the stadium at 7.30pm. After another tasty beer in Heumarkt, we quickly decided to take two cabs to the stadium. The price was 30 euros – no worries.

We bundled in the cab and we were on our way…Josh in the front, Andy and I in the back with another Chelsea fan whose name escapes me. Too many beers. Too many beers for Andy too, who had to take extraordinary measures while the cab was momentarily stopped on the autobahn.

We got to the Bayerena at around 7.45pm and Mario was waiting for me outside the away section. I thankfully had no problems getting my camera inside. Mario and I positioned ourselves centrally in the lower tier. Flags were draped over the top balcony. Josh had a great seat in the front row of the upper tier. Beth was a few rows behind us.

So, after 36 years of friendship, Mario and I were able to watch our first ever Chelsea game together. Bloody superb.

The Bayerena has been recently redeveloped. The team played in Dusseldorf while a new tier and a new roof were added. It’s a reasonable stadium, if a little anaemic. I found it odd that the hard core home support were located directly opposite us in a corner, rather than directly behind the north goal.

The Champions League flag was waved as the teams stood and the Champions League anthem was played.

Let’s go to work.

I was surprised that Fernando Torres was not in the starting line-up. After only a few minutes against Liverpool and with an away game with presumably space to exploit behind defenders, I was amazed that he did not start. Michael Ballack was wearing a facemask and I couldn’t help take plenty of photographs of him. Clearly Leverkusen is not one of Germany’s iconic sides, so I give Ballack credit in returning to one of his previous German clubs. Shades of Gianfranco Zola’s famous return to Cagliari. The first section of the game was a turgid affair. After about twenty minutes, with hardly a chance created, Mario exclaimed –

“Why don’t they want to play!?!”

On 38 minutes, Drogba burst clear down the right and slammed the ball over the bar, with other options available.

Mario’s reaction was classic –

“Mamma Mia!”

After a heavy intake of beer, it took me twenty-five minutes to realise that Jose Bosingwa was over on the far side in the left-back berth. I remember he played there against Lionel Messi in “that” game in 2009, but my addled mind could not work out why Ashley Cole was not playing. A shot from Mata for Chelsea and a header from Michael Ballack which rocked the crossbar for Leverkusen were the only real chances in the rest of the first-half. The game was warming up, but only slowly.

Soon into the first half, a cross from Daniel Sturridge was played in towards Didier Drogba. To his credit, he spun and just managed to evade the attentions of two Leverkusen defenders. Although he lost balance, he was still able to turn the ball in at the far post.

Get in!

From a few rows in front came a text message from Alan –

“THTCAUN.”

And I replied –

“COMLD.”

The Chelsea choir sang his praises and we began making a little more noise.

“Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the way.
Oh what fun it is to see Chelsea win away.”

A Daniel Sturridge shot was our only goal-bound effort though and the home team had more of the ball. On 57 minutes, Herr Ballack did well to twist his body to attempt an overhead kick from twenty yards out which Cech did well to save. Soon after, another shot from Ballack was blocked by Cech. I thought back to the chance that Cech saved from Ballack in the first leg at The Bridge and it was quickly turning into a battle of the masked men.
On 65 minutes, a strong run and shot from Studge but the ‘keeper saved his effort.

The Chelsea choir was mid-way through a proud and defiant rendition of “You are my Chelsea, my only Chelsea” when Sam, out on the left, clipped a ball over for the substitute Derdiyok to head in, with the Chelsea defenders racing back to no avail. The goal was a blur, but our defence seemed to be completely stretched and out of position.

The mood now grew tense within the 1,500 away fans. A cross from substitute Malouda on the left found Drogba unmarked, but his weak volley did not trouble Leno in the home goal. In the closing moments, we watched aghast as a chipped corner found the head of Friedrich who somehow was able to rise unhindered amongst a cluster of blue shirts. The ball tantalisingly arched past the despairing dive of Cech and into the net.

The home fans roared and we were shocked into a stony silence.

There was no time to retaliate and we were defeated. After all of the losses I have endured as a Chelsea fan throughout the years, I should not have been too fed-up, but there was genuine disappointment that this latest game had ended in (self-inflicted?) defeat. Our defending for the goals was poor and we didn’t seem to have the determination and fight of previous campaigns.

To add insult to injury, only six players could be bothered to trudge over to us in the south-west corner of the Bayerana to thank us for the thousands of pounds we had spent in support of our team.

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Mario and I shrugged and slowly began our walk back to where Mario had parked his car. Unlike on his previous visits to watch Leverkusen, there seemed to be more traffic than usual on this particular night. A few sympathetic texts came in and Mario and I spoke of a few more childhood memories to keep the spirits up. We returned to the ‘seventies and ‘eighties, speaking of obscure Juventus players such as Domenico Marocchino, Guiseppe Galderisi and Pietro Paolo Virdis and more famous ones such as Liam Brady and Paolo di Canio. Talk of our childhood love of football proved cathartic and the time soon passed. I also did my best to explain to Mario about the SayNoCPO campaign of the past month or so.

On our return home to Mario’s house, we watched the Champions League highlights and we shared a few more bottles of clean and crisp Gilden kolsch.

Thursday 24th. November.

The last day of Chelsea trips are strange affairs. Trips usually take the form of –

Day One – manic beer guzzling, boisterous behaviour and bar-hopping, late into the night.
Day Two – sightseeing, nursing of hangovers, the match, more refined drinking.
Day Three – OK, let’s get home.

However, on this most atypical of Chelsea trips, I was quite content to make the most of my last day with Gabi and Mario. I awoke at 9am and Gabi soon made me bacon and eggs for breakfast. A lovely visit with Valentin to Gabi’s parents then followed, before we had pizza for lunch with all the boys. In the afternoon, Mario dropped me off at the nearby town of Bensberg while he returned to do some work from home.

I spent around two hours in Bensberg and enjoyed walking around the town’s shops, buying a Leverkusen scarf for myself (I always try to pick up a souvenir of our opponents on foreign trips), plus chocolates and cakes for my mother and Judy. At the top of the town is the castle – or schloss – which is now, typically, a top-end hotel. At the bottom of Schloss Strasse, I spent a while inside the local church, a lovely structure with superb stained-glass windows. It was with regret that I could not attend the wedding of Gabi and Mario in June 1999, due to lack of finances, so it felt right and proper that I was able – at last – to visit the church where they were married in 2011.

At 5pm, Mario took me to Koln-Bonn airport and we bade each other a fond farewell. Gabi was otherwise engaged with Reuben and Valentin, but young Nelson accompanied us on our twenty minute car ride. I can see the twinkle in the eyes of Mario’s dear mother Hildegard in the face and eyes of Nelson.

Mario dropped me off at Terminal B and I shook hands with little Nelson and gave Mario a big hug.

“Ciao ciao.”

It had been a fantastic time in Germany and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.

Our flight was unfortunately delayed, so I did some more shopping; pumpernickel, cheese, the usual suspects. Beth and Dave from Toronto were on the same flight home. We touched down at about 8.45pm and I was able to drop Beth off at the Prince of Wales pub at West Brompton just in time for last orders at 11pm. Ironic that for a few minutes, my journey home had taken me to within a mile of The Bridge.

I returned home, eventually, at 1.30am; three whole days of friendship and football.

Superb.

Tales From The Fog

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Liverpool : 20 November 2011.

The History: –

Another Chelsea versus Liverpool match meant that I found myself reaching back into time for some truly amazing memories over the years. I referred to my tabulation of all of the Chelsea games I have seen and was rather taken aback by the sheer volume of Liverpool games I have witnessed. My total number of games – going back to 1974 – totalled 853, but a staggering 54 of those (one in nine), has featured Liverpool. And, to be truthful, some of the exciting games I have had the pleasure to witness have involved Liverpool.

The top five are obvious –

1978 – Chelsea 3 Liverpool 1

My first ever sighting of the then European Champions and we whooped them. Jock Finnieston and Tommy Langley.

1982 – Chelsea 2 Liverpool 0.

We were a struggling Division Two team, yet we rocked them to their foundations in this F.A. Cup tie. They were European champions, then, too.

1997 – Chelsea 4 Liverpool 2.

Two down at the break, Hughes, Zola and Vialli produced the best second-half performance I have ever witnessed and this game had me buzzing for days after.

2008 – Chelsea 3 Liverpool 2.

A night of high drama and pure emotion at The Bridge as Frank sent us off to Moscow.

2009 – Chelsea 4 Liverpool 4.

One of the most stunning nights of football ever seen in SW6.

But there are plenty of others – the 2003 CL “decider” and Zola’s last ever game in the Chelsea blue…the back-to-back CL games at Anfield in 2008 and 2009…and the crucial game in 2010 which almost wrapped-up the league title.

And yet – the old cliché…familiarity has certainly bred contempt. There is no love lost between us. The turning point came in 2005…not the Carling Cup Final (another corker!), but the CL semi-final at Anfield, only a few days after our first League Championship in 50 years.

The Luis Garcia goal that wasn’t and that song; the History song.

Things have never been the same since and I guess they never will.

The Weather Report: –

I collected Parky at 9.15am and my car was shrouded in mist for the entire trip to London. Ah, this was proper London weather…proper football weather…and proper Chelsea weather. I thought back to all of those classic photos from a long lost era, when Stamford Bridge was enveloped in mist and fog during those countless winters where players with names such as Hilsdon, Gallagher, Spence, Bambrick and Woodley toiled on the sodden turf. Those London fogs seemed to have almost disappeared over the past decades, but here was a day which would provide echoes of past gladiatorial battles. I wondered what the visitors from America… Andy, Josh W and Josh B – all from sunny southern California – would make of the winter weather. I was hopeful that it would add to their day at The Bridge.

Friends: –

This was a typically manic pre-match. For once, I visited the Chelsea Megastore and loaded up with Chelsea presents for my trip to Germany. I am staying with my old friend Mario in Bergisch-Gladbach, a mere 10 miles from Leverkusen. I bought loads of Chelsea items for him and his three boys…all Juventus fans, but soon to be Chelsea fans too. I collected my ticket for Wednesday and then Parky and I spun around to the hotel bar.

We met up with Texas Beth, Toronto Dave, Kent Gill and Kent Graeme, LA Andy, LA Josh, SF Pete, DC John and San Diego Josh.

Not to mention the Holy Trinity – Ron Harris, Peter Bonetti and Bobby Tambling.

Beers, photos, laughs.

I did my best shepherd impersonation and coaxed and cajoled the visitors along to the CFCUK stall, then The Malt House (where we quickly bumped into Chicago Joe and Chicago Michelle) and eventually up to The Goose. This was Josh B’s first ever visit to Stamford Bridge for a game and although he was cool and collected, I just knew his heart was beating fast. A single bottle of Peroni, a quick chat with the regulars – “ready for Germany, boys?” – and we then retraced our steps back to The Bridge.

The Liquidator: –

“Blue Is The Colour” gave way to “The Liquidator” as I reached my seat in the Matthew Harding wraparound.

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Football: –

It hurts me to report that this was not a great Chelsea performance. And yet, in that first-half, we did carve out a few chances…a Mata effort from an angle, a Mikel blast from way out. A Drogba free-kick which confused us all. But Liverpool chased and harried us. At the other end, Petr Cech made a lovely double save on the goal line. The noise wasn’t fantastic. The Liverpool fans, away in that far corner – maybe sound-proofed in all the mist – seemed quitter than normal. They didn’t have their usual array of red flags either…just a few, including that very rare sighting – an LFC Union Jack.

They’re Scouse, not English, as the banner on The Kop infamously said at a previous CL game.

A Cech ball to Mikel, a slip and a neat ball by Bellamy.

1-0 to the visitors and they were jumping.

At the break, I said to Alan that Mata was quiet. The whole team needed to step up. Sturridge entered the fray in place of the hapless Mikel and as I was still trying to fathom out if Villas-Boas had changed the shape of the team when Malouda whipped in a ball and Sturridge struck. I had to rub my eyes; it was just the sort of goal that we let in, usually in the last few minutes, at The Shed End.

We then had a period of ascendency and a few half-chances…a Luiz header, a Malouda strike, Drogba over from the “D”.

Then Liverpool threatened again.

There was disquiet in the ranks and the support waned.

A desperate change by the manager saw the ex-Anfield players Torres and Meireles enter the fray…but late…way too late. The stunning denouement saw ex-Chelsea full-back Glen Johnson maraud into the Chelsea final third and curl one in at the far post.

Bloody hell.

Bloody Liverpool.

Again the Scouse hordes jumped like fools.

The Future: –

It was a sombre drive home. The winter night grew cold. The lights of the cars made driving tiresome. I was in no mood to listen to “606.” I dropped off Parky and returned home with my tail between my legs. I half-heartedly watched our game on “Match of the Day 2” and – I’ll be honest – was surprised how many chances we had during the game. But, deep down, I knew. You knew. We all knew. We had been poor and Liverpool had taken their chances well. In retrospect, it was closer than it felt, but us Chelsea fans have grown to expect better performances. I scanned the internet for comments and there was talk of “high defensive lines”, “square pegs in round holes”, “changing the guard” and even concerns for AVB’s tenure as manager.

I shrugged and tried to be as pragmatic as possible.

The team is changing – but can we?

Can we cope with a season of transition, of change, of metamorphosis? Can we allow the manager that most vaunted commodity – time?

While we all ponder that, Bayer Leverkusen await.

Germany – here we come.

Tales From The Rock

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Blackburn Rovers vs. Chelsea : 5 November 2011.

Another away game in Lancashire, another 400 miles in the car, another day of beers, coffees and junk food.

Another day of Chelsea.

Parky and I began the day with the Saturday morning ritual of a McBreakfast at Melksham. For a change, I decided to head north up on the Fosse Way – the old Roman Road – through Malmesbury and Cirencester and joined the northbound M5 after sweeping down from the lofty escarpment of The Cotswolds at Birdlip.

The autumn colours were hitting their peak on the roadside oaks, elms and beeches, but there was an overcast grey sky overhead.

As we drove north, the weather gradually improved, with more and more blue peeking through the grey clouds with each passing mile. We stopped at Strensham and Stafford Services; both places were full of Liverpool and Manchester United fans. There were also a substantial number of Swansea fans heading up to their game at Anfield. As we approached Keele Services, we passed a Chelsea coach and I quickly called Alan, who was travelling up with Gary.

Yes, he was on the coach and he saw us wave as we changed lanes a few cars ahead of him.

I half-expected Lord Parky to thrust his crutch out of the window, pointing it skywards.

The Chelsea expeditionary force, some four thousand strong, was on its way north. We also passed a Chelsea coach from Saffron Walden.

I ate up the miles and was making good time.

We didn’t speak much about the game against Rovers, although other aspects of our fanaticism of Chelsea dominated the conversations.

This would be my eleventh visit with Chelsea to Ewood Park. For the past four or five visits, I have always met up with other mates at the traditional away pub, The Fernhurst, but I fancied a change. Way back in 1995, Alan and I spent an enjoyable pre-match to the west of Ewood Park in a pub in a village called Tockholes. My friend Mark, a Rovers fan from nearby Darwen, had recommended this pub. His sister Linda lived in Tockholes, as she still does, and The Victoria was her local. Sixteen years on, I wanted to go back, but had decided on another of the pubs in the small village; The Rock. Mark had ‘phoned me at home on the Friday evening and had mentioned that Blackpool Tower could be spotted from The Rock’s beer garden on a clear day. So, a large part of my thoughts about the day in deepest Lancashire was devoted to thoughts about the pre-match pub. I was relishing it – the change in scene and maybe a few local delicacies to boot. Say what you like about my Chelsea obsession, but it certainly allows me to venture to parts of this green and pleasant land that I would otherwise have no reason to visit.

At about 12.30pm, I exited the M65, past the hotel where I met up with Jamie (from Virginia, now residing in New York) for her first Chelsea game. That was almost three years ago to the day, how times passes; it was the day that it rained cats and dogs, the day we won 2-0, the day Anelka nabbed two. It was the day I had to stop on the way back for an hour because the road conditions were too treacherous.

I ascended the narrow lanes which lead from the main Darwen to Blackburn road and found myself heading into Tockholes at about 12.45pm. The village is way up on a ridge of high moorland to the west of Ewood Park. I spotted The Rock pub in the distance, but away to my right was a magnificent view of Lancashire, heading towards the Fylde coast. And there, just visible in the distance was Blackpool Tower, some twenty miles away.

Superb.

Inside, the pub was very cosy, with a coal fire roaring just to the left of the bar. I ordered Parky a lager, but I fancied something more local to the area. I’m no beer aficionado, but I fancy the occasional change from lager. I decided on a pint of Thwaites Wainright ale.

It was very tasty and a gorgeous amber colour.

We began chatting to a friendly local couple, Rovers fans on the way to the game, before their faces disappeared behind massive piles of food on their respective plates. I spotted the man struggling to peer over a massive portion of cauliflower.

Mark’s sister Linda then walked into the bar with her husband Ian and it was lovely to see familiar faces two hundred miles from home. I last saw them at Mark’s wedding in the summer, and they sat down next to Parky and I just as my food arrived; a plate of Bury black pudding, bacon, a poached egg and a small salad.

Again, that hit the spot.

We chatted about a few things, but talk was centred on the fortunes of our two teams. Linda and Ian were not going to renew their season tickets this season, but decided to go ahead and get them at the last minute. They have had season tickets for quite a few years. I’ve mentioned before how well Blackburn does to average around 22,000 attendances, since the town population is only 105,000 with Darwen (virtually a twin town to the south…there is hardly a break between the two) hitting 30,000.

22,000 out of only 135,000 is not a bad percentage at all in my book.

“Another pint of Fosters and a pint of Thwaites, please.”

We spoke about Chelsea’s little run of bad form, but also the demonstrations amongst the Rovers support against the current managerial incumbent Steve Kean. Both Ian and the other Rovers fan (coming into view after a mountain of chips had subsided) were both annoyed with both the appointment of Kean and also his utterances, claiming that Rovers were on the right track. Banners proclaiming anti-Kean sentiments had been banned from being taken into Ewood Park for the game, but we had heard rumours that the Rovers support had found an original way in which to vent their growing anxiety about their team’s poor form.

I didn’t have the heart to repeat what I had said to Parky on the drive north –

“Well – if we can’t beat Blackburn, we’d might as well give up.”

The time had moved on to 2.15pm and we needed to be on our way. We bade our fond farewells to the locals and they wished us well. What a nice pub. As we said our goodbyes to Linda and Ian (“hope to see you here next season”), it dawned on me that we hadn’t spoken about the John Terry race row. I was thankful, to be honest. It was a subject that I was getting tired of having to talk about. I’m not saying that they might have taken an antagonistic approach to us.

However, Mark’s name (and Linda’s maiden name) is Ferdinand.

On the descent down into the valley bottom, I was able to appreciate a sweeping panorama of the town of Blackburn’s very “northern” setting; its terraced houses on the hillsides, its nearby hilltop farms, its industrial units, the barren moors to the north, Ewood Park.

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We were parked up at 2.30pm and we began a quick march down the hill to the ground. Every pub we passed was a Thwaites pub. A couple of elderly locals saw Parky on crutches and one of them, in a deep Lancastrian burr, commented –

“They might be calling you on at half-time.”

Ewood Park is located on the southern boundary of Blackburn, only half a mile from Darwen. There are terraced streets on three sides, with a stream and an open expanse of grass behind the single tier Riverside Stand. The other three stands were built between 1993 and 1995; the key investment period of Rovers’ very own sugar daddy, Jack Walker. It’s hard to believe it now, but back in that era, Rovers were a main player, buoyed by the millions which “Uncle Jack” ploughed into his local team.

After their title in 1995, there were complaints from other clubs that Rovers “bought the league.”

Sound familiar?

Because of my friendship with Mark, I’ve always had a soft spot for Rovers, even during the Mark Hughes years when we had a few tumultuous battles with them.

I got to my seat with about five minutes to spare. I was keen to see how many we had brought. The ruling in general for away games is 10% of the total or 3,000, whichever is the smaller. In theory, as Ewood Park holds 27,000, we should be allowed 2,700. However, Blackburn (in addition to nearby Wigan, and Fulham), waive this ruling to allow more away fans to attend. I had heard that we had brought over 4,000 and that seemed about right to be honest. We were in the lower tier and I was certainly aware that there was a thousand or more Chelsea in the smaller upper tier. Alan had mentioned that there were “pay on the day” turnstiles, too.

How ‘eighties.

Before the game began, the two teams stood in the centre-circle as an announcement was made about a minute’s silence to honour the fallen. The minute’s silence would be followed by the last post, to be played by a lone soldier on a bugle.

Unfortunately, it all didn’t go to plan.

There didn’t seem to any silence and the bugler paused between sections of the music. Fans began polite applause, but then stopped as the second section began.

Such a shame.

Forgive the oldest of clichés, but the match turned out to be a game (like Rovers’ home shirt) of two halves.

We lined up with a more physical defensive line of Brana, JT, Alex and Ashley. We hardly threatened Paul Robinson in the first-half. A nice move in the first few moments down the left resulted in a cross from Malouda just evading the lunge of Daniel Sturridge, now employed as a central striker in the absence of Drogba, Anelka and Torres.

Soon after, we were exposed down our right – yet again – as Formica played in Yakubu. We all expected the net to bulge, but the shot flew wide. A brave challenge from Petr Cech obviously did enough to put Yakubu off, but we soon realised that he had been seriously hurt in the ensuing collision. We couldn’t really see what was going on and on occasions like this, the viewers at home are often in a better position than us match-goers. Thankfully, Cech was able to continue, albeit with a couple of nose plugs and a new shirt.

He certainly gets in the wars.

For a period of around ten minutes in that dour first half, a small plane circled Ewood Park with a banner which said “Steve Kean Out.”

Succinct and to the point.

Chances were at a premium in the first-half, but Cech was in fine form and seemingly unhindered. The highlight for me was a gorgeously lofted ball from JT, running away from his defensive position, which was perfectly weighted with the right amount of “fade” which allowed it to drop into the path of Malouda.

Bloody superb.

Despite seven extra minutes, we hardly created any clear chances in the half and there were certainly grumbles and moans at the break. Apart from a few “We are Chelsea – we’ll sing what we want” chants, there were no follow-up songs from Genk and certainly no racially motivated songs – aimed at Anton Ferdinand – and I for one was relieved. However, the noise levels weren’t great, to be honest. It seemed that our support was below par, too.

At the break, we watched as Nando went through an intensive warm-up session. AVB was obviously going to change things and so we stood and hoped. He replaced a quiet Florent Malouda.

Well, the second-half was much better. An early effort from Frank Lampard, which dipped viciously, was palmed over by Paul Robinson. Our early promise was soon rewarded when the ball broke to an advanced Ivanovic. He made an extra yard and delicately crossed a ball in with the outside of his right foot. A completely unmarked Lampard stooped low and guided the ball in just inside the far post. The ball was headed straight towards me and I knew that the despairing lunge from Robinson would not be good enough.

Get in.

At the other end, a high and hopeful punt caught Alex flat-footed and Yakuba broke away, but Petr Cech flung himself to he left to turn the ball away. A lightning break involving Ashley Cole ended up with a low ball being whipped across the six yard box, but a lunging Daniel Sturridge was unable to meet it. He appealed strongly for a penalty, but I wasn’t convinced.

Rovers came back into the game and the away support grew quiet and tense. As the time passed, the cloudy sky overhead subtly changed colour as the sun set behind the stand to my left. Grey skies turned momentarily to an eerie shade of lavender.

A double save from Petr Cech kept Rovers at bay. In the last five minutes of normal time, a Rovers corner was swung in with pace and Ivanovic jumped to clear, but got his timings all wrong. The ball flew off the top of his head and smacked against the bar.

Oh boy.

Torres had been pretty quiet, despite a few instances of nice control. In the closing minutes, the ball was pushed through and Torres broke. Rather than take the ball on and shoot himself, he played an awful ball to Sturridge. Studge managed to pull the ball back for Ashley and his lofted cross headed straight towards Torres on the far post.

Here we go then. I’ve seen all of Torres’ other three Chelsea goals in the flesh and this would be the fourth.

“Go on, my son, finish the game off.”

Torres, perhaps put off by the presence of Robinson, shot over from under the bar.

I swore, just like thousands of Chelsea fans the world over.

There was great relief as the referee blew up for the end of the game. We hadn’t played particularly well and Rovers perhaps deserved a point. The players came towards to the away section, but only four came all of the way up to the fences. Those players were Frank Lampard, Petr Cech, John Terry and Jon Obi Mikel; the four players, in my book, who had been the best players on the day. The spine had been strong. I looked on as JT took off his shirt and gave it to a fan.

I met up with Parky as I walked out of the seats and said my goodbyes to Alan and Gary; a shame our next game is now two weeks away. We walked up the hill towards where the car was parked, but Parky was told to wait outside The Brown Cow pub. I walked on and collected my car. While he was waiting, a local had approached him, seen his crutches, and had bought him a lager. As I slowly made my way towards the M65, Parky slurped at his pint of Carling.

It’s a friendly place is Blackburn.

The drive home seemed to take forever. It took me until 6pm to get onto the M6. My heart sunk when I saw a sign which said –

Birmingham 100 miles.

Birmingham was only half way home.

Passing through the second city, we spotted hundreds of fireworks lighting up the night sky as we drove south. It was Bonfire Night and we were getting a free showing from the carriageway of the motorway. However, every few miles, on electronic signs above the motorway, there were grim reminders of an accident which had taken place in my home county of Somerset roughly twenty-four hours earlier.

M5 – JUNCTION 24 & 25 CLOSED.

Britain’s worst motorway accident in twenty years had resulted in at least seven deaths on a section of road near the Somerset capital of Taunton. On this night of all nights, I made sure I drove even more carefully than normal. After I dropped Parky off at 10pm, I listened in astonishment as a young man explained what had happened as car after car had slammed into a jack-knifed lorry. He had then gone back to assist in freeing injured passengers from the wrecked cars. He spoke plainly, without a hint of any embellishment of his incredible bravery and I was truly humbled.

On a day when the brave soldiers who gave their all in order for our freedom to continue were honoured, it was quite fitting for me to be further reminded of what true heroes really are.

Tales From Chelsea, Pimlico And Brixton

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Arsenal : 29 October 2011.

We had heard that Reg was going to open up The Goose at 10am and so we set off early from the West of England. I picked up Parky just after 8am and headed east. Barely over 48 hours earlier, we had travelled the self-same 100 miles for the CPO meeting, unsure of the outcome and riddled with doubts about the future of the club.

We need not have worried. In a watershed day in the history of the club, a solid message was sent back to the board by the CPO shareholders.

“Don’t tread on us.”

This was going to be a long day for Parks and yours truly. In addition to the Chelsea vs. Arsenal game at 12.45pm, we were staying up in London for the Sham 69 gig in Brixton in the evening. On the drive up to town, we spoke about all sorts. As people have commented, it has been an exhausting and troublesome week for us at Chelsea.

Lots to chat about, no doubt.

However, on this busiest of days, part of my focus was elsewhere. My home town club Frome Town have been enjoying a very enjoyable season in the Evostik Southern League (formerly the Southern League, the League that Chelsea leap-frogged way back in 1905.) This season represents the highest that the Robins have ever played in the non-league pyramid. I have been to three games thus far (a great win, a dull loss and an entertaining draw) and hope to go to a few more as the campaign develops. After the game against Brackley a few weeks ago, I went out in town with Glenn and San Francisco Bob and we ended up watching a Two-Tone tribute band and for a few silly hours, I felt like Frome was the centre of the universe, not Stamford Bridge, as I spent time chatting with old school friends about the town and the team, drinking lagers, reliving some memories and feeling connected. It was a great night. It made me realise a few simple truths about the role of the club within the local community and that feeling will stay with me. I obviously feel a sense of family with Chelsea, but I sometimes let my mind wander and contemplate how lovely it must be to support a “one team town” such as Newcastle United or Portsmouth and to be a local resident of that town. I feel a strong bond to Chelsea Football Club, but not necessarily to London itself. For residents of SW6, I guess that bond to CFC is even stronger.

I saw my first ever Frome game in around 1972, some two years before my first Chelsea game. For many years – 1986 to 2009 – I don’t think I saw a single Frome game, but my interest has been rekindled recently, lured no doubt by recent successes, but I was also keen to contrast my experiences with Chelsea.

Get some perspective. Get another angle on the madness of this obsession with football.

However, not everything was rosy. Part of the deal for Frome’s promotion in May was that a new stand – including seats – has to be built by the end of March or the club, currently in seventh place, would be automatically relegated.

Now is not the time to rail against this ruling, but it does annoy me that Frome’s ground at Badgers Hill is neat and tidy, nicely appointed, safe and secure. It has a stand for around 80 seats, a covered stand holding 200 and the place can easily hold 2,000 I’d imagine. Yet the powers-that-be have enforced this absurd ruling on the club and so £20,000 needs to be raised.

The Fighting Fund currently stands at £4,500 and the pressure is now on to step up the fundraising to reach the target. There has been talk on the unofficial fans’ forum about asking the town’s most famous new resident Johnny Depp for a few thousand, but I’m not sure if that has any mileage.

Step forward my good mate Steve, a real football enthusiast, who has supported Frome Town through thick and thin since his first game in around 1974. While we were heading east to Chelsea by car, he was heading East to Frome by foot, covering the 12 miles from his home in Shepton Mallet by foot on a sponsored walk in order to raise funds. San Francisco Bob, NYB Mike and I had already pledged a substantial sum towards Steve’s walk and my target was to raise additional funds from my mates at Chelsea during the day.

As the day developed, the pledges increased and Steve updated me on his progress –

“Halfway…getting warm now…Chantry…Whatley…three miles to go…sat in the Vine Tree…100 yards to go.”

In London Town, I was parked up at 10.30am and we were soon in the Yadana Café. Breakfasts were ordered and I spoke with CSG’s Pete, Liz and Cliff – and Parky – about the last three weeks, the CPO meeting on Thursday, the way forward, the whole nine yards.

And I left the café with £12 for Steve’s walk – a great start.

Ideally, I set the target at £20 for the day, but I was off to a flyer.

We headed around the corner and entered The Goose, already busy with morning boozers. Here, the chat continued about the CPO meeting – and so did the pledges for Steve.

It was great to spend some nice time chatting with Julie and Burger for the first time since the game against West Brom. We exchanged stories about all sorts. They are now 18 months into their England adventure and the biggest compliment I can pay is that they just feel like locals. I can sense that they are desperate for their first Champions League away game. That is always a seminal moment in the life of any Chelsea fan.

In The Footsteps Of Rene Lacoste.

Burger – black.
Chris – dark blue.

As we left the pub at about 12.15pm, I can honestly say that the game against Arsenal had not been mentioned once the entire day; not in the car, the café or the pub.

Too much other stuff going on.

As for the sponsored walk, another £16 had been added to the coffers.

Ironically, Glenn’s season ticket was being used by his mate Steve Malpas, who used to play for Frome Town back in the early ‘eighties in the glory days of Bertie Allen, Colin Dredge and Steve Walkey…but I digress

As I turned the corner outside the site of the former So Bar, I heard the usual “WWYWYWS?” being uttered by a little mob of Arsenal fans as they made their way towards the away end. By the way, it seems that the knuckle-draggers amongst our support that used to frequent the So Bar have now decamped to The Imperial on the Kings Road. I very rarely used to go inside the “So”, but after hearing a few songs about Auschwitz on my last visit two years ago, I soon decided it was not the place for me.

I bought a programme, then put some money in the collecting tin being held out by two members of the armed forces and was given a poppy. On the walk to the turnstiles, I had a quick chat with CPO director Rick Glanvil. I passed on my best wishes to him and said that I hated to see him caught in the crossfire on Thursday at the CPO meeting. He is a good man and I hope he escapes unscathed.

I got to my seat just in time to capture the Pride of London flag being passed above the heads of the denizens of the MHL.

https://www.facebook.com/video/video…50431704412658

This would be our nearest home game to Armistice Day, November 11th, and so the Chelsea Pensioners walked the teams out onto the pitch. We played with a red poppy embroidered into our royal blue shirts, always a nice touch.

I have to be honest; I had no problems with the starting eleven being selected by the manager. There are still unanswered questions about the right side of our defence (which two out of Alex, Luiz, Ivanovic and Bosingwa?), but I had to go with the manager. He alone knows how the players have trained this past week, who has injury niggles, who are best suited to the upcoming game. I surely had no problems with the midfield three of Mikel, Lampard and Ramires, nor the front three of Mata, Torres and Sturridge.

After the game against QPR last Sunday, I mentioned that it had been a crazy game.

Well, this one surely matched it.

A brief synopsis.

We began the livelier, with Ashley Cole playing in Fernando Torres in the inside-left channel, but the Boy from Fuenlabrada shot wide. Soon after, Daniel Sturridge attacked the bye-line right down in front of Parkyville, but his week right-footed cross was easily smothered by Szxcsxzscxzesny. Torres, loitering on the far post un-marked, would surely have scored had the ball reached him.

Then, Arsenal attacked at will, with Gervinho and Rip van Winkle spurning easy chances. Our defence was at sixes and sevens, or at least at twenty-sixes and seventeens. I lost count of the number of times that poor finishing or just bad luck stopped Arsenal from scoring in that first-half. However, we took the lead when the busy Mata sent over a lovely cross which Frank headed past the Arsenal ‘keeper.

We’ll take that – get in.

This was a very open game and, on 38 minutes, Arsenal equalised with another intricate passage of play which left our defenders flat-footed and embarrassed. Gervinho – he of the most ridiculous hairstyle ever – squared for Rip van Winkle to score past Cech. The Arsenal fans erupted.

Yet again, the away fans were out singing the 38,000 home fans and I’m only going to say one thing, damning though it is; this game was no different to any other.

Lo and behold, an in-swinging corner just before the break was deftly flicked home by The Captain and he reeled away in front of the away section, no doubt enjoying the moment.

2-1 at the break, riding our luck, but contented.

I popped out to the concourse to have a quick chat with San Francisco Pete, fresh from his Berlin marathon, and it made a change for us not to be moaning at the break.

The second-half was a horror show.

Arsenal equalised on 47 minutes just as I found myself putting my programme away; I only saw the shot from Santos fly past Cech.

Then the game’s pivotal moment. A break down below me involving Ramires and his path was blocked by a terrible challenge by their ‘keeper. It was obvious that the ‘keeper was not the last man, with two or three Arsenal defenders racing back to cover, but I honestly thought that the recklessness of the challenge warranted a red by itself.

Andre Marriner issued a yellow and we yelled our abuse.

That Frank’s fine effort from the resulting free-kick was superbly saved by Szxcsxzscxzesny just rubbed it in further.

Then, Arsenal went ahead with a goal from Walcott.

3-2 to the visitors and their fans celebrated wildly. Why do my eyes always get drawn to the away section in such circumstances? I hate that.

AVB made some substitutions and the game remained open. For 25 minutes, we chased the game, but without much pattern. Then, substitute Meireles chased down a loose ball and found Mata, who unleashed a dipping and swerving blast from 30 yards. While everyone around was wildly celebrating this amazing counterpunch, I was very impressed with the way that our new Spanish talisman shrugged off his advancing team mates and raced back to the halfway line for the re-start.

That said a lot to me. We unearthed a good’un, there.

Then, the screw turned further and JT slipped from a half-hearted Malouda back-pass on the halfway line. Van Persie raced away and netted past Cech.

Then, further ignominy as van Persie flashed a cracker past Cech from an angle and we groaned a thousand groans.

5-3.

Good grief.

I quickly dipped into my memory bank of past Chelsea games and tried to remember the last time we had conceded five in a league game. It was way back in the autumn of 1996 and a 5-1 loss at Anfield. Yes, over 16 years ago…we’ve been pretty lucky to be honest. It just goes to show how consistent Chelsea have fared over the most recent seasons. And the last time we conceded five at home in the league? Even further ago…Liverpool again, on my Dad’s birthday in December 1989.

Twenty-two years ago.

I think other teams would envy that record.

Ask Manchester United. They conceded six at home last weekend.

That, of course, does not mean that this loss to a resurgent Arsenal didn’t hurt.

It did.

Oh boy it did.

I sat, slumped, in my seat for ages at the end of the game and it made me ill to see the Arsenal fans, all three thousand of them, staying in the away section long after the home fans had left, bouncing like fools.

And yet – we had won 4-1 and 3-0 at the Emirates in recent years and those were the best of days. If we play football in the top flight, there will always be occasional thumpings. As the above comments prove, we have avoided these like no other team in the top flight in recent years. And so, this craziest of seasons continues on with yet another wild scoreline.

Manchester United 8 Arsenal 2, Manchester United 1 Manchester City 6, Chelsea 3 Arsenal 5.

We had best be wary of Manchester City…they beat United, who beat Arsenal, who beat us.

Oh boy.

After the game, we arranged to meet up at the Lillee Langtry, under the shadow of the Empress State Building and Earls Court Two at West Brompton. I walked along the infamous Seagrave Road, the road mentioned repeatedly by Bruce Buck on Thursday as the debate about walkways and bridges to the north of The Bridge grew hotter and hotter.

I had to admit to myself, the distance between Stamford Bridge and Earls Court would not be far. It would be almost as close as Highbury and their new stadium.

Still the CPO proposal dominated my thoughts and I sighed once more.

We reached the pub at 3pm and had a quick post-mortem. It wasn’t pleasant. Simon’s son Milo was especially subdued. This had been his heaviest home defeat in his 15 years. The fact that he lives in deepest Arsenal territory made his gloominess all the more relevant. He was dreading school on Monday.

Burger and Julie, then Andy Wray and Daz arrived. Within about twenty minutes, we had moved on past the depressing events we had just witnessed. Andy, always fearing the worst of the weather in England, was wrapped up for the cold with a heavy jacket, gloves, scarf, balaclava, snow goggles and wellington boots.

I thought he was slightly overdressed to be honest.

And still the pledges for Steve’s walk came in thick and fast.

It ended up at £50. A great effort.

I spoke to Steve on the phone – Frome had drawn 1-1 – and he was very pleased with the support from SW6.

While Andy and Parky spoke about the clothing requirements for his next visit in November, Daz and I rabbitted for ages about the CPO meeting and the fallout from it. We spoke of the way forward. We both reflected on one of the closing statements uttered by Bruce Buck on Thursday, once we had asked him what the board’s next move would be.

“Well, we’ll go back and talk to Roman…”

…and Daz and I both shouted

“NO…TALK TO US!”

In a nutshell, that demonstrates the gulf that exists between the interested parties.

Oh boy.

Time was moving on. I heard Parky talking to Andy about bearskins for the Liverpool game, but we had to leave. We bode fond farewells and headed on.

We walked to Earls Court tube, then headed down to Pimlico. Back in the early to mid ‘seventies, Parky was in the army and was stationed at Pimlico Barracks for a few years, luckily no more than two miles from Stamford Bridge. He gave me a great little tour of his old stomping ground and we stopped off at his old local, The Morpeth Arms, on the banks of the Thames. It was a superb, cosy pub. I enjoyed hearing his tales from his youth and we knocked back a Peroni apiece.

From there, we caught the Victoria Line to Brixton, south of the river.

Brixton is Brooklyn to the Manhattan of Kensington and Chelsea. It certainly felt odd to be south of the river.

However, we thoroughly enjoyed the concert at Brixton Electric, formerly The Fridge, and we saw three bands…The Skets, Control and Sham 69.

I was into the punk movement in my early teens and Sham’s “Tell Us The Truth” album was the very first LP I bought, way back in 1978.

Well, they didn’t disappoint. Parky and I loved it. Jimmy Pursey, the gregarious front man, was mesmerizing and had the crowd in his hands. We bumped into two other Chelsea fans during the evening and I am sure there were many more. Sham were always firm favourites in The Shed.

The gig finished at 10.15pm and we slowly made our way back to the car. By this time, the chats in the Lillee, the visit to Pimlico and the concert in Brixton had helped dissolve the stern memory of the football.

In fact, despite those five goals, it had been a fantastic day.

Tales From The School End

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Queens Park Rangers vs. Chelsea : 23 October 2011.

After a rather nondescript and unexciting season in 2010-2011, it certainly seems that the current campaign is trying desperately hard to make up for it. With less than ten games in, the season seems to have had more exciting games, sub-plots and talking points than last year already. This was another crazy day of football. It left us breathless. It also left us pointless, but not without a fight.

It is one of the strange anomalies of my Chelsea supporting life that I had only ever visited Loftus Road on one other previous occasion. Admittedly, we hadn’t played them in the league since the 1995-1996 season, but even so. However I then thought back about my priorities in the days when my income was at a lesser level than of late. Back in the ‘eighties and ‘nineties, I only used to go to between four and five away games each season. In those days, the temptation of an away day to Old Trafford, Anfield, Highbury or White Hart Lane was always more alluring than a trip up to the pokey confines of Loftus Road. Looking back, away games at QPR always seemed to be on Boxing Day, Easter Monday or midweek days too; more reasons which made travel from Somerset more difficult.

Yep, my only other visit to Loftus Road was on a Wednesday in the spring of 1995. I remember travelling up to London on a half-day holiday to collect away tickets for the Real Zaragoza game, but I then drove up to Shephard’s Bush for our game against QPR in the evening. As was the way in those days, Daryl and I were one of the hundreds of Chelsea fans who had tickets in the home stands. We had great seats, right in the middle of the single tiered Ellerslie Road stand, but the game was poor. We played in the atrocious – and infamous – tangerine and graphite away kit and a lone Kevin Gallen goal gave the home team a deserved win.

Sixteen years later, I was long overdue a second visit.

On a bright autumnal Sunday morning, I collected His Lordship at just before 11am. This was a pretty late start, really, but we were in no rush. We had another lovely drive up to London, stopping for yet another Costa Coffee at Reading. The high spot of the morning’s drive involved us chatting about us in thirty years time, still going to Chelsea, Parky 85 years old and myself ten years younger.

We had a few moments visualising the scene of myself, arriving at his care home, smoking a pipe – Popeye style – and shouting out at him –

“Come on you old fool, get a move on.”

And then Parky propelling himself out in a wheelchair. Both of us wearing slippers. Both of us in cardigans. Both of us as deaf as a post.

“Who are we playing?”

“Arsenal today…Spurs on Thursday.”

“Thirsty, you say? So am I. Let’s stop off for a pint.”

Getting to The Goose, Lorraine the landlady in a blue rinse, Reg the landlord still waiting for Liverpool to win the league after 50 years.

“A pint of Carling? Seventy-five quid please.”

I was crying with laughter and did well to keep the car steady.

Well, let’s hope we are all able to go to Chelsea in 2041, wherever we may be.

Yes, wherever we may be. With our game against Queens Park Rangers taking place a few miles north of The Bridge, it gave me yet more time to ponder on the CPO shenanigans of late and the likelihood of us playing at Stamford Bridge, or elsewhere in the next few decades. As I have mentioned before, this is the first time that the borough of Hammersmith & Fulham had its three teams in the top flight of English football; quite an achievement. I pondered on the landscape of football in the capital and, more pertinently, the landscape of football in West London. Although Chelsea has traditionally drawn its support from large swathes of South London and parts of West London, we are, of course, located just north of the River Thames. We are a London club, for sure, but also a club of the Home Counties, those counties which nudge against the city of London itself. But, with football, location and identity are intrinsically linked. Territory is important. Location is important. Of the options being mentioned in the infamous Chelsea / CPO proposal, the sites at Earls Court and Imperial Wharf are close to home and within walking distance of The Bridge. Battersea is obviously south of the river, but just across from the borough of Kensington & Chelsea – at a push, this would get my approval if we had to move. But, throughout these recent discussions, the Wicked Witch in all this was the site at Old Oak Common, just over three miles to the north of Stamford Bridge. And, very importantly, even further north than QPR’s stadium at Loftus Road.

Not only that, the immediate location seems to be surrounded by rail yards, dead-end streets and industrial estates. A veritable Millwall North. For Chelsea to end up playing in this awful location, miles from our traditional home, fills me with absolute dread.

And yet, for overseas fans, this must seem strange.

What’s three miles? It’s only a sport stadium. It’s still in London. What’s the big deal?

Well – it’s everything. It’s absolutely everything.

With the reappearance of Wimbledon playing in Kingston-On-Thames this season, there are fully twelve league clubs in London and our proximity to each other is so important. If you think about just the five teams in the South and West – Chelsea, Fulham, QPR, Brentford and Wimbledon – these clubs are all clustered within a radius of three or four miles. For us to be shunted north a few miles would undoubtedly alter the dynamic of our club.

With all of this heavy in my mind, I drove into the heart of Rangers territory. Up the North Circular, past Gunnersbury Park, just like my dear father used to do from 1974 to 1983. Dad hated driving in London and he always used to park at Ealing Common, away from the heavy traffic, and we would then get the tube in. I passed through Acton and we noted quite a few Kiwis with All Blacks shirts, fresh from celebrating their triumph against the French. I eventually parked up barely half a mile from Rangers Stadium.

It was a warm Sunday lunchtime and Parky and I soon found us ensconced in an old-fashioned boozer called The Orchard Tavern, just off the Uxbridge Road. Despite there being signs on the door which said “Home Supporters Only” we encountered no problems. We settled down to watch the Mancunian derby, amongst a gaggle of United fans, a few wearing replica kits. There were a few Rangers lads at the bar, and save a few hard stares from a lad with an Aquascutum scarf, there were no problems. After tons of possession in the first quarter, United imploded and the score was 3-1 when we left at about 3pm.

Fifteen minutes later, we had walked up Bloomfontein Avenue and were chatting to Alan and Bristol Tim. Tim had been drinking in one of their main pubs. There had been no trouble. We heard crazy talk that United had won 6-1, but quickly dismissed this as a silly rumour.

Then, Alan took a call from Gary and began smiling…6-1 it was.

Oh boy.

I spotted Cathy and Dog a few yards away and so I went down for a quick chat. They were amazed to hear that City had trounced United and we had a little conversation about City. To be honest, I know they are now major rivals with us, but I’ve always had a major soft spot for them. Their support has always held firm. If any team deserves a little success, under the shadows of United for so long, it’s them.

Who should be with them but Tuna – and also Joe and Michelle from Chicago, last seen in Turin. Two Americans, wearing the colours of the Chicago Bears, were also there. After a little explanation, it all clicked – they were over for the NFL game at Wembley, but sadly had to leave Loftus Road before half-time to get up to Wembley for the game.

Well – I know what I’d do. See all of the Chelsea game, then get up for the last two hours of the NFL game. Easy.

Maybe it has been a different story up in London, but there hasn’t been too much hoo-ha about the Bears vs. Bucanneers game this past week. I have no problem with America’s sports teams playing friendlies in the UK, but I loathe the idea of regular season games taking place here. You can be damned sure that the fools at the FA look at this and will revisit the odious idea of the 39th Game again in the next few years.

For the first time ever, I approached the away end at Loftus Road – the School End – and its tiny structure looked ridiculous. The whole ground, although neat and compact, seems to resemble a Subutteo stadium. Once inside, there is no room to breath. Gary, Alan and I were in the upper tier – £55, the most I have ever paid for a normal league game – while Parky was down below.

Loftus Road only holds 18,500 and it only ever used to hold around 23,000 back in the ‘eighties. Back in those days, Chelsea would swamp the home areas and virtually take over the entire stadium.

That man from 1995, Kevin Gallen, was down below, reminiscing with the very excitable public-address announcer about previous games with us. I’m surprised that the infamous 6-0 shellacking from 1986 wasn’t mentioned to be honest. For the immediate period before the entrance of the teams, the PA was pumping very loud music at us and I longed for the days when fans made their own entertainment before games began, the atrmosphere bubbling, the noise rising each minute. These days, the noise is enforced upon us from above.

“London Calling” (our song, damn it – Joe Strummer was a Chelsea fan) gave way to “Pigbag” and the teams eventually entered the pitch.

But I couldn’t help but notice lots of empty seats in the main stand to my left. This was their biggest game for 15 years and they couldn’t even sell 16,000 seats.

Pathetic.

Oh boy, I was concerned that Mr. PA Guy was going to explode, such was his excitement of his beloved Rs playing Chelsea. He could hardly contain himself.

“Come on you SUPER-HOOPS.”

Bless.

Above us, the sky was pristine blue and the patch of sun on the pitch contrasted strongly to the areas of shadow to my right. The two spindly floodlight pylons at the other end – The Loft – gave the stadium even more of an appearance of a model kit. It took a while for the home fans to get behind their team and I thought our support, split over two tiers, sometimes struggled too.

My mate Alan commented –

“It seems like a game from the second division. From the ‘eighties.”

I’m not going to dwell too much on the game. I thought that, apart from Sturridge and Mata, we got out of the blocks slowly and Rangers’ midfielders seemed to be first to all of the loose balls.

I have to be honest, I thought that David Luiz’ challenge which lead to the early penalty was a stupid piece of football. It was rash and clumsy. You have to give the referee no excuse to award a foul once you get your body inside the penalty area.

And again, I’ll be honest; I did see the Bosingwa tug which lead to his sending off, though I wasn’t convinced that John Terry could not have covered.

And Drogba’s sending off was just an awful tackle.

By this stage, the Rangers support was in ecstasy and I suspected that PA Man had simultaneously combusted somewhere.

We were down to nine men and we were struggling to maintain any foothold in the game.

Oh hell.

But – what a second-half performance.

It was with growing pride that I looked on from row F of the upper tier as the Chelsea players down below me rose to the challenge of being not one, but two players down. Villas-Boas made the changes and the final nine did themselves proud. I was convinced that we would get a goal.

A Lampard header.

An Anelka header.

Anelka played through but he decided not to shoot, the ball instead coming out for Luiz to attempt an overhead kick which Lamps touched over.

A John Terry shot over.

And then the awful refereeing decisions – the grab on Luiz, not helped by his accentuated fall, and the fouls on lamps and JT.

A few breaks at the other end and Petr Cech kept us in it.

Tons of Chelsea possession – they did us proud.

Five minutes of extra time…COME ON!

But no – QPR held on, the irritating gits.

At the final whistle, the Chelsea fans roared our thanks for the team’s proud performance and John Terry, Ashley Cole, Frank Lampard and David Luiz walked down to the away end to thank the travelling two thousand for our support. I watched John Terry point at all of us, pat his chest (his trademark) and then dismiss the muppets in the other three stands with a derisory flick of his palms. The Chelsea fans roared. Us and them together.

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Outside, there were around five police vans parked alongside South Africa Road as we descended the steps, still disbelieving that we hadn’t scored. I met up with Tuna, Joe and Michelle and I wished them well on their travels back to the US. The police moved us along and I then walked around to meet up with Parky. The home fans were buzzing, but we had seen it all before. It had seemed like a day from another era all of the way through and here we all were once again, the victims of those jumped-up Herberts from Shephards Bush once more.

The more things change, the more they stay the same, eh?

Still, as always, Parky and I had enjoyed being part of it. Even in defeat, we’d rather be part of the rich Chelsea matchday experience than being sat at home on our sofas.

Or being a United fan – that definitely helped us cope on the drive home.

What a crazy game.

What a crazy day.

Tales From The Tourist Trail

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Genk : 19 October 2011.

The game with Genk seemed to develop a split personality throughout the evening; all well on the pitch, but far from well off it.

Parky and I left Chippenham at 4pm and we endured a crazy mix of weather as I drove eastwards towards London. There were gloomy clouds and then rain one minute, but blue skies and autumnal sun the next, with an iridescent rainbow near Swindon thrown in for good measure. Traffic slowed around Heathrow and it meant that we weren’t parked-up until 6.45pm.

After all of the emotion of the CPO issues of recent weeks, the focus was now on the size of the crowd for our Champions League game with the Belgians. As I walked into The Goose, I was surprised how few people were inside. It was even quieter than for the Leverkusen game a few weeks back. Over by the bar, there was a smaller-than-usual assortment of my usual mates amongst the pub regulars. We briefly spoke about our predictions for the size of the crowd, bearing in mind the much-discussed boycott which my friend Rob had initiated around a month ago. Although I understood Rob’s reasoning for the boycott (at very least, it made the club aware of a level of discontent amongst the rank and file about a 33% increase on last season), I could not turn my back on this game. The reasons for this are varied, but I have to admit that one of the foremost reasons was that I wanted to maintain my eight year long run of consecutive home games.

And by a typical quirk of fate, the game against Genk would be my 200th. I simply couldn’t stop on game 199, could I?

To be fair, I spoke to Rob on Saturday about the boycott and everything was OK between us. The club, to be fair to Rob, had been forced into action by the negative publicity about the boycott and we had heard firm rumours that several thousand free tickets had been handed out to anybody with the vaguest of links to any of Chelsea’s academy teams. Call me cynical, but I was sure that the West Lower, opposite the TV cameras, would be full. The club’s inability to sell out clearly added more points to the ongoing discussions about a new stadium, too. Talk between a few of us by the bar were off all these “off-field” matters and the upcoming game was simply not discussed at all, save for confirmation that Genk had brought over a full three thousand.

A few fans from Bristol, a city which is 20 miles from my home, were in the pub and I happened to bump into one of them, Tim, at the Stiff Little Fingers gig which I saw in Bath on Monday.

What a small world we live in, eh? Even on a “night off”, Chelsea still manages to enter my life.

It was a great gig and the two of us reminisced about Monday and previous SLF gigs, going back to 1982, when I saw the band in Bristol for the first time.

There was only time for a Coke and I was then on my way. The evening air was surprisingly cold but I was well-wrapped up. As I joined the match-going crowd at Fulham Broadway, the numbers grew. I bought a match programme and made my way towards the turnstiles for the MHU. All around me were the voices of Londoners and tourists alike.

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“The Liquidator” was playing on the PA as I made my way to my seat. I quickly scanned to see how many were in the ground. Less empty seats in The Shed than against Leverkusen, but swathes of blue seats were visible in the top corners of the East Upper.

I was sat by myself for this game. Alan, for a change, was over in the East Lower. Gary was ten seats away and there were a few familiar faces dotted around in their usual seats, but it was plainly obvious that many tourists were close by. Throughout the evening, I spotted many of them taking cheesy photographs of each other, posing with those half-and-half scarves and also the blue-and-white flags which had been placed on every third or fourth seat.

Typically, I was concentrating on the size and make-up of the crowd and only really concentrated on the team just before the game kicked-off.

No JT, no Mata, no bother.

Torres was in – good news.

After Copenhagen last season, Genk were the latest team to show up at Chelsea in a deep pink away kit. It seems to me that pink is the current flavour of the month in alternate club colours. In club rugby, too, not that rugby should really affect anything that goes on in football. About ten years ago, every team seemed to have a black away kit all of a sudden. Don’t bet against the loons at Adidas kitting us out in cerise or fuchsia by 2015.

What a fantastic first-half of flowing football.

On just 6 minutes, Fernando Torres narrowly beat the Genk offside trap and steadied himself before deftly poking the ball past the ‘keeper. In a moment which was all-too-reminiscent of last season, the ball touched the left-hand post and bounced away. Just after, the ball found the recalled Raul Meireles some thirty yards out. With no Genk defender closing him down, he advanced a few yards and despatched a thunderbolt into the goal. The ‘keeper must have been unsighted because he hardly moved a muscle as the ball flew past him.

After the celebrations had subsided, the young Chelsea supporter to my right tore up his betting slip as he had nominated Torres as the first goal scorer.

Soon into the game, I couldn’t help but notice that the 3,000 away fans were singing in English and, after a few repeats of the same ditty, it dawned on me that they were singing –

“We all agree – Chelsea supporters are w@nkers.”

The lack of a response from anyone in the Stamford Bridge crowd made me wonder if they were, at least in part, quite correct. Yet again, our once vociferous home support went missing for virtually all of the game. At least the Chelsea players were causing me no grief.

On 11 minutes, the ball was played to Frank Lampard and I spotted Torres twitching on the shoulder of the last man.

“Play him in” I bellowed…Frank must have heard me as his slide-rule pass allowed Torres to advance a few yards and stroke the ball into the net. This was the quintessential New Chelsea Goal and it was a joy to witness it. Torres wheeled away down to “Celebration Corner” and was joined by his team mates.

Lovely stuff.

Torres’ movement was magnificent in the first quarter, in fact. He was buzzing.

Despite being two goals down after only a few minutes, the away fans were – as is so typical – making all of the noise. They did their version of The Bouncy but it was very noticeable that the central section of the away fans in the upper tier of The Shed were not joining in. Down below in the lower tier, one thousand Belgians were jumping like loons and a same amount in the flanks of the upper tier, too. I guessed that the more reserved folk in the central area were the Genk equivalent of Chelsea’s Exec Club…and I wondered if letters of complaint from Mrs. Vandenblink, Miss de Vries and Mr. de Wooters were going to be addressed to the Genk club about the “noisy and boisterous” behaviour of the other fans in that section.

On 27 minutes, a magnificent glancing header from Fernando Torres past the luckless Genk custodian made it 3-0. Torres was on fire and we were loving it.

I was tempted to send a text to the few Liverpool fans I know saying “thanks for the goals” but thought better of it.

On 32 minutes, a lovely flowing move from our defence eventually found Torres in the inside-right channel. With the merest of glances, he sent over a beautiful cross with the outside of his right foot towards a leaping Frank Lampard. Unfortunately, his jump at the near post resulted in a header which flew past the post.

That would have been a goal for the ages.

The Genk fans then became the latest away fans to turn in a rendition of Depeche Mode’s “Just Can’t Get Enough”, with requisite bouncing.

Another flowing move soon followed, involving Torres, Lampard and Nicolas Anelka but Nico shot wide. Just before the break, on 42 minutes, we had a free-kick on the right and Malouda’s inch-perfect cross found the head of Ivanovic and his emphatic downward header made it 4-0.

Wow.

What a lovely way to celebrate my 200th consecutive home game (and incidentally my 850th. Chelsea game too.) I had crazy thoughts of equalling and, perhaps, surpassing the 8-0 against Wigan Athletic in 2010. No thoughts of Jeunesse Hautcharage, though…not yet, anyway. However, despite some lovely football on show, the stadium was almost devoid of sound in the home areas. It certainly seemed to me that the large proportion of tourists in The Bridge had a negative effect on the atmosphere. I tried to equate the increase in the price for a Champions League game from £30 last season to £40 this season to this reduction in the noise levels. I’m not sure if I came to any definite conclusions. However, by simply pricing out – say – 5,000 of our more established and vociferous working class fans and simply replacing them with 5,000 tourists or new fans (unaware of the Chelsea subculture) surely has to have an effect. And this is where we are as a club. The club is happy for this dilution of our traditional support and, it could be argued, possibly even encourages it. More tourists equal more Megastore sales. More match day revenue. Ker-ching.

Meanwhile, thousands of our out-priced fans were watching at home on the TV.

And there has to be a distinction here between overseas Chelsea supporters and just tourists. The former understand the rituals and the culture of watching our club and add to the match day experience by involving themselves in it. The latter happen to find themselves in central London on a holiday and visit Stamford Bridge out of curiosity or on a whim. It is unlikely that they add to the Chelsea experience. There were two Spanish lads to my left – nice enough lads, pleased to be at the game – but they were probably Real Madrid, Espanyol or Real Betis fans. They didn’t sing, nor clap, nor shout. And I guess there were hundreds like them dotted around the stadium.

A trim Paul Elliott was escorted around the pitch by Neil Barnett at the break and “Jamaica” was given a wonderful reception, and even the away fans applauded him. A nice touch.

The second-half, unfortunately, didn’t quite reach the peaks of entertainment as the first-half, despite some luscious play at times from a free-spirited Luiz and the re-born Torres. On 56 minutes, the move of the match began right on our goal-line in front of the away fans with Bosingwa winning a tackle. The ball was then played out through the midfield and Malouda raced clear only for his shot to be smothered by their ‘keeper.

Still the away fans swayed, bounced and sang.

Next up was a song, in Belgian for a change, based on Boney M’s “Rivers Of Babylon.”

As the night progressed, I continued to take photographs of the game, though I am noting that I am finding myself taking more and more abstract photos…of corner flags, of press photographers, of shadows, of angles, of moonlit shapes on the stand roofs, of small details.

On 58 minutes, a Lampard penalty shout was waved away and memories of Tom Henning Ovrebro momentarily returned. AVB replaced Lampard with Kalou on 67 minutes and I’m afraid a few negative comments were aired. I hoped he would silence the critics and he had a few stereotypical aggressive runs at the right-back. On 71 minutes, Jose Bosingwa was out wide and I shouted “go on – attack the near post, Torres” and I watched as the right-back rifled in a low cross towards Nando. His shot was blocked, but the oft-maligned Kalou was on hand to prod the ball home.

5-0.

Job done.

The away fans then sang “Always Look On the Bright Side Of Life” and this garnered a few claps from the Chelsea fans who were still breathing. In fact, the most ironic moment came towards the end when the away fans had the temerity to hold their blue and white scarves aloft and sing “You’ll Never Walk Alone.” This caused a noisy round of booing from the home areas and was possibly the loudest the Chelsea fans had been all night.

As I made my way out of the seats, I brushed past CPO director – and club historian – Rick Glanvill, who was in conversation with leading SayNoCPO campaigner Tim Rolls. We exchanged pleasantries and there was an awkward moment when I think both of us wanted to utter a few words on the CPO proposal, but we let the moment pass. Rick is a good man and I think the whole proposal must be weighing heavy on his mind.

Out in the cold Fulham streets, the Chelsea fans quickly dispersed and I was at least thankful for the reduction in match day traffic. I pulled away from my parking space bang on 10pm just as Henry Winter was commenting on our match on Radio Five Live. He was full of praise of our current form and mentioned that “under Villas-Boas, there is no background noise…Chelsea just get it done.”

Music to my ears.

Tales From Stamford Bridge

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Everton : 15 October 2011.

A fortnight ago, we won at The Reebok and all was well with the world. The day after, Chelsea Football Club announced their proposal to buy the CPO shares and the subsequent ramifications of this has dominated my thoughts ever since, like some never-ending stream of consciousness.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I crawled out of bed on Tuesday 4th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was sat at my desk at work on Wednesday 5th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I drove into work on Thursday 6th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was watching England on a scratchy streaming site in the evening on Friday 7th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was doing some ironing on Saturday 8th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it while I was getting changed to play five-a-side on Sunday 9th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about when I was shopping in Bradford-On-Avon on Monday 10th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was in a meeting at work on Tuesday 11th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was filling up with petrol at Beckington on Wednesday 12th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was listening to a work colleague bore me with talk of cars on Thursday 13th. October.

Stamford Bridge – I thought about it when I was trying desperately to get to sleep on Friday 14th. October.

I know this – I was in no mood for a Chelsea game last weekend. I needed time to ruminate over the severity of the situation that we found ourselves in and I needed time to reflect on the way forward.

My preparations for the game with Everton were dominated with thoughts about the CPO vote and the future of football at The Bridge. As I collected Parky at 10am, I was pretty sure that other thoughts – our line-up, the threat of Everton, the other games, the drinking, the pre-match, the coming games with Genk and QPR – would be pushed to one side. All along, this didn’t seem like a normal Chelsea Saturday.

Above us, clear blue skies and this incredible October was continuing…the weather was magnificent. We dipped into Swindon en route to London in order for a little retail therapy, stopping at the Designer Outlet. This is an oft-visited site by me over recent years and it is housed in the former engineering sheds of Isambard Kingdom Brunel’s famous Great Western Railway, sympathetically making use of an otherwise potentially redundant location.

Purchases were made at two stores, but as Parky and I circumnavigated the outlet, it soon dawned on me how certain labels have always been “in” for football and how many have always been “out.” Of the thirty-six stores listed under “fashion” in the Swindon shopping guide, we have the following breakdown –

Yep.

Aquascutum.
Henri Lloyd.
Hugo Boss.
Lacoste.
Polo Ralph Lauren.
Timberland.

Nah.

Bench.
Cotton Traders.
Gap.
Petroleum.
Tommy Hilfiger.

We stopped at Reading Services for a coffee and we reached Chesson Road in deepest Chelsealand bang on 1.30pm. A text from Rick in Ohio alerted me to the fact that the Liverpool vs. Manchester United game was a dour affair but, to be brutally frank, I had completely forgotten that it was on. If I was having trouble focussing on Chelsea vs. Everton, all other games were certainly off the radar.

The Goose was surprisingly quiet as we made our way out to the sun-drenched beer garden. However, it soon dawned on me that we were still four hours away from kick-off. The old place soon filled up and our little group, growing steadily, out in the far corner grew to around fifteen in total by 3pm. Rob had a few hundred round “SAY NO CPO” stickers and we saw a few others arrive with fliers throughout the afternoon. A few were wearing black “SAY NO CPO” T-shirts. There was a sense of rebellion in the air and I loved it. It has often troubled me that due to the many Chelsea fan groups and the inherently spatial diversity of our support, we might struggle to unite together under one umbrella should the need arise to muster troops for any particular grievance. I need not have worried. The meeting on Monday allayed that fear with representatives of the CSG, CFCUK, CFCNet and even the original CSC combing forces to fight the cause.

Of course, the debate about the future of Stamford Bridge dominated our pre-game conversations. A couple of protagonists knowingly played devil’s advocate to ruffle a few feathers and stir up some emotions (if anybody knows our little firm, they will know exactly who these two were likely to be), but I was generally calmed by the noises emanating from my mates’ mouths. There was a general consensus which aligned itself to the views stated by the SayNoCPO lobby.

At about 3pm, Tuna arrived on the scene clasping a pint of Guinness and The Youth’s boisterous son Seb quickly stuck a SayNoCPO sticker on his leather jacket. Over the past few years, Tuna has got to know most of the lads that I regularly drink with at Chelsea and there was the usual banter on his arrival. He then proceeded to regale us with a story about a bear which confronted him up while he was on a shooting trip up in the mountains of Georgia. Not the sort of story we usually hear in The Goose, to be honest.

I couldn’t help but notice that in our little corner of the beer garden – a group of around fifteen to twenty like-minded souls…let’s see…Andy, Woody, The Youth, Seb, Rob, Parky, Daryl, Neil, Chris, Matt, Gary, Alan, Mark, Simon, Milo, Ronnie, Fiona, Barbara, Tuna and myself…the only one wearing colours was young Seb. And he was making up for the rest of us by wearing a Chelsea home shirt over last season’s black and orange away shirt.

Maybe he was finding the cold, bless.

It was no good. I had to move on at around 4.15pm. I wanted to saunter down to the ground to judge what the mood of the nation was. I bade my farewells – “see you Wednesday” – and walked down the North End Road, the sun still blazing overhead. What a gorgeous day. There was not one single cloud in the sky.

I quickly chatted to Mark at the stall and picked-up the latest issue of CFCUK. It’s a fantastic edition, actually, with great contributions throughout. It has always been a slight moan of mine that the same issues get written in each edition, but on this occasion I did not object to the plethora of valued articles devoted to the NO campaign. Cliff from the CSG introduced me to Tim Rolls, who has played a major role in the supporters’ voice against the proposal and he was surrounded by well-wishers. I quickly mentioned that I would be the proxy voter for a substantial number of loyalists from across the pond and I thanked him for his time and efforts.

I had time on my hands and slowly ambled on up towards the stadium, past the infamous Loudhaler Man (who even has a Facebook page devoted to him, albeit from an irreverent and mocking perspective), asking for us to stop and think about a few religious ideas. He made a few topical references to “the pitch, the team ” and I hope somebody stuck a SayNoCPO sticker on his jacket.

I took a few photographs of the stadium as I circumnavigated it, hopefully capturing a few new angles. At the main gates, opposite the pub where the club was formed in 1905, I spoke to Trizia from the CSG as she handed out a few more fliers. She had heard that I was voting as a proxy for a few fans in America and – you know what? – I got a tingle knowing that I was doing my little bit to assist. It also made me realise how close-knit we are as a club. We may have upwards of 100 million fans worldwide, but there is a very tight little community amongst the regular match-goers at Chelsea. That is something to be lauded.

This was new for me, being outside the hotel with about 45 minutes to go before kick-off. I continued my walk around the stadium and I walked past around 15 Scousers. The thing was – none of them were wearing colours, but I just knew that they were Evertonians. Their predilection for tracksuit bottoms, plus their general appearance (gaunt faces and suedehead haircuts) easily gave the game away.

I walked down past the East Stand, past the players’ entrance and I remembered the time that my mate Glenn and I had to assemble there at 2.45pm, just ahead of Glenn getting presented with his CPO certificate on the pitch by Wisey against The Geordies in 1995.

Further on round, on the corner with the Matthew Harding Stand, I remembered “Drakes” which was the first real bar at Stamford Bridge for normal fans. It is now re-labelled “Champions Club” or something and presumably hosts corporate clients these days. “Drakes” was a lovely little bar and for the first season or two, it was restricted for CPO shareholders only. It then opened-up for season-ticket holders only. We met the 1970 team there in 1995 and I have photos of Glenn and I with Ossie, Chopper, Charlie, The Cat and a few more. Often, Alan, Glenn and I would often meet there for a reasonably-priced pre-match meal and a pint of Coors. Those days now seem long gone. As I walked past the new Chelsea Museum, the sun was reflecting off the stand supports and the sky was still brilliantly blue. I can’t overstate how wonderful the weather was. As I strode past the crowds waiting to enter the MHL, I again thought back to the mid-nineties, when Glenn and I were up at Chelsea dead early and spotted Ruud Gullit walking down from the car park to the changing room. I took a photo of Glenn, looking shell-shocked, next to Ruud, who had a pink Gazzetta Dello Sport tucked under his arm.

Memories, memories.

Up in the Matthew Harding Upper, Alan and I were joined by Simon, a chap that I have known since that iconic 1983-1984 season, when we would assemble early (often as early as 1.30pm) on our favourite spot on The Benches. Back row, half-way line and woe betide anyone who got there before us.

Fantastic stuff.

I didn’t see Simon at all from Hillsborough 1985 to Molyneux 2003 and I think he stopped going regularly for a while and travelled a fair bit. I know he is a keen snowboarder. For anyone who has seen it, Simon is the Chelsea fan featured in his brother Andy’s famous video from the momentous Champions League game at Highbury in 2004. It is Simon’s face which is seen at the end, holding his ticket, close to tears, revelling in that fantastic win after all those years of drought.

Simon is from the St. Albans area and, by some quirk of fate, Frome Town had been playing up at St. Albans during the afternoon. Unfortunately, my mate Steve texted me to say that Frome lost 2-1. Ex- Chelsea forward Paul Furlong still turns out for St. Albans, in fact, and came on as sub for the last twenty minutes. I am looking forward to seeing him play down in Frome in the New Year.

On the pitch, I was in early enough to see the last few minutes of the lads going through their routines, just as a seminal song from The Clash was being aired on the PA.

https://www.facebook.com/#!/video/vi…50412502597658

I noticed that the yellow “The Only Place To Be Every Other Saturday” banner, which usually flies to the left of me in the MH, had been centrally positioned in The Shed. I hope Roman saw it. I spotted Steve…or was it Daz?…no, it was Steve, to my left and helped him raise the blue flag above the heads of the supporters in the MHU. Over in The Shed Lower, a twenty foot square banner was passed over the heads of the fans and it simply said

“THIS IS OUR HOME.”

It continued on through the West Lower and I’m glad it made it that far. I would hate to have seen it confiscated after a few seconds by over-zealous stewards.

It was a full house. Our first game at home in three weeks.

To be honest, despite a few Everton half chances which skidded across the box in the first twenty minutes, we never looked troubled. However, it took us a full twenty minutes for us to register a shot on goal, a long-range effort from Bosingwa. On 31 minutes, Mata (who seems to have complete licence to drift in from the left whenever he feels the need) spotted Ashley in an advanced position and delicately lobbed the ball into his path. Ash only took one touch and dinked the ball towards the on-rushing Sturridge and 1-0 to Chelsea.

Simon, who usually sits right below me in the MHL was loving the view from the Upper Tier. Unbelievably, it was his first ever visit. He was shocked to see that we get a bigger choice of pies in the upper, plus internet access on our phones.

“Not only that, but they’ll be round with hors d’oeuvres at half-time, Si.”

However, Simon was disappointed by the lack of noise coming from our section and, to be honest, the place was pretty subdued. Just before half-time, with a free-kick out on our left, I commented to Simon that “now would be a pretty good time to score.”

Frank whipped the ball in, JT rose, 2-0 Chelsea.

Hugs and backslaps.

I watched JT slide towards the SW corner and his smiling team mates soon joined in.

At the break, Peter Bonetti – now seventy – was paraded by Neil Barnett and the MHL sang his name. Out in the toilets at half-time, I saw the sun set over West London, past the Empress State Building and beyond.

Simon and I spoke about the lack of atmosphere.

“Go back twenty-five years, mate…imagine if they had said about a kick-off on a Saturday at 5.30pm…in the pub since midday, plenty of booze, The Bridge – all close to the pitch – would be rocking…we’ll have some of that!”

Instead, it was like a morgue.

Alan chipped in…”don’t worry, we’ll soon be playing in front of sixty thousand who don’t sing.”

Soon into the second period, Leon Osman struck the base of Cech’s right post, but Everton were never in it for the rest of the game.

After a few more minutes, the night had fallen and the sky was black. It was still warm though and I, like many others, watched the entire game in our shirtsleeves. At last – on 55 minutes – the first “Carefree” which united both ends of the stadium. At times, however, only the three of us were singing.

Alan jibed…”we’re the three tenors – which one of you fat fcukers is gonna be Pavarotti?”

I captured the cross from Mata – our best player – which lead to our third goal on film and there was Ramires to prod the ball in from close range. It had been a fine move…Mata to Drogba to Mata to Ramires. Drogba had endured a quiet game, though, and a long shot from distance towards the end was his only effort of note.

The MHL now responded with a prolonged version of a nice old favourite, which I think I am safe to say is Chelsea’s and Chelsea’s alone…

“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 – OOH! – LA LA LA LA LA – OOH!
OOH OH OH OH OH, OH OH OH OH
OOH OH OH OH OH, OOH OH OH OH OH
Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

Good stuff.

How on earth did Everton score their goal? That was just shoddy defending and it annoyed us all that we can’t keep clean sheets, especially at home, this season.

Good to see Frank getting back towards his better form and only a miss-placed pass early on sticks in my mind. Mata was the boy, though – I love his movement and his eagerness to get involved, to say nothing of his touch and awareness.

Superb.

We flicked on “606” as we joined the slow-moving procession of match-going traffic out of Fulham, but a moaning Chelsea fan (“Drop Drogba – he hasn’t scored in two games”) made me fume.

Should we move to a new pad, I have a feeling that there will be a few more idiots like him, too.

Tales From The Caffeine Express

Posted on July 27, 2013 by Chris Axon

Bolton Wanderers vs. Chelsea : 2 October 2011.

This was a long and tiring excursion into deepest Lancashire, but yet another hugely enjoyable day following the boys in royal blue. With victories for both Manchester clubs on a sun-drenched Saturday, it was imperative that we stayed in touch with then by winning at The Reebok. Historically, Bolton Wanderers are a tough old team, but our record at Bolton’s stadium is almost perfect, with a series of highly convincing victories and not a single defeat. As I left my slumbering Somerset village at 7.45am, I was confident of a positive outcome.

I sipped at a coffee as I drove through the Somerset lanes and then headed through the winding and narrow streets of the Wiltshire town of Bradford-On-Avon. My mates Alan and Gary were already heading north on one of the official Chelsea coaches from London. I wondered how many we would take up to Bolton. It’s always a concern that our club isn’t embarrassed by a smaller than expected away following. As the coffee hit the spot, I became more and more tuned-in to the delights of the day ahead. However, my early progress was temporarily halted by some Sunday cyclists and a Land Rover pulling a horse box. I eventually collected Parky at 8.15am and then retraced my tracks, heading west and then north up past Bath and onto the M4. We were expecting another blisteringly hot day and the early morning sun was burning up the mist in the valley where Bath was nestled. Above, several hot air balloons were clearly visible in the pristine blue sky.

What a great feeling. A day of football and a day of Chelsea. Can’t beat it.

As these Chelsea trips north come and go, as these sorties up the M5 and the M6 follow on relentlessly after each other, I was well aware of how desperate I am for fresh fields and fresh destinations in order for new routes and experiences to befall me. Thank heavens for the much-anticipated jaunts to Swansea and Norwich this season. If these away day match reports start to feel eerily familiar, it only goes to illustrate the relentless nature of following football 24/7. However, I’ll never tire of an away game at Bolton. It will always be a special place in my heart. Need I mention April 30th. 2005?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L3YThWPPAIo

I refuelled at Strensham services and we then had a grotty Burger King coffee at Stafford services. As I travel around the motorway network, I have developed a nerdish knowledge of service stations and it’s not something I am proud of.

“There are always long lines at the Costa Coffee at Strensham, no breakfast menu at Burger King at Frankley, there’s an M&S at Keele. No KFC until Knutsford”

In order to save ourselves some money, Parky and I have started taking our own food for these away trips around England; with ticket prices higher than ever, it’s one way we can attempt to save some money in order to keep going to football. Over the course of a whole season, it will hopefully save us some money for a few more tickets.

As we headed north, the sky grew greyer and clouds became thicker. This was pretty surprising as the weather down south on Saturday had been magnificent. By the time we were headed over the River Mersey and the Manchester Ship Canal at Thelwell, the weather had deteriorated further. I know I have mentioned this many times before, but the view atop this bridge is one of my favourite football vistas. To the west, the Runcorn Bridge and the city of Liverpool and its twin clubs, to the east, the skyscrapers of central Manchester and United and City, with the moors beyond. And due north, Winter Hill and The Reebok (though out of sight) nestling below it. However, not on this day; the overcast weather meant that Winter Hill was not visible. I was making great time and before I knew it, I was heading east on the M62 and Bolton was just 16 miles away.

We veered off the Manchester orbital and then headed north on the M61. It is always a surprise for me how far out – and isolated – The Reebok Stadium is from Bolton city centre. It is located off the motorway at Horwich, adjacent a large shopping and entertainment complex. The rain was spitting as I headed east, with the floodlight pylons and roof supports of the stadium visible in the autumn sky ahead.

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The sight of this most unique stadium always brings a smile to my soul.

Four hours – to the dot – since setting off in the waking Somerset morning, I was parked up in the drizzle of a Lancashire stadium car park.

It’s grim up north.

Alan and Gary had just arrived and we joined them by the entrance to the main reception area, in preparation of the arrival of the Chelsea coach. Within five minutes, I had taken a few up-close-and-personal photographs of Petr Cech, Frank Lampard, Raul Meireles and Nicolas Anelka, though only two photos proved to be worthy of keeping. I managed to get a nice one of Frank, just after he had signed a few programmes and had had his photo taken with an eager fan. Amongst the throng of Chelsea fans, I noted a few northern voices. Parky was keen to head inside for a beer, but I fancied a mooch around the adjacent retail park. I didn’t fancy any beers as I had a long trip home. I needed to keep my head fresh. Parky’s ticket was for the lower tier, so I swapped my ticket for his; this enabled His Lordship to partake in a few pre-match bevvies with Alan and Gary in the Upper Tier bars.

As I slowly walked around the outside of the stadium, I spotted several slogans declaring “Bolton Central – Everything Wanderers” and this is typical of recent branding exercises at clubs these days. At Everton, there are signs declaring itself “The Peoples’ Club” and there are of course “Our City” signs everywhere at Eastlands.

I made a bee-line for the “Hurleys” shop, just a hundred yards or so away. I bought a pair of Henri Lloyd jeans there on my last visit and I spent a good few minutes examining the gear on show. The first “Hurleys” began in Manchester ages ago and there are a few dotted around the north-west. It’s a well-known mecca for football gear and I wasn’t disappointed; I flicked through a few rails of Lacoste, Fred Perry, Boss, Paul & Shark and Henri Lloyd. There were also a few items of Pretty Green, the label which Oasis front man Liam Gallagher has developed recently. Lots of shirts with button-down collars, lots of check patterned shirts, lots of polos, lots of heavy pullovers. I seriously considered getting a royal blue Paul & Shark polo – but the price tag was a hefty ₤75 and I had to seriously consider it. I headed opposite and had coffee number three of the day at a local “Starbucks.” After fifteen minutes, I had dismissed the idea and was annoyed with myself for even considering such a crazy notion.

What I want – of course – is a Bolton away game to coincide with the January sales. Can we play them away in the FA Cup in 2012 please?

Time was moving on now and I retraced my steps back around to the away entrance. I had a chat with a few familiar faces and was soon inside. Parky’s ticket was perfect; centrally located behind the goal and next to an aisle. I took a few photographs of the team doing their pre-match drills and noted plenty of smiles and laughter. A few shots on Petr Cech then followed. I had to laugh when David Luiz took a couple of shots but looked away right at the last minute. Typically Brazilan, eh? I think I saw Ronaldinho do this during an actual match once – and score. Heaven knows what would happen if I had ever attempted that.

By this time, the team had been announced and I was abuzz with news that Frank Lampard had been picked. I focussed on him with my camera and he did look energised.

Amidst a flurry of texts just before the kick-off at 1.30pm, I sent a simple message to a few friends which simply said –

“Frank Loves The Reebok.”

I had an inkling that this would be a game where Frank would shine; such is his record at The Reebok.

It seemed that the entire Chelsea contingent had similar thoughts as we serenaded our beloved number eight with a hearty rendition of “Super Frank” at the kick-off. Bolton had a quick attempt on our goal, but a lovely ball from an advancing David Luiz inside the left back found a rampaging Jose Bosingwa. I was right behind the path of that ball; it was a joy to watch. A cross from Bosingwa was turned behind for a corner and, from the centre, none other than Daniel Sturridge headed down and in to the Bolton goal.

And this was after just a couple of minutes.

The Chelsea end roared.

Alan, up above me in the upper tier texted me –

“THTCAUN.”

And I quickly replied –

“COMLD.”

We were in great voice at the start of the game (indeed, for quite a while before, too) and this opening goal gave us more reason to bellow our support of the team.

In the early part of the game, David Luiz had tons of space in which to roam and play balls through to various team mates. Daniel Sturridge, buzzing from his first goal back at Bolton after his loan spell, was playing with great spirit on the right and his great ball found Frank on seventeen minutes. Frank easily despatched the ball into the Bolton goal and how we celebrated.

I repeated the text I had sent at 1.26pm –

“Frank Loves The Reebok.”

On 25 minutes, Studge found himself wide on the right once again. I was wondering if the Bolton left-back had gone shopping in the retail park, such was his continued absence on the pitch. Maybe he was sat in “Starbucks”, mulling over a purchase. Studge whipped in a quick shot which beat the flailing dive of the cerise-shirted Bogdan and the net rippled.

3-0 to Chelsea. Phew.

I had struck up a conversation with the chap behind me about how I hoped that Bolton would stay up this season. Again, the memories of 2005 are the main reason for this. I always remember going back to The Reebok in April 2005-2006 – around the same time of the year as in 2004-2005 – and driving along the M61, just as I had done an hour or so previously. I always remember looking over to my right and spotting the bright white supports of the stadium roof in the distance and getting quite – ahem – emotional. There – on April 30th 2005, Chelsea Football Club had been crowned Champions of England for the first time in fifty years. And little old me – a Chelsea fan from the age of five, a Chelsea fan through the ragged ‘seventies and the false dawns of the ‘eighties, the renaissance of the late ‘nineties and beyond, a follower through thick and thin, good times and bad, from Stamford Bridge to Wembley – had been part of it.

It’s making me quite emotional now, six years on.

That day in 2006, we again triumphed 2-0…JT scored with a header in the first-half and then…of course…Frank Lampard drilled one in during the second period in front of us all. He ran towards us and – deliberately – found himself on the exact same piece of turf as the two celebrations the previous season. He beamed at us and pointed down at the pitch…

“Here!”

It’s one of my favourite memories from that second championship season…and I have both the shot and celebrations captured on a couple of photos.

So – in a way, memories of 2004-2005 and 2005-2006.

For these reasons, I hope we play at The Reebok every season from now to eternity.

Back to 2011. Bolton were in disarray and fell further behind when Sideshow advanced for what seemed like miles. His shot from way out was fumbled by the hapless Bogdan and who else but Frank Lampard pounced.

The text was repeated once more –

“Frank Loves The Reebok.”

At half-time, I had a look around the fellow citizens of the East Lower. I have to admit I didn’t recognise anybody. All of my acquaintances were obviously upstairs, where the 500 members of the away scheme were based. I spotted a row of around twenty identically track-suited Africans, all wearing red bobble hats. I was reminded that I had spotted these fellows way up in the East Upper last weekend against Norwich (I presumed it was the same chaps). My guess was that they were linked to an African club and maybe Chelsea were their hosts for a week or two. I’d like to have known what they thought of Lancashire.

Behind me, I spotted the Rangers captain David Weir, sat quietly with his young son amongst the Chelsea supporters. It took me a while to convince myself it was him…but then had this confirmed for me when I saw a Chelsea fan go up and ask for a photograph. I did the same – but I really didn’t want to take up too much of his time and certainly didn’t want to overly draw attention to the fact that he had been spotted. I presumed that his boy was a Chelsea fan and had gone through normal channels via the club for tickets. I know that he still lives locally – in Warrington – after his spell with Everton.

I quickly texted a few mates in the ground and elsewhere who favour the ‘Gers. It was quite surreal to be honest. It was nice that he was with us and hadn’t asked Bolton for executive seats in a box. Fair play to him. I saw him on the ‘phone a few times; maybe hearing from a mate that Celtic were losing at Tynecastle.

I missed the Bolton goal – I had arrived back from the loos at the break and was just settling myself.

I wondered how the second-half would play out. Just after the Boyata goal, the home supporters got behind the team for the first time in the game. To be fair, they made a fair racket, but it soon subsided. The Reebok is a funny stadium as the end opposite us never seems to make too much noise. Just a few Herberts to our right along the side. We ridiculed them with –

“Sit Down If You’re Going Down.”

To be honest, we were all hoping for a few more goals, but were only rewarded with one more. On the hour, a lovely move involving Frank and Didier resulted in a simple strike from Lampard which evaded the despairing lunge of the ‘keeper. Here we go again –

“Frank Loves The Reebok.”

For the rest of the game, it resembled a bit of a training session, and Meireles and Mata continued to impress. They couldn’t seem to tame Mata the entire game. At times, it was difficult for me to work out the formation as the fluidity of the players meant that Luiz would often go on mazy dribbles, Mata would come inside, Lampard would burst forward, Bosingwa and Cole too. OK – Bolton were poor, but we played some nice stuff. We could have scored a few more, but shots from Mata flew over, Drogba was blocked and Sturridge drifted wide.

Bizarrely, an Ivanovic clearance off the line and a Cech save which was palmed onto the post saved us from conceding a couple of goals.

It was nice to see Nicolas Anelka get a lovely and sustained round of applause from the home fans when he came on as a substitute, though I suspect that the Trotters were thinking –

“Bloody hell, two goals from Sturridge and now Anelka comes on.”

The Chelsea fans around me were stood the entire game – of course – and we enjoyed a particularly loud and boisterous “One Man Went To Mow.” As the fans joined in with each verse, it dawned on me that this famous Chelsea chant has subtlety altered over the years. Originally, everyone would slow down at eight and make the last three versus even more defiant. These days, the tempo stays the same.

It had been a fine afternoon in a special stadium. We will get sterner tests this season for sure, but let’s enjoy the good times, let’s enjoy the goals.

With the rain still falling, I headed back to the car and Parky soon joined me. Unfortunately, we didn’t move for ages and it was a full hour before we left the car park at 4.30pm. We then hit some awful weather and some slow-moving traffic on the road south…it was very frustrating and I could hardly believe that the weather being reported on the radio at White Hart Lane was of gorgeous sunshine.

On the M6 just south of Manchester, the rain was now bucketing down and I was finding it tough-going. I pulled into Knutsford services for a revitalising Costa Coffee and then ploughed on through the wind and the rain.

Parky put on his Big Country CD at Stafford and this kept our spirits up, along with the requisite supply of awful jokes and silly quips. At Walsall, we spotted an ice-cream van blocking an exit slip road.

Parky – “Best get hold of the police. Best dial 99.”

Chris – “The police are looking for a bloke who has covered himself in nuts and chocolate sauce. They reckon he has topped himself.”

And so it continued.

At Stensham, the last coffee of the day; a McDonalds cappuccino apiece. As I headed south through Gloucestershire, 612steve was sending me score updates from the American League Divisional Series, but there was no Chelsea / Yankee win double on the cards. I had hoped to have reached home to see the game against Detroit on my laptop, but the delays and inclement weather had destroyed that idea.

As we skirted Bath, the roads bizarrely dry, we were listening to some New Order and these classics kept us going for the last few miles.

“I feel so extraordinary; something’s got a hold on me.”

I eventually dropped Parky off at 9.15pm and I eventually got home at 9.45pm, some fourteen hours after I had embarked on the trip north.

Bolton 1 Sturridge 2 Lampard 3 Chelsea 5.

Job done.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Category Archives: Season 2011-2012.

Tales From The Carling Cup Quarter Final

Tales From A Different Angle

Tales From The Chelsea And Juventus Fans In Leverkusen

Tales From The Fog

Tales From The Rock

Tales From Chelsea, Pimlico And Brixton

Tales From The School End

Tales From The Tourist Trail

Tales From Stamford Bridge

Tales From The Caffeine Express