Tales From Jack City

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

Swansea City vs. Chelsea : 3 November 2012.

A day of international travel and unintelligible road signs, of wild scenery and heavy industry, bright sunlight and then darkening skies, rainstorms, hail stones, police cars, wailing sirens, lightning and fireworks.

But, sadly, no three points for Chelsea Football Club.

During the week, I had been toying with ideas of what to do before the game. If the weather held up, I had plans to venture further west; past Swansea and on to see the beaches of the Gower peninsula. Maybe take a few photographs. I contemplated a pub lunch overlooking the sea. On these football away days, I’m always keen to try something different for a change. Last season, on the last day of January, during the death throes of Andre Villas-Boas’ reign l, Parky and I had a grand day out in Swansea. We spent an enjoyable couple of hours on The Mumbles, the bay side area just to the south of the city, before heading up to the Liberty Stadium for the game.

Initial thoughts on the Saturday were that we were in for a day of wind and rain. Sadly, it would seem that the beaches would have to wait until next season.

At 9.15am, with the weather swaying from brooding clouds one minute and bright sunshine the next, I left my home in East Somerset.

I sent a single text out to my mate Alan.

“Kerouac >>>>> Jacks.”

He replied –

“Ivor the engine.”

And so a day of Welsh accents and Welsh stereotypes, Welsh phrases and Welsh jokes began.

Depeche Mode accompanied me on my first twenty miles, but The Jam took over as I headed through Bristol. To be fair, the weather was surprisingly good. As I drove up on to the M4, the visibility was magnificent. At the crest of an incline, the twin bridges over the River Severn and the black hills of Wales were clearly visible to the west.

All was good with the world. It looked like the weather was holding out and I’d soon be in Swansea to see the European Champions.

Tidy.

Once over the river, a sign welcomed me to Wales.

“Croeso i Cymru.”

I paid the £6 bridge toll. Paul Weller was singing about bombs in Wardour Street and then tube stations at midnight. The Chelsea army was invading Wales and it felt good. I skirted the town of Newport / Casnewydd as I played a Massive Attack CD. I was happy to hear two of my favourite female singers, Elizabeth Fraser and Tracy Thorn, featured. Heading past the capital city of Cardiff / Caerdydd, the weather was still holding firm.

However, it was too late to change my plans. Instead of spending some time to the west of Swansea, I was going to spend a little time at an outlet mall to the east. At 11am, I veered off the M4 at Bridgend and did some snappy shopping. In the “Berghaus” store, I typically spotted a fellow Chelsea supporter, who sits a few yards from me in the MHU, who had similarly been tempted with some retail therapy. With two shirts plundered, I continued west.

Heading over another crest of a hill, a startling vista opened up in front of me. Away in the distance were the smoking chimneys and the ugly buildings of the Margam steel works to the immediate south of Port Talbot. Beyond, there was the broad sweep of Swansea Bay. I even spotted the lighthouse at Bracelet Bay, away in the distance, where Parky and I had enjoyed some fish and chips and a couple of pints of Grolsch in a seaside café last season.

However, there were now clouds above and the mood suddenly became gloomier.

On the long straight of the motorway which bordered the steel works, I spotted that the other carriageway was devoid of traffic. There was a police car strategically placed on a bridge. The busy road had recently been closed to vehicles. I wondered what lay ahead. As traffic slowed, I saw another police car parked on the bridge, with two police officers scrambling down the embankment.

On the paving slabs, some way from the motorway, was the body of a man. As further police cars hurtled towards the scene, sirens wailing, I wondered if I had seen a dead body for the only the second time.

“Welcome to Wales” indeed.

I hit some traffic as I approached Swansea / Abertawe city centre. I turned right at the “Swansea Jack” pub and was soon parked up.

It was 12.15am. Alan, Gary, Daryl and Rob were already enjoying a few beers in the Grand Hotel opposite the main train station. I battled against Saturday shoppers and a cold wind to join them. I had forgotten how hilly Swansea was. Terraced streets appeared to be layered one on top of the other. I had only been inside the small bar for a couple of minutes when Van Persie shot United ahead at Old Trafford against Arsenal. The game was being shown on the TV, but not many people were watching intently. Van Persie always seems to be able to hit the corners of the goals when he becomes within range. In a flight of fancy, I wondered how he would fare at the tip of our team, instead of the hit and miss Fernando Torres. Daryl reckoned with only a hint of exaggeration that he would end up with fifty goals in our team this season.

Rob was outside talking with Cathy and one of Roman’s bodyguards. A few familiar Chelsea fans drifted in and out of the bar. A few police officers entered the pub and the singing increased. One song was to dominate the day –

“We all hate Leeds and Leeds and Leeds and Leeds.”

On that matter, we were united.

We had heard on the grapevine that a few hoodlums had travelled down by train but had alighted at Neath, no doubt expecting a little altercation with the Swansea firm. I rolled my eyes to the sky. With the bar getting busier and busier, I excused myself and re-traced my steps to the car park. I needed to drive up to the stadium and locate the “free” parking space that I used in January.

As I walked down towards the white steel of the Liberty Stadium, underneath a couple of railway bridges, the first rain spots of the day fell. Nearing the stadium, a sudden burst of hailstones caused fans to rush for cover. Once inside the crowded area below the stands, I was reminded of the humorous signage which dominated the small enclosed area. This made a refreshing change. I especially liked one which simply stated “Mumbles” – with an arrow pointing outside– and “Singing” – with an arrow pointing into the stadium. And there was one which said, similarly “Beautiful Beaches. Beautiful Game.”

More of that please.

Around 200 Chelsea fans were silently staring at the closing minutes of the game from Old Trafford, like the members of some obscure sect, their faces blank, the children of the damned. Watching Manchester United and Arsenal will do that to you.

Inside the neat stadium, my eyes seemed to be drawn to the sky even though the teams were gong through their pre-match routines on the pitch. One moment, the rectangle above was a dull grey, the next it was a mixture of blue and white. At times during the afternoon, the stadium was lit up with a strange and surreal autumnal glow.

The Chelsea team was announced and the main talking points were the shuffling along of Ivanovic into the centre of the defence and the addition of Moses in place of Mata.

It wasn’t much of a game.

In fact, it was a half-hearted affair all round.

For the first time that I can remember for quite some time, I sat for the vast majority of an away game.

Swansea City are a fine team and, despite a few poor performances, the work that ex-Chelsea employee Brendan Rodgers started is being continued by Michael Laudrup.

Yes. Michael Laudrup.

I was looking forward to seeing the former Juventus player in person once again. I last saw him playing for Juventus in 1988-1989. They used to call him “Michaelino” in the city of Turin. And there he was, over to my right, sitting on the Swansea bench, just beyond the suave figure of Robbie Di Matteo who was patrolling the technical area.

From Turin to Swansea.

It is the exact opposite journey which ex-Juventus legend John Charles made all those years ago.

Swansea had the best of the opening twenty minutes and certainly fancied their chances down our left, where Ashley Cole was coming under attack from the raiding Swansea players and the supporters in that noisy corner section alike. Eventually, we got into the game, but struggled to do much with the ball. Our passing should have been aided by the slick Welsh turf, but our play was rather laboured.

The home supporters, especially the couple of thousand to my left, were roaring the home team on. On the occasions where they sung the quasi-Welsh national anthem “Land of my Fathers”, the stadium rocked to its foundations. I have a feeling that the upward slope of the roof greatly aided the acoustics. I’ll be honest. It was a bloody noise. Well done Swansea.

The Leeds United chant echoed around the away end. In fact, at times, with Swansea in their trim all-white kit, it felt like we could easily have been playing Leeds.

Hernandez and Michu caused us a few problems but Petr Cech’s goal wasn’t really threatened. A Torres header, weak and at the reserve ‘keeper Tremmel, was our most notable effort of a poor opening period. As the first-half continued, the Chelsea fans became quieter and quieter.

At the break, we all knew we hadn’t been playing well.

Ramires replaced the rather one-dimensional Romeu at the break and our little Brazilian certainly energised the midfield. We watched eagerly as Torres twisted one way and then the other and then picked out Victor Moses, quiet until then, with a fine chip. Unfortunately, our new signing headed over. Swansea then came into the game again and our defence was tested.

After a decision went against them, the Swansea supporters sang a ditty which I honestly haven’t heard, let alone during a game, for years and years.

“How’s your father?
How’s your father?
How’s your father, referee?
You haven’t got one.
You never had one.
You’re a bastard, referee.”

That made me chuckle.

On the hour, a free-kick from Hazard was turned around the post for a corner. Oscar, wearing a pair of royal blue gloves to the consternation of Gary, clipped in a ball which found the head of Gary Cahill. The ball flew goal wards, but Victor Moses was able to glance it in at the far post after reacting very quickly.

YES!

I caught the immediate aftermath of the goal on camera. I was right behind the goal, merely twenty yards away.

The turn and sprint towards us, the slide, the scorer beaming at us in the away enclosure, the sliding Gary Cahill, Cahill jumping on his back, the arrival of the ecstatic Torres and Ivanovic, then Ramires and Mikel, then the other players all joining in.

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

Photographs from the frontline.

Swansea countered again, aided by the nimble and gifted substitute Nathan Dyer. The manager replaced Moses with Daniel Sturridge, who hugged the right touchline for the remainder of the game. In the closing twenty minutes, the rain turned heavy and then the sky filled with hailstones.

It was quite an apocalyptic scene. The ice filled the air and turned it white. Chelsea were now under attack. Ryan Bertrand replaced Oscar. Alas, with just three minutes remaining, a fine move down the Swansea right resulted in Hernandez having the calmness of mind to slot the ball past an unsighted Cech.

The Swansea hordes boomed and “Land of my Fathers” shook the place to its foundations.

Oh boy.

We didn’t deserve anything more than a draw. After the two tumultuous games against Manchester United, we never really set the right tempo against Swansea. Too many players underperformed. There was a collective responsibility in the team’s deficiencies. Even us fans seemed subdued.

We were all, clearly, under the weather.

I bade my farewells to Alan and Gary – “see you Wednesday” – and prepared myself for the wintry scene outside. On the ten minute walk back to my car, through the car park, over the roundabout and up the hill, the hail continued to fall. Footstep after footstep was met with the crunch of ice underfoot. In all of my years of supporting Chelsea in person, all nine hundred and twelve games, I don’t think I’d every encountered such a wretched walk back to a waiting car. I truly pitied the poor souls who faced a thirty minute walk back to the train station.

Despite being stuck in traffic for a while, I eventually pulled away and soon found myself heading east. The hail had turned to torrential rain. Oh fun, fun, fun. As I drove past Port Talbot, the array of lights at the steel works cut into the night. The plumes of smoke still billowed heavenwards. Then, the explosion of light as several lightning flashes lit up the entire sky. This was turning out to be some day in deepest, darkest South Wales. To add to the drama, fireworks – ahead of Monday’s Firework night – lit up the sky too. I found the driving to be rather tiring, but I wanted to get home. No coffee stops, no respite.

I got the cheapest of thrills as my headlights lit up a road sign.

“Welcome to England.”

I was in no mood to listen to the football on the radio. Music accompanied me on the two and a quarter hour journey back to Somerset. It was only as I was nearing my end destination that I flicked on “Five Live.” There was a small amount of consolation in the fact that Spurs had lost at home to Wigan and that Manchester City had only drew at West Ham. United’s win meant that we had slipped down to second place, but we are still conveniently placed.

On Wednesday, we have a must-win game against Shakhtar Donetsk in the Champions League. On Sunday, we meet Liverpool at Stamford Bridge in the Premier League.

These are the days, my friend.

Tales From Roger’s Big Night Out

Posted on July 29, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 31 October 2012.

Chelsea vs. Manchester United.

Seconds out, round two.

The substantial debris from the game on Sunday was still falling all around us as I anticipated the Capital One game at HQ. After the ridiculously high-scoring Reading vs. Arsenal game on Tuesday plus Chelsea and United’s predilection for attacking football, I was expecting another entertaining contest. As the afternoon progressed, I spoke about the game at work and I remember mentioning to a colleague “it won’t be 0-0.”

After having driven to all but a couple of the Chelsea games over the past two seasons, salvation was at hand. My mate Roger had volunteered to collect me from work and take on the burden of rush-hour traffic and the battle against inclement weather conditions. We left Chippenham at 4pm and, unfortunately, it wasn’t too long into the drive that the rain arrived. As Roger drove east, we spent most of the trip to London reminiscing on past Chelsea memories.

I used to work with Roger at a factory in Trowbridge from 1996 to 1998, but after he moved away to Devon a few years ago, I lost contact with him. I was elated to bump into him outside The Pelican pub at Chelsea before the game with Tottenham two years ago. We couldn’t remember if we had ever travelled up to a game together. I don’t think we had. I know that Roger joined a few friends and I on a stadium tour of Stamford Bridge in the summer of 1997. We laughed at the memory of him stealing a scrubbing brush from the home changing room. He still claims to this day that it belonged to Dennis Wise. He might even have it framed.

By a strange quirk of fate, our first two Chelsea games took place within three weeks of each other in the early spring of 1974. Roger told me how he managed to cajole his school teacher, Mrs. Fry – a keen Chelsea fan – to take him and his school friend to Stamford Bridge for their first game. On February 22 1974, young Roger – aged eleven – watched from the seats in the architectural oddity that was the North Stand as Chelsea and Queens Park Rangers drew 3-3. I made my home debut against Newcastle United in mid-March. Between the dates of the two games, Peter Osgood left Chelsea for Southampton. It is a major sadness that I never saw my childhood hero play for us.

Roger mentioned a few matches from that era. One game in which our paths collided was the March 1975 game against Derby County. We lost 2-1 to the eventual League Champions on that rainy day, but the memory which stayed strong in Roger’s mind was the presence of the Marching Mizzou band of the University of Missouri who entertained the crowd before the game. I vividly remember their bright yellow uniforms. They memorably sat in the otherwise unused (and quite possibly unsafe) seats in the upper tier of the ramshackle North Stand and I can well remember them bursting into life, unannounced, on several occasions during the game. In the Sunday Express paper the next day, I recollect the Derby manager Dave Mackay moaning about the sudden eruptions of sound which emanated from the stands during the game.

I reminded him of his Chelsea lottery win during the dark days of the 1982-1983 season. He had told me about this while we were working together. He told me how Chris Hutchings presented him with his prize before one game and how the photograph of this was featured in a later home programme. I remember delving through my programme collection and bringing it in to show him. At the time, Roger used to sell around three hundred lottery tickets on Hounslow High Street during the week before every home game. On one particular day, his brother helped himself to a ticket from the large pile in Roger’s living room. Roger asked him to pay the 25p for it, but his brother declined. Roger was livid. The ticket was rubbed away to reveal the prize of another “free” ticket. Roger swore at his brother and said –

“Well, you’re not having another. I’m having it.”

With that, Roger picked the next ticket in the pile. He rubbed it to reveal, to his immense satisfaction, a prize of £1,000, which was a huge sum thirty years ago. Imagine the look on his brother’s face. He even got an extra 10% as he was the lottery seller.

“Happy days, Mush.”

The traffic slowed around Maidenhead and my hopes for a couple of pints in the boozer before the game were diminishing quickly. The rain worsened too.

“Not so happy days, Dodger.”

We spoke about a few of the characters that we used to work with in Trowbridge, but the talk soon returned to Chelsea. Roger was clearly relishing the game against United. I’ve often thought how key defeats against Manchester United have, in a way, acted as spurs for later triumphs.

Think back to 1994. A truly demoralising 4-0 loss to United in our first F.A. Cup Final in twenty-three years left us shell-shocked and tearful. Yet, just three seasons later, the memory of two Eric Cantona penalties amid the rain of Wembley were forgotten as we finally got our hands on some silverware, beating Middlesbrough 2-0 in the same competition.

Think back to 1999. We only lost three games during the 1998-1999 league campaign, yet finished in third place behind the eventual champions Manchester United. After that, I was convinced that we would never win the league in my lifetime. We had reached our level. Just three defeats, yet no title. Just three years later, in 2005, we lost just one game all season long and became league champions for the first time in fifty years.

Think back to 2008. We had to endure the misery of Moscow with an excruciatingly painful defeat by Manchester United in the Champions League Final. Our greatest ever team, perhaps just past its prime, would surely never reach the final again. We lost out on the ultimate prize in European football by the width of a post and the splash of a puddle. Four years later in Munich, our beloved club won the Champions League for the first time ever.

In each of these triumphs, the joy of victory was made substantially sweeter due to the memory of those anguished defeats by Manchester United a few years previously. Additionally, with each trophy successfully attained, the next trophy was to be more prestigious. The F.A. Cup lead to the League and then to the European Cup. It seems, now, with the perspective of time, that we were following a natural order of progression. And it certainly seems that it was ordained in the stars that we would encounter pain and defeat in our quest for glory. With hindsight, that beautiful gift, I am fine with this. Everyone knows that the best things in life are worth the wait.

West London seemed especially dark and gloomy as Roger drove around the Hammersmith roundabout before heading down the Fulham Palace Road. We parked up on Bramber Road at 6.45pm. It had been a long journey in, but it had been excellent catching up with Roger. Inside The Goose, the team news had just been announced. I was very happy to hear that Robbie had chosen a strong team. I couldn’t stomach losing twice in four days to The Pride of Asia.

We had twenty minutes to drink-up in the boozer. There was just time for one pint again. A quick chat with a few mates. Rush, rush, rush.

“Let’s make a move, Rog.”

“No worries, Mush.”

There was light drizzle outside the West Stand turnstiles. The line at the Matthew Harding turnstiles meant that I missed the kick-off for the first time this season, if only by a minute.

Chelsea vs. Manchester United.

Seconds out, round two.

Ding ding.

As always, one of my first tasks of the game was a quick scan at the size and nature of the away support. The United masses took up 6,000 seats in both tiers of The Shed, though every single one was standing. No surprises there. The entire Matthew Harding Lower were standing too. There were around fifteen flags draped over the Shed balcony. One especially caught my attention.

“Clattenburg. Referee. Leader. Legend.”

Despite my Chelsea allegiance, that brought a wry chuckle.

There was an ironic flag, in Dundee United tangerine and black, honouring a much-maligned purchase that Alex Ferguson made from that club in around 1988.

“Ralph Milne Ultras.”

For a short period of time, a group of fans hoisted this one –

“Chelsea F.C. – Making a stand against racism since Sunday.”

Ouch.

There were a smattering of flags with musical references too, including one which honoured the drug of choice of the Mancunian ravers in the days of house music in the late ‘eighties and early ‘nineties.

“MD MDA MDMA OK.”

Football and music are so often entwined. At Chelsea, we have our own “London Calling” and “One Step Beyond” flags, of course, honouring the Chelsea-supporting lead singers of The Clash and Madness.

Roger was to my left, Alan and Tom to my right. We wondered what events might unravel this time. None of us could have predicted what ensued on the night of Halloween, Wednesday 31st. October 2012. It was one for the ages. If Sunday’s game “had it all”, then this one had the same, though strangely, in the circumstances, no sendings-off.

A timeline of events tells the story.

6 – Daniel Sturridge, at last the lone striker, was played in with only Lindegaard to beat, but experienced a Torresesque slip in front of goal. It was also in front of the baying United fans, who had already mocked him with taunts of being a City reject.

The away fans began the game where they left off on Sunday; a wall of noise. The Chelsea fans rose to the challenge, though, and songs were exchanged with gusto. Not surprisingly, one issue was soon the subject –

“Where’s your racist at the back?”

“Where’s your racist referee?”

I didn’t bother joining in.

22 – I was busy checking my camera and so missed the error by Oriel Romeu, put under too much pressure by a silly Petr Cech pass, which resulted in Ryan Giggs picking up the loose ball and adroitly steering the ball into the goal. Cech seemed crestfallen and the Mancs roared.

Here we go again. If anything, it was against the run of play. Victor Moses was the star of our first-half, running the channels, strong on the ball, full of endeavour. Top marks to him.

31 – That man Moses attacked the United full-back Buttner and a foul resulted in a Chelsea penalty. David Luiz, one of the Munich Five, calmly slotted the ball low past the ‘keeper.

Game on.

43 – A typical David Luiz dribble out of defence, involving one touch too many resulted in him losing the ball. The United players pounced and eventually played in Chicarito, who again scored at the north end. No taunting celebrations this time. A pink flare was lit by the United fans. The Chelsea stewards seemed to take forever to extinguish it. The United fans were baying again. One ran onto the pitch, his arms flailing like a maniac.

There’s a five year ban straight away.

“We’re Man United. We do what we want.”

Run on the pitch you mean? Idiots.

It was a desperate way to end the half.

We had played reasonably well during the first period, but it was galling to be losing to errors of our own making. Lucas Piazon was struggling to get in the game, but elsewhere we were fine. However, Di Matteo replaced the under-scrutiny Mikel with Ramires at the break.

49 – A quick Juan Mata corner caught everyone unawares, but the unmarked Sturridge attempted an outrageous flick inside the six yard box where an old-fashioned header would have brought greater rewards. There were howls of disapproval from the Matthew Harding. Studge clearly has issues in selecting the correct option at times. He is so frustrating.

52 – A Juan Mata corner was met powerfully by the head of Gary Cahill. The ball crossed the line before a United defender had the chance to hook it away. The Bridge was roaring once more.

59 – A great United move found Nani who clipped the ball past Cech. The goal was against run of play and left us trailing 3-2 once more. Eden Hazard replaced the quiet Piazon.

65 – After a short corner, Hazard picked out Victor Moses, but he headed over.

68 – A Juan Mata cross, deep to the far post, found an unmarked and onrushing Azpilicueta, but his header infuriatingly flew over. Roger moaned “what do they teach you? Head it down!” Oscar replaced Romeu. The three maestros were back together again.

72 – Oscar played the ball to Mata and his shot struck the hand of Keane. The ball had travelled a good five yards and the defender surely could have moved his arm away. The referee waved play on. Shades of Barca in 2009? You bet. We howled with derision and I turned the air blew.

75 – Victor Moses shot straight at the United goalie. Things were getting very frustrating indeed. Our efforts could not be doubted, though.

I commented to Tom that “no matter who wins, we’ve played really well in this game.”

83 – Daniel Sturridge shot was saved. The groans continued.

85 – An Oscar shot from distance was parried, unconvincingly, by Lindegaard.

The Manchester United contingent were now sensing victory and another 3-2 triumph.

“Can we play you every week?” they taunted.

Oh, how I wanted to ram that down their throats.

87 – I turned to Alan and Tom and reluctantly admitted “we won’t win this, lads.”

Three minutes of extra time were signalled. The game played on. The minutes passed.

93 – I saw the referee twice put the whistle to his mouth. On the second occasion, Alan and Tom were leaving their seats.

“See you Saturday, pal.”

To be honest, I thought the referee had whistled.

“Oh, he’s not blown.”

The ball was worked inside the box and it found Ramires on the edge. A push in the back and the referee, bless him, pointed straight at the spot. I turned around and screamed, clenching my fists tightly. Who should be staring straight at me but 75 year old Tom, screaming away, looking me right in the eyes, with a face that Edvard Munch would have been proud to paint.

Euphoria.

The game was surely no more than five seconds away from its completion. The fans who had been leaving suddenly sat on any available seat. This time it was Eden Hazard who decided to take a shot from the penalty spot.

We waited.

YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!!!

Oh my. What a game. The place was rocking. I turned to Tom and said “that was more than three minutes.”

Tom, the quiet pensioner, smiled at me and, quite out of nature, barked back –

“I don’t give a fcuk!”

I had to laugh.

The period of extra-time began.

“No early night tonight, Dodge.”

“No, Mush.”

3 – For the second time, Sturridge shot from a ridiculously acute angle. If that lad was half as good as he thought he was, we’d be in business.

7 – I was lamenting Eden Hazard’s poorly directed long ball and looked away, only for the roars of the crowd to tell me that Studge had pounced on a loose ball. We stood as one as he calmly rounded the ‘keeper in front of the away fans and slotted the ball in. The ball rolled in and Stamford Bridge exploded.

For Sturridge, the “City reject”, this must have been oh-so sweet,

10 – Luiz and Nani were booked after an ugly altercation down below me. We responded with the funniest song of the night.

“You’re just a shit Michael Jackson.”

12 – Gary Cahill headed a whisker wide of the unguarded far post. The United fans were now quiet, their banners limp.

14 – A foul on Sturridge by the last man just outside the box had us all howling again. Why not a red? From the free-kick, David Luiz rattled the bar and United’s spirits.

What a game. Breathless stuff. The three substitutes had given new life, extra spirit, to the team. Oscar was simply exceptional.

Tom said “I have to keep lookin’ up to the scoreboard to remind me of the score.” It was the same for me during that equally crazy 4-4 with Liverpool in 2009.

19 – Daniel Sturridge twice shot over from similar angles within a minute.

21 – Studge played in the continually excellent Moses, but his effort was saved when it looked easier to score.

26 – The ball broke to Eden Hazard breaking clear. We all rose as one as he advanced. I raised my camera to capture his dribble deep into the United half. He stopped and spun, then dinked the ball into the path of Ramires. He drew the ‘keeper, then waltzed past him before angling a shot low into the goal.

FIVE-THREE.

Rather belatedly, Alan grabbed me and said –

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

Laughing, I replied “COME ON MY LITTLE DIAMONDS!”

30 – At the other end, Azpilicueta pushed into a United player and Ryan Giggs, the aging talisman, stroked the ball in from the penalty.

5-4. Bloody hell.

31 – Hazard raced away and almost made it 6-3, but he shot wide. The look on Roger the Dodger’s face was a picture.

Before the match, during the long drive to London, Roger asked me to name my favourite ever game. An easy answer would be those three games from 1997, 2005 and 2012, but he really meant “the most entertaining game.” I cited the 4-2 game with Barcelona in 2005, whereas Roger went with a 4-3 win over Tottenham in 1994. As we left the stadium, I asked him if this game might even topple that one.

The two sets of supporters mixed on Fulham Road, but there was a heavy police presence. The Chelsea fans were exultant. We were buzzing. As Roger and I walked away from the ground, we could hardly contain ourselves. It had been a fantastic night of football. The last three Chelsea vs. United games at Stamford Bridge, all in 2012, had produced no fewer than twenty goals.

My mate Glenn, watching in a pub full of United diehards back home in Frome, soon texted the news of the quarter finals.

“Leeds away.”

I quickly decided that this would be one game too far for me. I just don’t have enough spare holiday left. No big deal. Elland Road on a cold winter Wednesday is not going to be one of the most welcoming places in the world.

Roger had to endure even worse weather on the drive back to Chippenham. I felt for him. Our spirits were up though. No bother. He dropped me off at work at 12.30am and I was home at 1am. He had to drive back to Paignton in Devon and it would be a further two hours before he would reach home.

Tales From The Sloaney Pony

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Manchester United : 28 October 2012.

Chelsea vs. Manchester United.

Four words to get the pulses racing.

After our two marvellous wins at Arsenal and Tottenham Hotspur, I was relishing this one – of course – and was fearless, despite our poor performance in Donetsk on Tuesday.

Sunday couldn’t come quick enough. Saturday was a blur.

Overnight, winter had arrived. The clocks went back an hour and the temperature had dropped. Despite the potential luxury of an extra hour in bed, I was up and at’em on Sunday morning.

There is always something special about going to football in October, with the trees changing colours and the first breath of winter giving the air a chill. In fact, it caught me unawares. Like a rabbit caught in the headlights, I stood in my bedroom for a good ten minutes, befuddled and confused, trying to work out the best combination of shirt/pullover/top/jacket to wear for the first cold trip of the season. I eventually chose a white polo shirt. I then pinned my Remembrance Day poppy on a navy blue pullover and I was away.

I collected Young Jake in Trowbridge, Wiltshire’s county town, at 11am and we headed north to the M4 and then east to Chelsea Town.

This would be Jake’s first sighting of Manchester United and he was clearly “buzzing.” Due to Chelsea’s liking of Second Division football in the days of my childhood and youth, my first sighting of the famous red shirts took place as late as December 1984, when I was halfway through my nineteenth year. In fact, from the day of my first ever Chelsea game in 1974, the two teams’ paths only crossed on two occasions in the league at Stamford Bridge until that fateful day ten years later. In the first of these ten seasons, 1974-1975, Manchester United found themselves in Division Two while we were toiling in the top flight. In the next two seasons, it was our turn to play in the second tier. In 1977-1978 and 1978-1979, our paths crossed momentarily. Then from 1979 to 1984, Chelsea were back amongst the dead men of the Second Division.

In December 1984, I joined a season-high attendance of 42,000 who assembled on a cold post-Christmas afternoon and watched aghast as United romped to a 3-1 win. This was standard for many years; for ages, Chelsea did well at Old Trafford and United won the spoils at Stamford Bridge. From around 1967 to 1987, we were undefeated at Old Trafford. United’s ascendency over us at HQ only really lilted in 2002, after years of domination. I can still taste the bitterness of those 3-2, 4-1 and 3-0 defeats in 1994, 1995 and 2002, to say nothing of the 5-3 F.A. Cup defeat in 1998 and the Champions League loss in 2011.

However, over the past ten seasons, we have been undefeated against United at Stamford Bridge in the league. I chatted about some of these games with Jake as the rain started to increase. There have been some crackers; the undoubted highlight being the 3-0 championship decider in 2006. Thank you William Gallas, thank you Ricardo Carvalho and thank you Joe Cole. You wait fifty years for a league championship and then two come together. Superb stuff.

Of course, the best ever memory was from that incredible day in the autumn of 1999 when a rampant Chelsea defeated the treble winners 5-0. What a magnificent performance under the tutelage of Gianluca Vialli. There have been few more pleasurable afternoons in deepest SW6. Bloody hell, even Chris Sutton scored that day. Remember him?

No, I thought not.

At Reading Services, I spotted a chap wearing a New England Patriots shirt and my hackles rose. He was off to Wembley for the annual NFL game. I only heard about this match on the Saturday; the media has been strangely muted about this year’s encounter. I noted that the London Saracens rugby union team played a regular league game in Brussels last weekend. Where will it all end?

I know where it will end.

Chelsea playing a regular season game against Norwich City in Shanghai.

By which time, this particular Chelsea fan will have taken a damn good look at the way football has gone and may well have decided to hang up his boots. I’m fine with watching friendlies in the US and Asia, I’m fine with World Club Championships in Japan, but the regular season is sacrosanct.

Mess with that, dear Football Association, and you might well have lost me, and millions like me.

We rolled into London, the rain thankfully halted, at 1.30pm. Jake sought refuge in The Goose, but I headed down the North End Road and the Fulham Road to Parson’s Green, where I had arranged to meet up with Mike from the NYBs. On my way, I dipped into a betting shop and put a tenner on us to win 5-0.

It has happened before, it could happen again.

I dreamt of a £1,500 treasure chest.

I walked past the site of the former George pub and was dismayed to see that it now houses an estate agent. The George used to house the CFC Yeovil branch on match days back in the mid-’eighties and a few of us from Frome used to spend many an hour with them. Good people. I hardly see any of them these days. I only commented recently that the total of seven regular Chelsea attendees from Frome, all season ticket holders, has withered to just myself.

I walked past Fulham police station just as “Goggles” – one of the local policemen who are always present at Chelsea games, from London to Birmingham to Turin to Donetsk – left the building with four others. The wind was chilling the air, but my warm jacket was doing its job.

The White Horse pub, right on the northern edge of Parson’s Green, is a famous old Chelsea watering hole. I haven’t frequented it for years and years – 1995 to be exact – but it’s a lovely pub. As it is just off the King’s Road, it has always attracted a certain type of clientele. Back in the early ‘eighties, social commentator Peter York dubbed the pretty young things who live in Kensington & Chelsea “Sloane Rangers.” In Chelsea football circles, the White Horse was always called “The Sloaney Pony.” I spent a nice time there, supping my usual one pint of lager; this time it was a crisp Budvar. Mike was giddy with enthusiasm at the thought of seeing the team play once more. His last game was in Miami. I met up with a couple of his UK-based mates and we had a good laugh. Mutual friends were referenced and humorous stories were told. Yet again, the up-coming game was ignored. We spoke, instead, about trips to Munich and Barcelona, the summer tour and Japan.

Stamford Bridge is only a ten minute walk away, past Eelbrook Common and the Pelican pub. I was soon on Fulham Road, outside the West Stand, where a Chelsea brass band was playing “Land Of Hope And Glory”, “Amarillo” and “Blue Is The Colour.” I lost count of the number of tourists I saw with Chelsea / United scarves.

I was in the stadium early. It was too early, in fact. It was 3.30pm. I didn’t know what to do.

The stadium, as always, took a while to reach capacity and I suddenly realised that there were no pre-match songs emanating from stands like in days of old. This is another match day tradition which has slowly died out since the end of the terracing. I remember the days when…oh never mind.

The Chelsea team was unsurprisingly unaltered from the fine win at White Hart Lane. United’s defence interested me; surely we could attack them in the middle, to exploit the pairing of Ferdinand and Evans. Further upfront, Rooney and Van Persie worried me. But this was a game that we could win and win well.

5-0 will be fine, please.

After Neil Barnett had announced the teams, in that rather loud and irritating way of his, he called for silence. Both sets of fans were asked to acknowledge the life of former Manchester United and England winger John Connelly, who had recently passed away.

A short but steady period of applause resounded around the stadium.

United had their usual three thousand and the lower tier, at least, stood the entire game. The home areas eventually were filled to capacity. I tried to spot any empty seats and it was difficult. We were treated to a bona fide full house at last. Maybe we’re getting too used to sight of United and too used to the big games, but the pre-match buzz was sadly lacking inside the stadium. I felt it outside, in the pubs and in the streets, but inside, there was a strange quietness.

The teams entered the pitch. The United contingent had begun singing with a few minutes to go, but we drowned them out. The place was suddenly rocking.

“We know what we are.
Champions of Europe.
We know what we are.”

There were the expected venomous catcalls from the home stands aimed at Rio Ferdinand as the match began, though thankfully none of a racist nature. I’m personally getting bored with it all and it’s time to move on.

Well, what a game. After last season’s rollercoaster 3-3 draw, who could have thought that we could be in for another tumultuous ninety minutes of drama and intrigue, goals and calamity, ecstasy and misery?

After just three minutes, United had struck down our left flank, with Ashley Cole horribly out of position. The arch predator Van Persie struck a shot against Petr Cech’s near post and the ball cannoned in off a hapless David Luiz. And my £1,500 bounty had been blown to smithereens. I gazed skywards, sighed and then muttered something to myself which probably mirrored 95% of what the Chelsea crowd had been singing at Rio Ferdinand.

Soon after, Ferdinand walked over towards us in the north-west corner to receive a ball from David De Gea. The boos cascaded down on him. However, nobody closed him down and he had time to initiate a move down the United left which again caught Cole woefully out of position. The ball cut through our defence like a hot knife through butter. A low cross, a Van Persie shot.

2-0 to United and the game had hardly started.

I looked on as I saw Ferdinand punch the air.

A horrible feeling.

Midway through the first-half, with Chelsea seemingly chasing shadows, Alan leaned over and summed it up.

“They’re better than us. No point disguising the fact. We’re not in it.”

I had to agree.

Every time United broke, we were sent into a tense period of panic. Although Andrei Kanchelskis, Lee Sharpe and Ryan Giggs were not playing, this was so reminiscent of the rapid thrusts of the United team from the mid-‘nineties. Alan then made another telling point.

“Our wide men in midfield aren’t providing extra cover on the flanks.”

I had visions of more United goals. It was so imperative that we nabbed a goal before the break, or else I could see United running away with the game in the second-half.

The away fans were bellowing – that bloody awful Cantona song always annoys me – as United punched deep into our defence and we were reeling on the ropes. And then, miraculously, we found our feet and retaliated. I had commented to Alan that “we haven’t even had a corner.”

With that, the rest of the first-half was Chelsea corner after Chelsea corner.

They must have heard me.

De Gea was tested with a dipping and swerving Luiz free-kick, which the ‘keeper chose to save with his feet as he scrambled across his goal. This then set the tone for the rest of the half. De Gea’s goal lived a charmed life as headers from Cahill and then Torres were saved. We kept pushing and the crowd responded. This was more like it.

Just before the break, we were awarded a free-kick. Every outfield United player crowded into the penalty area, forming a formidable barrier to Juan Mata. I clicked my camera just as the little Spaniard clipped the ball past the tight huddle of intertwined red and blue shirts and into the goal.

It was an inch-perfect strike and the ball caressed the side netting as it entered the waiting goalmouth.

Stamford Bridge shook as the 38,000 home supporters roared.

Phew. We had scored that all important goal before the break.

Game most definitely on.

At the break, Neil Barnett appeared by the tunnel with a little girl and he announced that she was watching her first-ever Chelsea game. Her face appeared on the large TV screen above the United fans just as Neil told the story of her father scoring at Old Trafford in 1996. I quickly computed that little Amelia’s father was none other than Gianluca Vialli. As Luca was seen nut-megging the United ‘keeper, the memories flooded back. I am sure this was Luca’s first official return to the Chelsea fold since he was unceremoniously sacked in September 2000, though he is a season ticket-holder to this day.

He remains one of my very favourite Chelsea heroes.

The Juventus background, the cheeky smile, the cashmere cardigans, the self-effacing humour, the hilarious use of cockney phraseology, the goals and the glory.

A proper gentleman, a lovely man, a funny guy, a true Chelsea legend.

Ah, we loved Vialli.

One memory always brings a smile to my face to this day. After a game at Nottingham Forest in 1999, my then girlfriend Judy – who had a massive crush on Luca – and I waited for the players to board the team coach in the Forest car park. I took a few photos of the players as they were being mobbed by the crowd, but I then realised that Judy was missing. After a few moments, I looked up to see her standing right next to Luca by the door to the coach. She had simply sidled up alongside him and had held his left hand for a few seconds as he signed autographs with his right hand. He then realised what was going on and gave Judy a smile, and then signed her hand.

Judy bounced over to show me, her face beaming.

She didn’t wash her hand for a week.

The United players were first to appear back on the pitch after the break. I wondered what extra words of encouragement Di Matteo was imparting to the team. Di Matteo is from the same stock as Luca; calm, modest and a gentleman. I struggle to think he gets overly irate about anything. This was a big test for him, though. We waited for the Chelsea eleven to reappear.

The second-half was a travesty.

We began with gusto, as we attempted to prise gaps in the United defence. After some sustained Chelsea pressure, the impressive Oscar clipped the ball in to the six yard box where a seemingly unmarked Ramires was able to head the ball home.

He doesn’t score many, but when he does…

Now the stadium almost went into orbit.

The United fans fell silent as the Chelsea legions bellowed –

“You are my Chelsea.
My only Chelsea.
You make me happy when skies are grey.
You’ll never notice how much I love you.
Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.
LA LA LA LA LA
LA LA LA LA LA
OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH OH
OH OH OH OH
Until you’ve taken my Chelsea away.”

Stamford Bridge was the loudest it had been since that date with Barcelona last spring.

But then, just as we were in the ascendency, smelling blood, our game plan was forced to change. A quick United break, Ashley Young through on goal, with Ivanovic giving chase. Within a blink of an eye, a tangle of legs and Young was sent sprawling.

It was a clear red, even allowing for David Luiz in the vicinity. It was unlikely that Luiz would have covered.

Damn it.

Chicarito, who scored against us at home last season, came on for United. Di Matteo brought on Azpilicueta.

It got worse.

Fernando Torres, who was tending to hold the ball a little too long for my liking, set off on a run deep at the heart of the floundering United defence. I didn’t think that he would be able to get past the defenders, so it was with relief when Evans hacked him down. I then wondered if Evans had been booked (he hadn’t) and if the referee would send him off for the second offence.

Imagine our horror when Clattenburg decided that it had been a dive from Torres. This was a second yellow and so, Torres was given his marching orders. Torres looked heartbroken. I was speechless. The United fans gleefully waved him off the pitch. After last season’s miss at Old Trafford, I really felt for him. He acts as a totem of all that is wrong about Chelsea in the eyes of many opposing fans.

We were down to nine men with twenty minutes to play.

With the crowd galvanised against Clattenburg and the opposition alike, the noise levels stayed high and the atmosphere was certainly intense. However, United soon seized their chance to strike. Van Persie wiggled one way and then the other before striking low at Cech’s goal. The ball squirmed away from his grasp and spun slowly towards a post. No United players were on hand to poke it home but the ball was knocked back into the crowded box by Raphael. Chicarito – it had to be him – prodded the ball in after coming back from behind the goal line. Incoming texts suggested that he had been offside when he delivered the final coup de grace. However, the area was so crowded and the ball in was so quick, that it was not readily apparent in my eyes at the time.

With the odds heavily stacked against us, an equaliser seemed impossible. We never gave up the fight, though. Our nine men gamely searched for that illusive goal. A fine example of this was a scintillating run by the impressive Eden Hazard deep into the United box.

The game continued on with five minutes of extra time, but it wasn’t our day.

All around me, Chelsea fans were moaning about Clattenburg, but I really wanted to get home and watch the match highlights on TV before I made up my own mind.

By 10.45pm, I was moaning too.

There were defensive lapses during the game for sure. David Luiz can be world class and class clown in the same passage of play. Our defence misses John Terry. Against United, frailties will always be exposed. But we showed a lot of fight and courage in that middle third of the game. I saw promising signs. Against Arsenal, Tottenham and United we have gathered six points. Both United and us will be in the mix at the top end of the table come May.

And on Wednesday, we meet again.

Tales From The North Circular

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Tottenham Hotspur vs. Chelsea : 20 October 2012.

On Friday evening, with the arid desert of the two week long international break thankfully behind us, I felt like an excitable five year old on Christmas Eve. We all remember that feeling. On any other night of the year, as a child, it was typical to eke out as much time in the evening as possible before it was time to head up to bed. I can well remember the glee when my parents relented after persistent pleading to have “ten more minutes” outside (to play football in the street usually, with light fading), before being herded inside and then taken upstairs to bed. Christmas Eve was different; get to bed early, try to get to sleep quickly, it will soon be Christmas Day, with presents and jollity and fun.

At 6.30am, the alarm sounded and, unlike weekdays, there was no need for me to utilize the snooze button.

This was Tottenham Away.

Bearing in mind the rivalry between the two clubs, the magnificent denouement to last season, which of course resulted in us elbowing Spurs out of the Champions League, and the added frisson of Andre Villas-Boas as Spurs’ new manager, I regarded this as the most important away game of the domestic season.

Love it.

At 8.15am, I had packed my match day essentials – ticket, wallet, camera, coffee – and I was on my way. Within a minute of driving through the misty village, I had disturbed some pigeons as they sat idling in the middle of the road. Feathers flew, but I didn’t have time to check if there had been fatalities. I think they had a lucky escape. I wondered how we would fare with our feathered friends from Tottenham later in the day. Would the cockerels be quite so lucky?

The early morning was shrouded in mist as I headed east. As I drove along the quiet country roads to the north of Frome, a huge lock of birds suddenly appeared to my right. They swooped down and across my field of vision and the sight was rather impressive, if not slightly spooky. I let my imagination run away with me for a few seconds and I chuckled as I wondered if the pigeons had been in touch with the starlings after the incident five minutes earlier. As I drove on, I looked back and saw around twenty black birds sitting, ominously, on an electric wire, like a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s “The Birds.”

Gulp.

I took a swig of coffee and told myself to pull myself together.

Pigeons, starlings, cockerels, Hitchcock.

What did it all mean?

Thankfully, the next hour or so was devoid of similar incidents. In fact, the drive through Somerset, into Wiltshire and on into Berkshire was simply fantastic. Back in my childhood, my father used to take this route on his drive up to London for our twice-a-season pilgrimage to Stamford Bridge. For games at White Hart lane, I usually drive into London and then take the tube up to Seven Sisters. For a change, I had decided to drive all the way in and chance my arm with a parking spot near the stadium. The first hour was spent driving along the idyllic roads of Wessex, through towns such as Devizes and Marlborough. While thoughts of previous games at White Hart Lane flitted in and out of my mind, all was good with the world.

Slender church spires piercing the monotone grey sky, prim thatched cottages hugging the road, trees peeking out over valleys of low-lying fog, delicate Turneresque smudges of light as the sun attempted to burn its way through the grey clouds, red brick farmhouses, the surreal lunar landscape of the chalk down lands, the first tints of autumn on beech trees and the dull purr of my tires on the road below.

As my little capsule of contentment headed east, I was happy with my lot.

And Chelsea’s game at Tottenham was only a few hours away.

Seriously, what else are you going to do on a Saturday?

Typically, my mind wandered back to my youth; my first ever two visits to White Hart Lane during the early weeks of the 1986-1987 and 1987-1988 seasons.

In September 1986, I had a thoroughly enjoyable day out in N17. After a far from impressive start to the season, we travelled to White Hart Lane and triumphed 3-1. The weather was dreadful, I got drenched on that long walk back to Seven Sisters, but I was euphoric. Only five months earlier, my first ever visit to Old Trafford had resulted in a Chelsea win. Two debut wins at my most despised opponents’ home stadia was just perfect. Although unmemorable in the main, 1986 at least provided me with those two excellent away days.

Less than a year later, we had got off to a flier with two wins from games against Sheffield Wednesday at home and Portsmouth away. The Chelsea hordes travelled in our thousands for this one. The attendance for the 1986 was just 28,000, but the 1987 one drew 37,000. I travelled up by train with Glenn and it felt like we were part of an invading army. We bought tickets (Glenn bought his from a tout) for seats in the upper tier of the Park Lane End and watched as our ranks were swelled with each passing minute. As I thought about the current limit of 3,000 away fans at all Premier League games, I became misty-eyed for those distant times. On that day in August 1987, I’d say that we probably had 10,000 fans at White Hart Lane. Those were the days my friend; for a moment, I was transported back in time. As kick-off approached and the terraced areas in front of our seats became swelled to capacity, there were calls by the Chelsea fans for the police and stewards to open up extra sections in the lower tier of The Shelf terrace, which ran along the side of the pitch and housed the Tottenham hardcore.

Eventually, an extra pen was given to the away fans. The Chelsea fans charged into the section, much to the chagrin of the Spurs fans above. It was all about territory in those days. It was all about how many you took to away games. It was all about numbers. These days, it’s difficult to gauge the size of various clubs’ travelling support because the limit is always 3,000. Back in those days, it was the size of our away “take” that was in many ways as important as the result on the pitch. In 1987, we travelled to White Hart Lane not because we were in the hunt for silverware. We just travelled to make a statement and to support the team.

Sadly, a last minute goal by Nico Claesen gave Spurs a 1-0 win, but the over-riding memory of that day twenty-five years ago was the fearsome size of our travelling support.

At 9.30am, I flicked on a Morrissey CD as I joined the M4. The next hour, save for some familiar tunes making me chuckle, the driving was rather monotonous. The fog thickened. It wasn’t so much fun.

Heading into London, the fog was still thick and the Wembley Arch to the north was not visible. Ah Wembley – memories of that 5-1 annihilation in April.

I exited the M4 and began a clockwise circumnavigation of inner London via the fabled North Circular. I don’t often travel on this road; the last time, in fact, was with Beth on our return from Leverkusen via Stansted airport last November. Before the advent of the M25 in around 1986, the North Circular – and the South Circular – was the main road used to traverse the great city of London. It acts as a ring road. It was and it still is notoriously busy.

As I drove through Ealing Common, with the road at its narrowest, I easily thought back on the years from 1975 to 1980 when my father would park on an adjacent side road and we would travel in by tube to see games at Stamford Bridge. My father was terrified of the London traffic and Ealing was as far as he could manage. Ah, how excited I was on those walks to Ealing Common tube station. My father’s last ever Chelsea game was against Everton on New Year’s Day 1991 and I’m pretty sure he parked at Ealing Common on that occasion, too. My mind became full of memories of match after match. They were layered one on top of another, just like the piles of bright autumn leaves on the Ealing Common walkways.

After Park Royal, from where we travelled in by tube for my very first game in 1974, the road broadened to three lanes. I had an eye on the clock and an eye on my speedometer. The traffic slowed to a halt on a few occasions. The road cut through inter-war housing estates, industrial areas and small parks. Signs for Wembley, Neasden, Finchley, Barnet and Wood Green. North London proper. It didn’t seem like Chelsea territory and, of course, it wasn’t. Sure we have pockets of support in this vast section of England’s capital, but this area of suburban sprawl belongs to the two North London teams. A large advertisement hoarding for an Arsenal shop at Brent Cross shopping centre emphasised the point.

I continued on. As I neared my destination, the traffic crawled along and my frustration was rising. How I’d hate to have to do this every two weeks. The only place to be every other Saturday certainly isn’t driving around the North Circular.

At last, I turned off at Edmonton and, via yet more slow moving traffic and a rather circuitous route, I eventually parked on Wilbury Way. It had taken me three and a half hours to cover the 125 miles.

Phew.

It was 11.45am.

I walked along Bridport Road and then Pretoria Road, past small industrial units, past the Haringey Irish Centre, where Cathy sometimes stops for a drink at Tottenham. I was soon outside White Hart Lane. Land was evidently being cleared for the construction of their new stadium which is planned to be built directly to the east of the current site. A computerised image of the new stadium appeared on a few hoardings. It looked impressive, but eerily similar to Arsenal’s new pad. This is no surprise; most new football stadia look as if they have been taken from the same blueprint these days.

Lower bowl, two tiers of executive seats, undulating top tier.

There is nothing special architecturally about White Hart Lane from the outside. It’s all rather dull to be honest. What makes it special are the memories of past matches and past players.

I shuffled past a heavy police presence in the south-west corner and entered the stadium. It was 12.15pm. While I waited for the kick-off, I spoke with a few acquaintances. It’s amazing how slow it takes for grounds to fill up these days. With fifteen minutes to go, the place was only half full. The team was the same as for Arsenal, apart from Cahill in for Terry. We heard that Gareth Bale wasn’t playing. Alan and Gary joined me just before the teams entered the pitch. There had been a few Chelsea songs in the pre-match build-up, but nothing from Tottenham.

As the match began, we soon serenaded the home fans of memories of Munich.

“We know what we are…Champions of Europe…we know what we are.”

Two lads arrived with a twelve foot long banner, obviously nicked from Munich, which we tied to the barrier right in front of us.

This was the Champions of Europe section.

Happy days.

Down on the pitch, Chelsea were in the ascendency and were pushing the ball around intelligently. The sun briefly broke through the grey sky and White Hart Lane looked a picture. It is a very neat stadium.

The songs continued.

“We won 5-1 – Wembley.”

“We won 6-1 – at The Lane.”

“We are the champions – the Champions of Europe, we are the champions – the Champions of Europe.”

“That song. You’ll never sing that song. You’ll never sing that song. You’ll never sing that song.”

“Ashley Cole’s won the European Cup, the European Cup, the European Cup.”

“You got battered, you got battered, you got battered – in Seville.”

“Love the Old Bill – in Seville. Love the Old Bill – in Seville.”

We were certainly in good voice and our team were responding well. Our midfield maestros Oscar and Mata were soon probing away and we looked calm and relaxed, often finding room on both flanks. A corner to the far post was headed back across the box by Gallas. Gary Cahill had peeled away from his marker on the near post and met the dropping ball on the penalty spot with the sweetest of volleys. As a planned corner it could not have worked better if Gallas was still a Chelsea player. The ball thundered into the net. It was a volley which reminded me of the strike by Ivanovic in the Norwich game.

I captured Gary’s joyful run back towards us in the southern Park Lane end on camera. He was being chased by his gleeful team mates and their happiness was matched by ours.

Get in.

Our excellent play continued, but we didn’t carve out many chances. Tottenham tested Cech a little, but the defence held firm. Mata should have made it 2-0 as the interval approached but he shot over after he followed up his own shot after it was parried by Brad Friedel.

With memories of that night in Naples, Ashley Cole was able to scurry back and head a dipping cross off the line. Two fantastic blocks in quick succession – I think by Cahill and Ivanovic – told me all I needed to know about this new Chelsea team. Both players flung themselves at the ball with no respect for personal injury. It was magnificent to watch. Fantastic stuff.

At the break, talk was all about us playing well, but we were all rueing the lack of a second goal.

Well, the opening period of the second-half was a nightmare. Our concerns about that missing second goal came to fruition. Within ten minutes, defensive lapses had presented Tottenham with not only an equaliser through Gallas but a second goal via Defoe. The home crowd roared both strikes and the sight of all the gurning Spurs fans goading the Chelsea fans to my left and right was sickening.

White Hart Lane came to life. The uber-slow dirge “Oh when the Spurs…go marching in” echoed around the white tub of the old stadium. I hate it because it reminds me of that 2008 Carling Cup Final, but the Spurs fans certainly love it. It’s the one time they all get behind the team. The noise was deafening and we were momentarily quiet and subdued.

We were staring our first league defeat in the face. We hadn’t won at Tottenham in the league since 2005. Our unbeaten run of thirty-two league games against Spurs from 1990 to 2005 suddenly seemed like a distant memory. It was time for us to buck that trend. It was time for the players to respond. It was Roberto di Matteo’s first real challenge of the 2012-2013 league season. There was a niggling doubt that our three marauding midfielders would not be able to offer the two holding midfielders enough cover and assistance. Not just for this game, but throughout the whole campaign. I sat and wondered if our new playing style might be one-dimensional and too fragile. I looked at the Spurs midfielders – Sandro, Sigurrdsson, Huddlestone – and I looked at the slender Mata, Hazard and Oscar.

This was a big test alright.

To be truthful, Hazard had been the least impressive in the first-half. Suddenly, the overwhelming good vibes at the break had turned into feelings of worry and concern. There were cat calls amongst the away support. Fernando Torres, though neat in possession, seemed to be unwilling to run and test the Spurs defence. Too often, he stayed still, rather than exploit space.

Tottenham fired a few long range shots at Cech, but thankfully they tended to be straight towards him.

We need not have worried.

With Mikel and Ramires starting to re-exert themselves in the middle, the rhythm of the first-half soon returned. We enjoyed watching some wonderful flowing football. A loose clearance by Gallas – it was turning out to be his afternoon after all – fell at the feet of Juan Mata on the edge of the box. With ice cold blood in his veins, he took a steadying touch and calmly drilled the ball into the goal, with just inches to spare by the post.

YEEEEESSSSSS!

We were bouncing again. The Chelsea corner exploded with joy.

This was turning into some game. Remarkably, Defoe forced a supremely athletic save from Cech with a dipping shot. Then, a magnificent move resulted in more joy for the three thousand royal blue loyalists. Mikel played the ball to Hazard, who was now a lot more involved. His delightful first-time ball cut straight through the Spurs defence and into the path of the advancing Mata. It was the pass of the season.

Mata clipped the ball past Friedel and we were 3-2 up.

YYEEEEEEEEEEEEEESSSSSSSSSS!

Oh boy.

What a game.

I found myself yelling awful abuse at the Spurs fans in the distance and I somehow felt cleansed for the experience.

Spurs had a couple of half-chances. Juan Mata could have scored another. He then played in Torres, but his studied strike towards the far post narrowly missed the target.

To our surprise, Daniel Sturridge took the place of the magnificent Oscar when we all expected Torres to be substituted. I commented that Jose Mourinho would have brought on at least one defender with us being 3-2 up. The days of narrow pragmatic wins were now a distant memory.

Attack or be damned.

With Spurs pushing for an equaliser – amid horrible memories of Robbie Keane’s late equaliser in the ridiculous 4-4 draw in 2008 – Walker was robbed by Mata on the far touchline in front of The Shelf. He painstakingly passed the ball across the six yard box for Studge to almost apologetically prod home from four yards. Behind him, Torres.

It was one of those days for Nando.

We roared again, though our screams of delight were mixed with howls of laughter too. We turned to the intense figure on the Tottenham bench for one last bout of piss-taking.

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

Mr. Villas-Boas was not available for comment.

This was a stunning game of football. Not only did we play some wonderfully entertaining stuff, but the nature of our recovery was emblematic of the new found confidence running through this team. Although Mata deservedly garnered all of the attention, and Cech kept us in the game, I need to mention Mikel and Ramires, our two quite dissimilar bastions at the base of our midfield five. They were quite simply magnificent. Who could have possibly thought that our movement away from a physical style of football to a more entertaining variant would be so easy?

Transition season? What transition season.

On the walk back to the car, all was quiet among the Tottenham fans. There seemed to be an air of sad acceptance that Chelsea had prospered. I hate to say this, but I’m genuinely starting to feel sorry for them.

Wink.

Tales From The Team At The Top

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Norwich City : 6 October 2012.

Who would have possibly thought that our league season would have started so well? The rather lacklustre pre-season seems distant. Not even the most optimistic Chelsea supporter could have envisaged such a fine opening six league matches. We went onto our home game with Norwich City at the top of the table. Throughout the few days leading up to the match at Stamford Bridge, one thought kept entering my head.

“Let’s just keep grinding out some wins.”

There is a strong likelihood that our league campaign will throw some stern tests our way. There will be pitfalls ahead. There will be challenges. There will be blips. However, let’s keep winning the home games, let’s keep going. Let’s keep amassing the points, in the same way that squirrels plunder nuts, before the treacherous winter hits us.

For a change, Gunner Parkins was able to meet me in Frome. At 9.15pm, I collected him from outside The Cornerhouse pub and we were on our way. Parky enjoyed the different approach into London; like Arsenal last week, I was able to drive in via Salisbury Plain, the A303 and the M3. It was another picture perfect autumnal morning.

Once in London, I quickly walked down to Stamford Bridge. I met up with Gill and Graeme for a few moments in the hotel foyer. I wondered how many of the Chelsea fans were oblivious to the two gentlemen quietly sitting in their usual alcove. Ron Harris and Peter Bonetti, the two heroes from our ‘seventies team, are often untroubled by the hotel guests.

Outside, I took a few photographs of the old Shed wall. There are now photographs from Munich interspersed with images of past players.

Ashley Cole, Dennis Wise, Didier Drogba, Peter Bonetti, Frank Lampard, Gianluca Vialli, Fernando Torres, Ron Harris.

Back in The Goose, I spent my time talking to Steve, a friend from Kent, whose company I used for Italian haulage at work a while ago. While others were talking about all things football, Steve and I chatted about European road haulage. I kept to my habit of supping slowly at just one pint. My friend Simon, who I have known for the best part of twenty years, has some exciting times ahead. He is involved in the making of a film and the shooting starts in November. I’m not sure he’ll be attending many Chelsea games during the shooting; the agenda will involve twelve hour days and working for six days a week. There a few well-known actors taking part in the film, including John Hurt of “The Elephant Man” fame, but Simon has already confirmed that he is going to find a little walk-on part for his son Milo somewhere in the filming. In another life, Simon used to produce the occasional pop video, and has worked with Paul Weller amongst others. His most well known, and successful video, was for the sublime “Brimful of Asha” by Cornershop in 1997.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lM7H0ooV_o8

Steve and I made sure there was no last minute scramble and reached our seats a good twenty minutes before kick-off. I was able to take a few photographs of the team going through their pre-match routines; I very rarely see this. I’m usually in my seat with seconds to spare.

Chelsea and Norwich City. Our paths haven’t crossed too often over the recent years. Everyone remembers the Gianfranco Zola back-heel during the run to the 2002 F.A. Cup Final, but I was sadly not present at that game. I forget the reasons why; I guess I was caught on the wrong shift, in the days when Parky and I used to work in the same Trowbridge warehouse.

I always remember our game against Norwich City on opening day in August 1994. We had lost the F.A. Cup Final in the May, but the vibes were good going into the 1994-1995 season. Not only were Chelsea taking part in European competition for the first time since 1971, but Stamford Bridge was being reconstructed. The sweeping north terrace – sadly I never stood there – last saw active service in 1993 and was demolished through the closing months of that season. In its place, the new North Stand rose beyond some high advertising hoardings. It was the first new stand at Chelsea since the East Stand was constructed between 1972 and 1974. The Shed terrace’s last game was against Sheffield United in May 1994. For some reason, we decided to watch that game high up in the East Stand and that was a decision I often regretted. In its place, Chelsea decided to go with a temporary stand until planning permission came through for the new Shed and hotel. Around 3,000 seats were bolted together, on a criss-cross of scaffolds, and the temporary stand lasted two seasons.

For the game with Norwich City in August 1994, Glenn and I travelled up from Frome with Russell. At the time, he was a 15 year old schoolboy and the game would be his first ever game at Stamford Bridge. He had attended an infamous F.A. Cup game at Ashton Gate in 1990, but the less said about that the better. I remember his mother waving us off from his house. This would be the first time that Glenn and I had been entrusted with the welfare of a “youngster.”

The baton was being passed on.

I remember that we visited a long forgotten pub on the Fulham Road called “The Stargazy” ( I think it became a restaurant around ten years ago) for pre-match drinks. My mate Daryl used to work with a QPR fan, who grew up with the then Chelsea youth team player Craig Norman. On this particular day, Craig met up with us for a while. This was quite a thrill for young Russell. Craig Norman never made the grade at Chelsea and drifted off to play for Wycombe Wanderers and ended up as captain of Kettering Town. Russell and I always joked that the main reason why he never made it at Chelsea was because, as the story goes, he once told the then youth team coach Eddie Niedzwiecki to “fcuk off, you Welsh tw&t.”

The over-riding memory from that game in the August sun from over eighteen years ago was of the new temporary stand. For the first time in almost ninety years, a section of the crowd was now mere yards from the goal-line. It was quite a sensation. We were sitting towards the West Stand side and it felt so exciting to be – at last – part of the action. The Benches, to our left, seemed within touching distance. It fired up my imagination to let my mind wander and visualise what it would be like once all four stands were tight against the pitch.

Good times were ahead.

With no spectators in the north stand, capacity was cut to around 23,000. However, with the denizens of The Shed now shunted forward twenty yards, Stamford Bridge was a riot of noise on that inaugural day of the new temporary stand.

On the pitch, we easily beat the Canaries 2-0.

Under Glenn Hoddle, we finished mid-table in that season, but the campaign will be fondly remembered for our unexpected onslaught on the ECWC, when we reached the semi-finals. In the November, the North Stand opened with the visit of Everton. Times were changing and it was a thrill to attend games in that 1994 to 1997 era, not only for the football, but for the constantly evolving stadium which confronted us every two weeks. In that 1994-1995 season, I really ramped up my support of the team. My previous “bests” had been during my college years – around 20 games a year – but I went to 29 in 1994-1995, including forays to the Czech Republic, Austria and Spain.

Along with 1983-1984, it was my “breakout” season.

Russell, now 33, still comes along to a few Chelsea games these days. We obviously didn’t put him of.

In 1994, I remember the away fans were given 1,500 seats in the lower tier of the East stand. In 2012, the Norwich fans – some 3,000 strong – were in the Shed. They boasted just one flag; a green and yellow “Union Jack.”

Far from grinding out a narrow win, thankfully the goals flowed as we put together a very confident and entertaining performance.

Despite gifting Fernando Torres the chance to open the scoring in three minutes, the chance was spurned. I’m not exactly sure why he didn’t shoot with his favoured right peg. Why would he come back onto his let foot?

Norwich took the lead against the run of play when the troublesome Grant Holt fired home a loose ball from inside the penalty area.

Thankfully, this just inspired us.

A delightful sweeping move found Juan Mata who back-heeled into the path of Branoslav Ivanovic. The ball was clipped in to the box and Torres rose to steer the ball past Ruddy into the goal.

Eighteen goals now for Chelsea and, yep, I’ve seen ‘em all.

Frank Lampard crashed the ball in from the edge of the box. He just has the knack of being in those places, picking up the pieces. It was a typical Frankgoal.

Then, the pass of the season so far. Juan Mata dribbled forward, with the defence back-peddling and threaded the ball inside the Norwich defenders and into the path of the advancing Eden Hazard. The ball was passed into the net. Marvellous stuff.

At half-time, Neil Barnett advised us that Frank had now tied Bobby Tambling’s record of 129 goals in the top flight of English football. I wonder if Frank will reach Bobby’s overall total. It will be a close run thing. In light of Great Britain’s excellent performance at the Olympics and Paralympics, we were treated to a fantastic parade at the interval. Around twelve of Team GB’s medal winners walked onto the pitch, with a large Union Jack flying proudly. All medal winners were Chelsea season ticket holders.

Superb.

With three goals to the good, it was the time for gluttony in the second half. Let’s score some more goals. Let’s boost our goal total. Let’s make our upcoming opponents even more fearful of our prowess.

If the truth be known, despite the lovely approach play from the attacking players, the second-half was a little disappointing. Even at 3-1, Alan and myself were sure that Norwich would score a second and make the rest of the game a nervous affair. I guess almost forty years of watching Chelsea play has made us who we are; we’re never safe until the referee blows for time. Fernando Torres spoiled another gift-wrapped chance after a gorgeous defence-splitting ball. On another day, Nando could have scored three. However, our number nine has now scored four goals in seven league games this season. Bobby Tambling is way off, but it’s a lot more encouraging, isn’t it?

And some of the interplay was wonderful. Although Mata was the star, I was again very impressed with Oscar, who rarely loses possession. We’re in for some thrills at the old stadium this season for sure.

Ivanovic volleyed home like a master predator to seal a 4-1 win.

Lovely stuff.

The only negative involved the support. Apart from a few roars of “Champions of Europe – We know what we are” and “Super Chelsea” there were many moments when I heard several pins being dropped in Knightsbridge, Battersea and Pimlico.

We now break for two weeks. Even if we allowed everyone else in the division a free game, they still wouldn’t be able to get past us at the top.

Good times.

See you all at Tottenham.

Tales From Gillespie Road

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Arsenal vs.Chelsea : 29 September 2012.

There was no doubt at all – in the vernacular of the British football fan – that I was “up” for this one. Chelsea versus Arsenal at The Emirates. This game would surely prove to be our first real test of the domestic league season. It was potentially a tough game, for sure. Would this be a case of the new Chelsea versus the same old Arsenal? Would there be a convergence of styles now that we have changed our modus operandi? With Didier, Arsenal’s tormentor for so many seasons, no longer in the Chelsea blue, would Arsenal now fancy their chances? Would they punish us? Would Chelsea’s position at the top of the table prove to be a false dawn? There were many questions to be answered.

I couldn’t wait.

Wagons roll.

I left the rural delights of east Somerset at 8.15am; with no Lord Parky alongside, this was another solo-run to the capital. Again, I headed up and over Salisbury Plain. It was a beautiful autumn morning. There was no need for a musical accompaniment. I was just happy to be alone with my thoughts, letting my mind wander and letting it pick out aspects of the up-coming game.

There is a passage in Nick Hornby’s book “Fever Pitch” in which he describes how football is never far away from thought. A vacant mind will soon become occupied at the merest hint of a football memory and then us football fans will then become dreamy with thoughts of Teddy Maybank scoring at Bristol Rovers in 1975, a Pat Nevin shimmy in 1984, a song at Anfield in 1985 or a depressing trip back from Villa Park in 1994.

My mind underwent the same process as I drove past Stonehenge. Above, there were no clouds in the sky; it was a perfect morning. I noticed that a battalion of soldiers were lining up, with the stones in the background, and I guessed that a photograph was being planned. There are army camps dotted all over Salisbury Plain; it is one of the training centres of the British Army. There are barracks in the garrison town of Warminster and Tidworth Camp is nearby. I presumed that the hundred or so soldiers, in battle fatigues, were lining up for a ceremonial photograph. I hoped that it was in recognition of their safe return from Afghanistan.

And then, in one split second, I made the connection between the young soldiers in a line on a field in Wiltshire in 2012 and the origins of Arsenal Football Club, formed in 1886 as Dial Square by some workers at the Woolwich Arsenal, the main armament factory of the British army.

As I edged onto the A303, I was deep in thought about Arsenal and Chelsea. How odd that Arsenal were once a team from south London – Woolwich is just south of the Thames, not far from Charlton Athletic’s home territory – but are now firmly based in North London, where most of their London fans are based. Chelsea, however, are geographically a team from north of the River Thames, but whose supporters have traditionally been based to the south of the river.

Of course, the seismic shift of Arsenal from Woolwich to Highbury in 1913 is one of the main reasons why supporters of Tottenham despise them so much. North London was Tottenham’s alone, but the arrival of Arsenal ate into their support base and things have been feisty, to say the least, ever since. I have read that the 12 miles which Arsenal moved just under one hundred years ago is comparable to the movement to Milton Keynes of the Wimbledon team in 2004, in terms of travel time between the two locations; 90 minutes by bus, tram and foot in 1913 and 90 minutes by tube and train in 2004.

Maybe Arsenal was the original “Franchise F.C.” after all.

And then I thought about Fulham’s relationship with us. Fulham was all theirs until we appeared on the scene, kicking and screaming, in 1905.

I can hear the disparaging call of a Fulham supporter from 1905 even now –

“And they have the damned audacity to call themselves Chelsea, but they want to play in our borough!”

Ah, the inter-borough rivalries of the nation’s capital are certainly intriguing.

As I approached Chiswick – presumably Fulham’s heartland, cough, cough – I was listening to the entertaining Danny Baker (Millwall, not too far from Woolwich) on Five Live. The musicians Midge Ure and Chris Cross, from Ultravox, were his studio guests and they were talking about the various musical backgrounds of the members of the band. The keyboard player Billy Currie was from a classical background. Chris Cross was explaining that Currie had a tendency to over play.

“At the start, Billy had to strip his style down. There were too many notes.”

Midge Ure laughed and said “yeah, there was a good tune in there somewhere. But there were just too many notes.”

“Too many notes.”

The phrase hit home. My mind leapt back to football again. Surely Arsenal played with too many notes. If they were a band, they would be either an interminably self-indulgent prog rock band or a jazz quartet, with each member trying to out-do each other. They would have had no number one hits, but a sweaty troop of obsessive fans.

And here is the real problem for Arsenal fans. The team is over-elaborate in its approach play. There are too many lilies being gilded. There are too many passes for the man who wears glasses. Chelsea’s play over the past ten years has been more pragmatic.

And more successful.

I can’t deny that – whisper it – Arsenal are a very well run club; they have a firm financial base and do not overspend. In many ways, they are the blueprint of how clubs should be run. And yet, the stubborn nature of Wegner must be so infuriating for their fans. He will not bend from his vision of the way Arsenal play.

And us Chelsea fans just love it. Seven years and counting.

Of course, we went twenty-six years with no trophies, but our expectations throughout that fallow, but fun, period were way different from the pompous expectations of the Arsenal hordes.

We never really expected to win much. It allowed us to be ourselves.

Put it this way, if Arsenal were to go a further nineteen years without silverware, I doubt it very much that they will have as much fun as we did between 1971 and 1997.

I parked up at 10.30am and walked past Brompton Cemetery to Earl’s Court. I caught the Piccadilly Line straight through to Arsenal tube station. The journey took just thirty minutes. Three generations of Arsenal fans – Turks, I think – sat opposite me. They each had the same bulbous nose. The grandfather and father were wearing Arsenal scarves but the young girl was wearing an Arsenal shirt and Arsenal shorts and a big “Number One Fan” foam hand. Lots more Arsenal fans were wearing scarves. They love their scarves, the Gooners.

As the train stopped at Holloway Road, I spotted around five or six Chelsea fans alighting. Funnily enough, I didn’t know any of them by name, but recognised their faces. Were they from Bristol Rovers in 1975, Anfield in 1985 or Villa Park in 1994? I don’t know. They just looked familiar.

Faces in the crowd.

I got off at Arsenal. For the first time, I spotted that the original tube station name of Gillespie Road was written in small mosaic tiles on the platform wall. I stopped to take a photograph. Herbert Chapman, the pioneering Arsenal manager who steered the club to a trio of back-to-back-to-back titles in the ‘thirties, negotiated with the tube authorities to successfully change it to Arsenal.

One can only imagine what the supporters of Tottenham thought of this.

Every time I alight at Arsenal, I am taken back to that sunny Saturday morning in 1984 when I and thousands more Chelsea fans welcomed our boys back to the First Division. That 20,000 army of Chelsea fans, packed like sardines, in the Clock End remains the one moment of my life that perfectly sums up what being a Chelsea supporter was all about.

Loyal, noisy, strong, humorous, unbridled, passionate.

Back in the big time.

Fcuk Them All.

I bumped into a couple of acquaintances on the short walk from the art deco frontage of the tube station to the grand new structure of The Emirates. We agreed that the match would be a test, alright. I circumnavigated the stadium for the first time; I was surprised how close it was to the main railway line from Kings Cross to the north of England. Ex-Arsenal defender Nigel Winterburn walked past. I took a few photographs. The Emirates is a very photogenic stadium.

For a change, I had arranged to watch the game alongside Gill. I arrived inside the plush and roomy seats of the away corner with a good thirty minutes to spare. Usually, my arrival at Arsenal is a lot more rushed. The Chelsea team went through their pre-match drill and, for once, I was able to observe. I was surprised how empty the seats remained until around ten minutes before kick-off. All of those red seats. Ugh.

The team was announced and I was surprised, though pleased, that Oscar had retained his place within the “three tenors” of the midfield. Frank was on the bench again.

There were blue skies overhead. The stadium was bathed in September sun. Most Chelsea fans were wearing jackets, though; there was a chill in the air.

We were in all blue and enjoyed the majority of the ball in the first opening minutes; this was a good sign. We didn’t appear to be fazed by the occasion. We moved the ball around intelligently, with the midfielders soon on top and playing the ball out to the flanks where we always seemed to have the extra man. John Terry, and Ashley Cole, were systematically booed throughout the first part of the game, though the Arsenal fans soon became bored of that.

As I was watching from the very front row, I found it hard to judge if the away contingent were making much noise. Gill and I had already reiterated how we prefer the fervour at away games to the morgue-like atmosphere at home these days. A steward was sat right in front of me and so I was unwilling to constantly use my main camera. The pub camera was used for a few shots.

The Chelsea choir erupted with a couple of beauties –

“Robin van Persie – he left ‘cus you’re s**t.”

“Seven years – you’ve won f**k all.”

Although we looked pleasing going forward, Arsenal had the first few attacks on goal, but Cech was untroubled.

On twenty minutes, Fernando Torres was fouled just outside the Arsenal box. I quickly lifted the main camera up to my eyes and snapped just as Juan Mata lofted the ball towards the far post. I just saw a group of players rise as one and then saw the net rustle.

Yes! Get in!

I was unsure who had scored. I was unsure how we had scored. The away support soon told me.

“Fernando Torres – he scores when he wants.”

Even better. Seventeen goals for us now. Lovely.

Gill turned to me and said –

“They’ll have to come at us now.”

Ah, that made me laugh…”come on my little diamonds.”

We were in good form, on and off the pitch, now. The Chelsea supporters behind me wasted no time in reminding the Arsenal fans about the events of Saturday 19 May.

“We know what we are. We know what we are. Champions of Europe – we know what we are.”

Torres then robbed the ball from Koscielny and advanced alone, with just the ‘keeper to beat. We waited with intense anticipation. Two goals would kill them off. Sadly, Torres stumbled just as he was about to strike the ball goal wards. “One step forward, one step back” seems to be Torres’ mantra at Chelsea. We all want him to go one step beyond.

Oscar was rightly booked for a couple of silly fouls, but his overall play was excellent. We continued to attack down Arsenal’s flanks and our play was neat and tidy. The midfield were playing as a unit, passing the ball intelligently. I said to Gill that Arsenal seemed content for us to keep the ball. How they miss a Viera.

Sadly, with the first-half closing, a fine Arsenal move caught us out and Gervinho was able to spin and thump the ball past Petr Cech. We were then treated by the most naïve chant of the entire game. The Arsenal fans alongside us in the Clock End, exultant and jubilant, boisterously enquired of us –

“Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya? Who are ya?”

Hardly a nano-second had passed before we belligerently and joyfully replied –

“We know what we are. We know what we are. Champions of Europe – we know what we are.”

There was silence in the Arsenal section.

At half-time, there were no complaints. It was an open game with some nice stuff being played. There was no doubt we could go on to win this.

David Luiz was booked, in my eyes, for a pitiful attempt at getting a penalty. He then decided to berate the referee further. Now that was just stupid. Soon after, Torres was released but Vermaulen clipped his heels. I steadied my camera again and snapped just as Juan Mata whipped the ball into the box. Again, it was headed towards the far post. By the time I had brought the camera down to my side, Gill was shouting in my ear and the ball had nestled inside the goal.

Again – how the hell did that happen?

The Chelsea section was again in full voice. We sang a couple of new songs in praise of John and Ashley.

“One England captain – pause – fcuk the FA.”

“Ashley Cole’s won the European Cup, the European Cup, the European Cup.”

We had to thank Petr Cech, though, soon after our second goal was scored. The quiet Podolkski looped a header goal wards, but our great goalkeeper arched his back as he flew through the air to his left and spectacularly clawed the ball away. It was a magnificent piece of ballet, let alone football.

Tu-tu, not 2-2.

Cech again beat out the ball, this time from Giroud effort which deflected off Luiz. Arsenal seemed to be in the ascendency in the last quarter and I lost count of the balls which were zipped and whipped across our box. A rogue deflection here, a prod there and we would be very likely to concede. In the end, shoddy finishing from Arsenal was the decisive factor. Giroud, again, sliced the ball into the side netting when it seemed easier to score.

Despite four minutes of extra time, we held on and the Chelsea fans, with several grey inflatable CL trophies playing prominent roles, were bouncing once more.

I walked back to Highbury & Islington tube with Gill, two Chelsea faces smiling away, amidst a sea of red despondency. This had been a massive statement of intent by Chelsea.

We had hit all the right notes.

It had been a fine day.

Tales From A Night Of Capital Punishment

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Wolverhampton Wanderers : 25 September 2012.

There was a fleeting moment during the first few days of September when my fingers hovered over the keyboard of my PC at work. I had opened up the “buy tickets online” option on the official Chelsea website for the game with Wolves. I quickly weighed up the chances of myself closing the screen down with no purchase taking place. I gave it all a few seconds’ thought. In fact, my indecision took me by surprise. Did I really want to attend the game? Amidst the plethora of games taking place before Christmas, did I really want to pay £26.50 for a low profile League Cup game against Wolves? If I was brutally honest, I probably wasn’t too bothered.

It probably all boiled down to one thing.

If it wasn’t for my unbroken home sequence – the last game I missed was a League Cup game against West Ham in late 2004 – it is quite likely that I would not have gone ahead with the purchase of my seat.

Oh well. This run will come to and end some when. It might happen this season. Maybe not. The run might just stretch to ten years. We’ll see. I certainly know that a League Cup (or Capital One Cup as it is currently known), game is likely to be the one that will be the first to fail. It’s certainly the least important of our domestic competitions and I find it hard to get too enthusiastic about the early stage games.

I collected Gunner Parkins at 4pm. He had been in two minds about attending, too, by the sounds of it. The trip east was unremarkable. At Reading services, I spotted a mini-bus which was festooned with Swansea City flags and Welsh St. David flags. They were on their way to Crawley Town, south of London down past Gatwick airport.

I joked with Parky if the passengers were the same little band of Swansea wannabe hooligans who were memorably featured in a late night TV programme several seasons ago. What a classic tale of questionable navigation skills, poor logistical planning, loutish behaviour, fake Burberry scarves, infighting and general ignorance.

Sit back and laugh –

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7Y2Gj…eature=related

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tgBzt…feature=relmfu

Were the legendary Johnny The Brains, Tank and Chunky and their little band of Herberts inside the dirty white van? We’ll never know. If they were inside, from previous experience, it is highly likely that they never reached Crawley.

There were warning signs of traffic delays between junctions 7 and 4b and the flow indeed slowed at around 5.30pm. My teeth were grinding together at the thought of being stuck in a traffic jam for an hour or so, then missing the kick-off.

“All because of that bloody run.”

Thankfully, the traffic cleared at around Heathrow. Parky slurped on cans of “Fosters” lager while I consumed two “Starbucks” double-espressos. A lot of road accidents occur in the early evening – eyes tired after a day at work – and I knew I needed artificial stimulation. While we listened to the classic “Never Mind The Bollocks” by the Sex Pistols, I contemplated how big the gate would be. I had seen on the website that tickets were still on sale. I tendered that the attendance would range from 32,000 to 37,000. I expected 3,000 away fans to bolster the ranks; the tickets, after all, were virtually half the price of league games.

The sky above London at Brentford, as I curled around on the elevated section of the M4, was a picture. The fading sun was catching great towers of cloud to the south. Ahead, the skyscrapers of the city were just visible. I still get excited about driving into the nation’s capital even after all these years.

We made it into The Goose at 6.30pm and I maintained my reputation of “One Pint Axon.”

Talk was of the team that the manager would field. We ran through some options. It was clear that, on paper, we could field a pretty formidable “B” team if required involving Romeu, Bertrand, Moses, Marin, Azpilicueta, Cahill and Sturridge.

The team came through via a message on Gary’s ‘phone and there were a couple of surprises; notably John Terry, fresh from his trial, and Fernando Torres. It was clear that di Matteo was persevering with Torres, although, in truth – without the still injured Studge – we had no real choice. I hope we don’t rue the loan of Lukaku to Wolves’ great rivals West Brom. The midfield was again set up to feed Torres; Moses, Mata and Piazon were to be the providers. With Wolves the opposition I enthusiastically commented to Daryl –

“I smell goals.”

His look suggested that my optimism was rather wide of the mark, like a Torres strike, maybe.

Empty seats in the East Stand greeted my arrival in The Sleepy Hollow. Down below, there were further unoccupied seats in the corners of the MHL. There was a huge segregation gap of some 2,000 empty seats in The Shed. In the West Stand corners, more of the same. The Wolves support numbered just 1,000. I immediately thought back to the loud and noisy 6,000 Burnley fans that had travelled down from Lancashire for a League cup game in 2008. Of course, there was a good reason for this; it was Burnley’s first visit to The Bridge in around 25 years. Wolves, however, were here last season.

Just before the kick-off, there was a hearty rendition of” One England Captain” and John Terry turned to acknowledge the Matthew Harding. The song would be continually repeated throughout the evening. What a disgrace that John’s role in the England team has been undermined by the toe-curlingly vindictive fools in Soho Square.

The game was virtually all over after just seven minutes.

I watched as Gary Cahill peeled away from his marker in the six yard box, but then reappeared in acres of space at the far post. It certainly helped that Juan Mata’s pacy free-kick was inch perfect. A great start. Gary is scoring goals for Chelsea with the same regularity as John Terry; a good sign.

1-0.

Oriel Romeu’s firm low strike brought a save from the Wolves custodian, but the ball was soon played back into the path of the waiting Ryan Bertrand, who took no time to despatch the ball goal wards. It was a fine finish.

2-0.

The song of the season soon followed.

We knew what we were.

However, a word of warning. I have the distinct feeling that this song, so perfect at the moment, may well suck all the life out of our hunt for new songs. It is now the default Chelsea song instead of “Carefree.” I’m not saying that we’ll get bored with it. I’m just saying that other songs will need to wait their turn.

What a delightful “one-two” from Torres to set up Juan Mata inside the box.

3-0 and coasting. The performance of the debutants Lucas Piazon and Cesar Azpilicueta was excellent. It was a stirring forty-five minutes of near constant Chelsea possession.

Frank Sinclair was on the pitch with Neil Barnett at the half-time break.

From my viewpoint in the wraparound, I thought that Victor Moses certainly made the most of the challenge from the Wolves’ keeper. When I saw the referee approach, I actually presumed that Moses would be booked for simulation. Imagine my surprise when we were given a penalty. Many fellow fans in my section were as surprised as myself.

Oriel Romeu, not Torres, took the penalty and slammed it home.

4-0.

A Mata corner was met by the clear leap of Torres at the near post and the ball flashed into the net.

5-0.

I’ve still seen every single one of Nando’s goals for Chelsea. He is now up to sixteen. He’s getting there, slowly. I must say that I hate the “he scores when he wants” chant.

The attendance was given as 32,000. This was our lowest gate for a League Cup game at home in ten years. Food for thought Mr. Buck and Mr. Gourlay. 32,000 in a 60,000 stadium would look ridiculous.

I must say that I liked the look of Marko Marin, the other debutant, during his time on the pitch after his appearance as a substitute. He was full of endeavour and skill. His run set up Oscar – another substitute – to cross for Moses to head down for our sixth goal of the night.

6-0.

It looks like we can add Moses and Marin to the list of creative support players whose main role will be to create chances for Fernando Torres. Moses again pleased me. Apart from all six goals coming from six different players, I was also warmed by the great appetite shown by all of our players during the game. We showed great application and tremendous enthusiasm right up to the final whistle.

Well done Chelsea.

I took a while to leave the stadium. Outside, I tried my hardest to take a few photographs of the Peter Osgood statue, a cool dark grey in the evening light, with the moon high above. I couldn’t quite get the setting on my new camera correct and I will need to go back to have another stab at that. There were voices of many tourists milling around as I left the forecourt to the West Stand. With the ivy and the lights on the old Shed wall to one side and the montage of past players and fans on the wall on the other, it is an area which is developing a character all of itself. The Osgood statue, of course, is the understated focal point of the whole area. With the West Stand façade now adorned with many banners from Wembley and Munich, the sense of place which the area projects is near perfect.

I raced home – a Red Bull to add to my cocktail of stimulants this time – and, after dropping His Lordship off, I was back in Somerset by 12.30am.

Thoughts about the next round? A local away jaunt to Swindon Town, a mere 30 minutes away from where I work, would be just perfect.

Of course, Brains, Tank and Chunky could be waiting for us too.

If they can find their way back to Wales.

Tales From The League Leaders

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Stoke City : 22 September 2012.

After a period of inactivity with no Chelsea game for me personally for three whole weeks, we were now well and truly in the thick of it, with two games per week for a while. And yet, I was in a downbeat and melancholy mood on Saturday morning. It was brewing up to be a lovely autumnal day and, if I am truthful, I was almost wondering if I could have put my twelve hours to better use. Frome Town were playing at home against Weston-super-Mare in the F.A. Cup for starters, plus I had some jobs to complete around the house and I kept thinking “that lawn won’t cut itself you know.” The prospect of yet another 220 mile round-trip hardly filled me with joy. In a nutshell, the lure of a home game was not as appealing as it should have been. I drove over to collect Young Jake at Trowbridge using my auto-pilot facility, hoping that my drowsy state would disappear once I became focussed on the day ahead.

Lord Parkins was taking a break for this game; it was just Young Jake and I representing the two towns of Frome and Trowbridge for the visit of Stoke City.

A little banter kept us occupied on the drive up and – yes – my enthusiasm soon returned. Jake is 24 and has seen Chelsea on around 25 occasions. He is still to see a Chelsea away game, but we hope to break that duck this autumn…maybe Swansea, maybe West Brom. I was lucky in that two of my first seven Chelsea games were away games, in Bristol, and I have very strong memories of both those matches from season 1975-1976. Away games are quite different to home games and I can sense that Jake was desperate to experience them. I can’t understand Chelsea fans who attend games at Stamford Bridge only; they do exist, I have met a few of them. They don’t know what they are missing.

It did feel odd to be driving up to The Smoke later in the day than usual. There was a reason for this; I had plans to attend the “start-up” meeting of the Chelsea Supporters Trust later in the evening. More of that later.

I slid into Archel Road at just before 1.30pm and it was a glorious day in London Town. I spent just an hour in the pub – or, rather, the beer garden – and it was the usual hubbub of noise.

On the twenty minute walk to Stamford Bridge, I noted the same old faces trying their best to punt tickets. These touts – or scalpers – are present at every game and, for the life of me, I never understand why Chelsea can’t work in unison with the OB to flush these away from Stamford Bridge.

I bought a programme and noted that Jon Obi Mikel was featured on the front cover. Was this a tacit endorsement of our midfielder by the club, so soon after the brouhaha following his errant pass against Juventus? I hope so. I hope that it wasn’t just a strange coincidence.

I soon noticed a large swathe of empty seats towards the back of The Shed upper. Maybe the touts hadn’t been so successful on this particular day. However, these empty seats eventually filled up over the first twenty minutes of the game.

Over on the western side of The Shed, a new banner caught my attention.

“Welcome to Chelsea FC. The first London team to win the Champions League.”

Nice sentiments, but way too “wordy.”

If I had my way, it would just say –

“Arsenal didn’t. Tottenham didn’t. We did.” (with a small gold star as decoration.)

Frank Lampard and John Terry were sidelined. This meant that Gary Cahill started alongside the erratic David Luiz.

I won’t dwell too much on the game itself on this particular occasion. However, what a contrast in styles; not only between Chelsea and Stoke City, but between Chelsea 2011-2012 and Chelsea 2012-2013. Our little triumvirate of “number tens” were the focus of our attacking play. This, of course, was the first time that Mata, Hazard and Oscar had started together. If we were playing in Italy, I have a feeling that these three players would have already been given a little moniker all of their own. For some reason, Napoli came to mind. Not only the three tenors of Cavani, Lavezzi and Hamsik of last season, but the “Ma-Gi-Ca” trio from the late ‘eighties…Diego Maradona, Bruno Giordano and Careca.

Mata. Hazard. Oscar.

Ma-Ha-Os.

Ma-Os-Ha.

Ha-Os-Ma.

Os-Ha-Ma.

I’ll work on that.

Despite or domination of the game, we hardly troubled Begovic in the Stoke goal. If anything, the visitors had the best two chances of the first-half. At the break, Gary was fuming, but I tried to make the point that this was only the fifth game of the news season and that the team was noticeably different to the team of previous years, with a new way of playing, a new style, new tactics.

Mike Fillery was on the pitch at the break. For four seasons, from 1979 to 1983, he was the kingpin of our midfield. He was a skilful touch-player with a great range of passing, who chipped in with a fair share of goals, too. His team mates included Clive Walker, Tommy Langley, Colin Pates, Ian Britton and Colin Lee. His style was often called languid but the inhabitants of the whitewall, the tea-bar and the benches often called him “lazy.” Both Alan and Gary commented that, despite him now having a limp, he moved around the pitch quicker than when he was playing for us. He left us in the summer of 1983 for the promise of First Division football at QPR. Ah, QPR – where Chelsea players go to retire. In some ways, he left us at just the wrong time. It would have been interesting to see how he would have fitted in as a midfielder in the all-action team of Dixon / Nevin / Speedie (or “Di-Ne-Sp” as we didn’t call them at the time). On the day we beat Derby County 5-0 on the opening day of 1983-1984, Fillery made his QPR debut at Old Trafford and I remember seeing him on “Match of the Day” that night. I’ll be honest, he had been one of my heroes and it just didn’t seem right. Anyway, twenty-nine years later, it was good to see him back at Chelsea.

The second-half continued in a similar vein. The Holy Trinity dominated the play and there were more flicks and back-heels seen at Chelsea for many a year.

There were more flicks on show than at a wedge haircut convention.

Mikel was having a solid game and Ramires was a looking lot more at ease alongside him. I’d suggest that Ramires stays in this position all season long.

As the half progressed, at last the crowd started to make some noise. Victor Moses made his home debut as a substitute and added some instant energy. Fernando Torres was full of honest endeavour, but it just wasn’t working for him. Some of his passing was excellent, though. I made a comment that if only Torres could be on the end of his own through-balls. During the last quarter, Stoke began a few raids on our goal. When substitute Michael Owen appeared – and also Kenwyne Jones – I feared the worst. I made the point – only half in jest – that with Jones, Owen, Crouch and Walters, Stoke probably had a better four attackers in their squad than us.

With five minutes to go, substitute Frank Lampard helped to work the ball out wide. The ball was played in towards Juan Mata who stepped over the ball to allow it to reach the waiting Ashley Cole. With a deft flick, the ball spun up and over the ‘keeper’s despairing block. The ball nestled inside the netting, the crowd burst into life and Ash raced over towards the north-east corner. It was a well worked goal.

Phew.

John Terry came on to protect the lead, replacing Juan Mata in one of the oddest substitutions seen at Chelsea for a while, and we played with five at the back.

We held on.

After the game, I did my annual raid on the club shop and bought a few items. After a quick bite to eat at the “Pizza Express” at Fulham Broadway, I made my way up to the Barrow Boy pub on the North End Road (formerly The Hobgoblin, formerly The Victualler).

Upstairs on the roof terrace, around seventy Chelsea fans assembled for a “Supporters Trust” start-up / feasibility meeting which was hosted by Tim Rolls, Neil Beard, Dave Johnstone and Cliff Auger. The scene was rather plush with the terrace’s perimeter bedecked in canvas; it had the ambience of a Bedouin tent. All very decadent, all very Chelsea. The meeting lasted around ninety minutes.

A representative of Supporters Direct was present to talk through the concept of football trusts, of which there are around 150 in the UK. The meeting, at times, was predictably heated, but I found it very worthwhile. Tellingly, the SD guy stated that virtually all football trusts are formed at times of crisis.

“Crisis? What crisis?” I hear people cry…”we’re Champions of Europe!”

The raison d’etre for this meeting at Chelsea was no doubt instigated by the ramifications of the CPO affair last autumn, but was also linked to the general feeling amongst fan groups that Chelsea Football Club are continually out of touch with its match-going support. Another reason for a supporters trust, I think, is to try to unite the many various Chelsea fan groups which currently exist; in many cases, a trust acts as an umbrella for various factions.

Examples were given to explain how trusts work. Some are very active, some are virtually dormant. It depends on the individual circumstances of each club. On one hand, the Manchester United trust has over 100,000 members but is not acknowledged by the United board. At the other extreme, the trust at Swansea virtually runs the club. In between, there are many different shades. Arsenal only has 1,000 members in its trust, but is seen as a media savvy, political pressure group with a surprising amount of power. Newcastle United, like Chelsea, has many different supporters groups, but they came together to form a 35,000 strong trust. Mike Ashby ignores them, but the NUFC trust has strong links with the local media and council. Clearly, a trust is seen as a more bona fide and credible entity than a normal fans’ group.

It is inevitable that football trusts have more clout at smaller clubs where revenue is more dependent upon match-going fans. At Exeter City, where gates average 3,000, the football club is obviously going to listen to a 1,000 strong football trust since it is in its best interests to have an appreciation of what fans require out of their club. At financially opulent clubs, trusts have a bigger battle.

It was stated that trusts tend to have short term, medium term and long term goals. At many clubs, the long term goal of getting a trust member onto the football board has been accomplished.

Mighty oaks from little acorns grow.

Despite a couple of unsure voices, it was decided to go ahead with the general notion of the Chelsea supporters trust. A follow-up meeting will take place in October or November.

Three points were made which are worthy of further comment.

The Supporters Direct representative emphasised that the Chelsea Pitch Owners are incredibly important to the future of the club. He stated that Chelsea is the only club in Europe whose ground is owned by its fans. Virtually every other club would love to have what we have. It is, as one fan said, the jewel in our crown.

One of the long term goals for a Chelsea trust, rather than aim for the board (unlikely…let’s be honest), might be to get a normal fan to take the internally-appointed Graham Smith’s role as the club’s Supporter Liaison Officer.

A short term goal will be to get many overseas supporters groups to buy in to the idea of a supporters trust. At the meeting, Chelsea in America was mentioned on a few occasions. This is a win-win. The club is desperate to grow its overseas fan base and by getting various foreign groups on board, the club would have to take the trust seriously.

As I left the meeting, I was invigorated by the passion and the common sense of brotherhood engendered amongst my fellow fans. It was a great meeting. It was a great day. I momentarily wandered back to my thoughts in the morning.

How silly of me to think it might have been anything else.

Tales From A Visit Of Old Friends

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Chelsea vs. Juventus : 19 September 2012.

What a lovely gift from the football Gods. The first game in our defence of the Champions League trophy, which we all hold so dear, would be against the Italian champions Juventus. As many people know, I have always had a massive soft spot for the Bianconeri and so my heart was filled with joy when the two clubs were drawn together in the same pot. Despite my funds being earmarked this autumn for the mind-boggling trip to Tokyo in December, I promised myself that I would go to one of only two European cities in this autumn’s group phase; Glasgow (Celtic) and Turin (Juventus). These two trips could not be missed.

As I watched the draw unfold on my PC at work on Thursday 23 August, I just knew that fate would assure that I would be heading back to Turin once more. True enough, Ruud Gullit helped draw Chelsea and Juve in the same group.

Perfect.

The trip to Turin in November was duly booked.

First, though, the home game.

Alongside me in the Matthew Harding Upper was Marco, the son of my good friend Salvo. I had bought the ticket for Salvo, who owns a restaurant near Earls Court, but he decided to pass the ticket on to his Juve-mad son. Salvo was worried that when he accompanied me to the Chelsea vs. Juventus game in 2009, a Didier Drogba goal had resulted in a Chelsea win and a Juventus defeat. Maybe a mixture of Catholic guilt and football superstition had colluded for this decision.

Either way, Marco and I were getting along famously. On the walk to the stadium from The Goose, we had already swapped several Juventus stories, and it also transpired that Marco was a fan of baseball too; his team being the Detroit Tigers.

We didn’t get in until 7.40pm. I had a quick glimpse down at the three thousand tifosi in the away section. Daz asked for my assistance in lifting the massive flag over the heads of the spectators in the upper tier. Once completed, I was able to head back to my seat and capture the pre-match ritual which is so iconic now.

The entrance of the two teams, the slow walk across the pitch, the players’ route taking them to the right of the black and white flag on the centre circle, the Champions League anthem, the handshakes.

In amongst the Juve fans, around a hundred fans held up their mobile phones and a hundred bright lights lit up that particular corner of The Bridge. Tellingly, I spotted around twenty similar lights in the upper tier of the adjoining East Stand. This was no surprise; though not in the same numbers as the Neapolitans who swamped HQ in March, I always knew that there would be Juventus supporters mixed in to the home areas. Hell, there was even one sitting next to me.

The big news was that Oscar was making his home debut for us. A big night for him.

The other big news, personally, was that Juve were playing in the famous black and white. It was an irritant that they chose to wear the muted gold shirts in 2009.

This was the real deal.

Chelsea in blue and white.

Juventus in black and white.

My two teams.

Of course, we all know the real story. Chelsea are my team. Chelsea are the team that I follow over land and sea, the team that has had a vice-like grip on my emotions since I was a young boy. The team which has brought me sadness one moment and happiness the next. In comparison, Juventus are a more frivolous object of desire. My history with them is still sizeable, though and Marco was getting snippets of “my Juventus story” throughout the evening.

The time I met Momo Sissoko in a Torinese restaurant. The time I saw Maradona at the Stadio Communale. The time Antonio Conte scored a last-minute winner at the Delle Alpi against Fiorentina and infamously picked up the corner flag and taunted the seething Viola fans. The time I received a Roberto Bettega signed photograph. The time I saw Vialli and Ravanelli at Ibrox.

This game would be my 904th. Chelsea game and my 10th. Juventus game.

I can well remember asking some friends a while back about the various sports teams which they support and asking them to rate the importance of the teams. If I was to add my other major love, the New York Yankees, I can remember that my results were –

Chelsea 95%
New York Yankees 4%
Juventus 1%

This game would be my 904th Chelsea game and my 10th. Juventus game.

For comparison, I’ve seen the Yankees play 32 times.

Quite bizarrely, these numbers mirror my percentage points rather well.

946 games in total.

Chelsea 95%
New York Yankees 4%
Juventus 1%

How weird is that?

Over in the far corner, I did my best to scan the banners which were fighting for space on the balcony wall. It surprised me that I didn’t recognise any of them. There was one from a town – Trezzano sul Naviglio – where my client’s warehouse is based. Down in the lower tier, six juventini wore T-shirts spelling out the word “Drughi.”

Drughi are one of the many Juve fan groups which have evolved since the mid-seventies. They are named after the “droogs” which are featured in the iconic film “A Clockwork Orange.” There was also another Juve group –since disbanded – called “Arancia Mecanica” – and I remember a famous photograph of these quasi-hooligans in a police escort in Milano wearing bowler hats to a game at San Siro.

The history of the various Juve fan groups and their rivalries for prominence warrants an encyclopaedia all by itself. Dig a little and you will be rewarded. I have a book, which I bought at that Fiorentina game in 1999, which painstakingly tells of some of these groups in a series of breathtaking photographs.

The Juve fans were soon in good voice.

“Tutta La Curva!” (meaning, in theory, “We are the curve”, or the home end.)

“Forza Ragazzi!” (meaning “Come On, Boys.”)

During the first-half, just for a split second, with the Juve fans singing loud, I was transported back to an evening in November 1987 when I saw my first-ever Juventus game. It was a UEFA Cup match against Panathinaikos and I was watching high up on the Curva Maratona – the opposite end to the home Curva Filadelfia – at the Stadio Communale. The stadium was a cauldron of cacophonous noise, full of Italian passion, full of memories which would last forever.

It was a major stepping stone in my football journey.I had been bitten by the glamour and buzz of European football and – twenty-five years on – it still has the power to exhilarate and humble me in equal measure.

I exchanged “good luck” texts with my two Italian – and Juventus – pals Mario and Tullio and quickly got into the game. And what a fine game it was.

We began brightly and I noticed that the three support players – Hazard, Oscar and Ramires – were hitting Torres early. I sat and hoped that tonight would be his night. And then, with each passing minute, Juventus started making more and more inroads into our half.

Andrea Pirlo, playing deep, was the main worry and my gaze was kept being drawn towards him. This was my first sighting of this respected player, whose stock seems to rise with each passing year. I’m surprised that Milan let him go in 2011 and to a major rival, too. This, however, is typical of Italy. How often do major players flit between the main Italian teams? I can think of many examples. Marco’s personal favourite Roberto Baggio played for Milan, Inter and Juve for example.

Another story from my Italian past. In September 1987, two friends and I were in Venice and had finished a whirlwind sightseeing tour. I bought a copy of the pink sports paper “La Gazetta Della Sport” and saw that Inter were playing newly promoted Empoli. Without much thought, we made plans to hop on a train to Milano and catch the game. I remember that an article in the ‘paper about the Inter player Aldo Serena brought a few quizzical frowns from myself. His career to date had seen him play for Inter (three times), Milan, Torino and Juventus. That a player would play for these rival teams really shocked me. Can anyone imagine Joe Cole – say – play for Chelsea, Liverpool, Manchester United and Arsenal?

Incredibly, Serena then went on to eventually play once again for Milan.

Such is Italy.

Upfront, Vucinic (who played against us for Roma in 2008 ) and the diminutive Giovinco (who played against us in 2009) were creating a few good chances, ably abetted by Marchisio and Vidal. I thought Pirlo had a relatively quiet game. As far as I could remember, only Chiellini and Buffon remained from Juventus’ last visit to SW6.

Mid-way through the first-half, Juve were edging it. I always knew they would be tough opponents, coming off a completely unbeaten league season in 2011-2012. Anyone who thought that this group would be relatively easy was deluded. To be honest, I had visions of us being hit for a few goals.

Over in the far corner, the Juve fans were memorably producing a new twist on the ubiquitous “I Just Can’t Get Enough” chant, the Depeche Mode song from 1981, which has travelled around Europe like a virus.

Not exactly “sotto voce” and “fortissimo”, but certainly with two differing tones.

Nobody does football songs like the Italians.

On thirty minutes, the ball broke to our young Brazilian number eleven and he let fire from outside the box. I was right in line with the shot. It was deflected away from Buffon and into the corner of the goal.

The crowd roared and I went very light-headed.

Get in!

It was against the run of play, possibly, but we were ahead.

Two minutes later, we witnessed one of the greatest Chelsea goals of the past twenty-five years. The ball was played into Oscar, with his back to goal. He pushed the ball away from the goal, at a bizarre angle, and seemed to move in a mysterious way as if he was unable to be seen by the defenders close by. The ball reappeared at his feet, but he was still facing away from the goal. Instinctively, he thumped the ball goal wards and we watched with open-mouthed amazement.

The ball spun up, the ball spun out, the ball spun down, the ball spun in.

2-0 and the Stamford Bridge spectators were awestruck.

What a home debut from Oscar. I imagined the headlines being typed out already.

Our amazing lead was sadly short-lived. A neat move found Vidal who slotted past Petr Cech.

It was 2-1 at the break. In the match programme, there was a nice article and three great photographs from the match in Turin in 2009. What a trip that was. Apart from Munich, it is probably my favourite ever European jaunt. If the trip this November is half as good, I’ll be very happy. There was also a photograph in the programme of Kev from Bristol, who was celebrating his 1,000th game that night. Staggeringly, he is only 31. Amazing.

Soon into the second half, I fed more Juventus stories to Marco as the game progressed.

I asked Marco’s views on the pronunciation of the word “Juventus.” Of course, long gone are the days when ill-educated English fans pronounced it with a “J.” My question was aimed at the second of the three syllables. I have often thought that Italians “almost” (and I underline the word “almost”) pronounce the “v” as a “w.”

In my mind at least (and especially when I am with Mario and Tullio), I perhaps subconsciously pronounce the word “You-when-tus.” Or at least with the slightest hint of a “w.”

Thankfully, Marco agreed.

And further, I’d suggest that it has three and a half syllables.

EE’OO-WHEN-TUS.

I mentioned to Marco that there was a strange comfort to these group stage games and especially the first of the six. They certainly have a different feeling to the do-or-die knockout games. The tension just isn’t there. Will it matter too much if any team – Chelsea included – drew the first one rather than won it? The tension tends to build in these autumn fixtures and 2011-2012 was a perfect example. By the time we met Valencia in December, the tension was as taught as a violin string.

The second-half was again rather even. Chances came and went, but both goalkeepers were not often tested. A penalty claim on Hazard was waved away. A Lampard free-kick thumped against Buffon’s body. Mata, the substitute, shot wide. Torres was always involved, but role seemed to be more of a support player. Of the two holding players, Mikel was the more impressive, forever blocking Juve’s forward thrusts. I’m surprised that Frank played ninety minutes, on the back of two full games for England and the one against QPR; he didn’t have his best game in Chelsea colours.

For the first time that I can remember – maybe because of the clear, cloudless sky – I particularly noticed the lights on the passing planes. For those unaware, Stamford Bridge is right on the flight path of Heathrow. I often see planes fly overhead. Back in the ‘eighties, it was often a welcome attraction from the dire football on the pitch.

On this occasion, I particularly noticed the green and red lights on the plans’ wings, in addition to the white light at the cockpit.

Green. White. Red.

The colours of the Italian flag.

Ominous? You bet.

With ten minutes remaining, Mikel gave the ball away and Stamford Bridge groaned. There was a dull ache of inevitability when Quagliarella was fed in and nimbly slotted home.

The Bianconeri erupted in the south-east corner. Marco grabbed my arm and I had the slightest of contradictory emotions flash through me.

Was I happy?

Maybe 1%.

As the game came to its end, I soon received two incoming text messages.

From Mario in Bergisch-Gladbach – a friend since 1975 – “A nice game.”

From Tullio in Turin – a friend since 1981 – “So, we are still friends.”

And so the defence of our trophy has begun. This indeed will be a tough group. I am convinced that the two games that we will have, back to back in October and November, against Shakhtar Donetsk will be all-important. However, one thing is certain. Throughout these games, plus our excursion to Denmark, I feel that the tension will be mounting all of the way through until we make a return visit to the Piedmont city of Turin on November 20th?

Am I excited about that?

100%.

Tales From A Sobering Week

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Chris Axon

Queens Park Rangers vs. Chelsea : 15 September 2012.

At last. At long last another Chelsea game. A whole three weeks had passed since I attended our fine win over Newcastle United. Thankfully, I didn’t venture to the south of France for the Super Cup game. Yes, three whole weeks. Twenty-one days. It felt like an extra close-season. And I hated every minute of it.

It was a sunny morning in deepest Somerset as I slotted my coffee mug into the drink holder alongside my car seat. I flicked the ignition on; I was back on the treadmill. Japan’s “Quiet Life” reverberated through the speakers and I was on my way.

I texted the briefest of messages to Alan in London.

“Jack Qprouac.”

I was on the road once more.

With no detour north to collect Lord Porkinson on this occasion, I was soon driving through Frome, past Warminster and then up and over Salisbury Plain. It was soon clear that it was going to be a cracking day. The sun was up, the sky was blue, it’s beautiful and so are you. On the long straight before I dipped into the miniscule village of Chitterne, the view ahead made me smile. Hay bales were stacked in the fields to my left and right. It was a perfect scene of rural England. It was a perfect day for football.

And then it came back into my mind once again.

Hillsborough.

I’m sure that there were many fans that set off for Sheffield on that sunny day in 1989 that had a similar outlook; a sunny day and a perfect day for football.

My mind had been full of thoughts about Hillsborough since the news of the enquiry into the disaster came through on Wednesday. Without much prompting, my original thoughts on those events came rocketing back. And I recoiled at the memories.

The recollections from that day in April 1989 are still surprisingly clear. On the previous Saturday, I had travelled by train to see our enjoyable 3-2 win at West Brom. As I was saving hard for my first-ever trip to North America throughout the 1988-1989 season, I had decided to save some money and not travel to Filbert Street for our game with Leicester City. I remember that it was the day that we could have been promoted and many Chelsea travelled to the game.

Instead, I was at home. I remember I was sat at the table, pen in hand, attempting to put further meat on the bones of my skeletal planning of my US trip. I had a few brochures strewn over the table and the radio was on. The commentary game on BBC Radio Two was from Hillsborough and there had already been mention of a little crowd disturbance. This surprised me; there was no “previous” between the two teams as far as I was aware. If anything, there was a general easing off from the, dare I say it, hooligan hay days of the early ‘eighties. We had the second summer of love in the UK in 1988 and there was a tendency for hooligans to start a slow drift away from decaying football terraces and into nightclubs, warehouses and fields as a drug called ecstasy took hold.

After just six minutes, the game was stopped and I was bemused.

“Why?”

I couldn’t work out why there was any trouble in Sheffield.

As news of the events unravelled, I soon realised that the BBC would have TV cameras at the game. I turned the radio off. I turned the TV on. Within a few moments of watching the scenes of confusion at the Leppings Lane end of the stadium, the news came through that several Liverpool supporters had died.

I was in shock. I can solemnly say that the news chilled me to the core.

The travel brochures were brushed aside as I watched with a mixture of sadness, horror and disbelief as the afternoon turned into a scene of devastation.

The rest of the day is a blur. Chelsea lost 2-0 at Leicester and it didn’t matter. Pat Nevin scored for Everton in the other semi-final and it didn’t matter.

To be honest, not much mattered that evening.

Football wore a black armband the following few weeks; the events cast a deep shadow over us all.

Our next game was on the following Saturday and the fates contrived for a massive game at Stamford Bridge; Chelsea vs. Leeds United. Not only a game against our old rivals from West Yorkshire, but the game which could see us promoted. I met up with three college mates – Ian, Bob and Trev. Ian was a Rotherham fan, but Bob and Ian were Leeds. We had a few pre-match pints in The Black Bull alongside my Chelsea mates Alan and Paul. We spoke in earnest about Hillsborough. By then, the death toll was a massive ninety-five (*it became 96 in 1993 when Tony Bland’s life support machine was turned off. Bland was the only victim with whom I had a link. He worked for the same company that I did between 1991 and 1998 ). The over-riding feeling throughout the talk was that “it could have been us.” I had watched Chelsea from the Leppings Lane enclosure in 1985. We had all experienced moments on terraces where the crush had been slightly scary. From what I remember, there was a muted atmosphere in and around the stadium. The attendance was only 30,000; under normal circumstances, I would have expected more. There was a well observed minute’s silence before the game. A John Bumstead goal gave us a 1-0 win, but it was a weird day. There wasn’t the euphoria of the 5-0 win over Leeds which got us promoted in 1984. This was a far different feeling.

After the game, Bob, Trev, Ian and I had a few pints at Earls Court and then in central London. We ended up in one of my favourite boozers – “The Round Table” near Covent Garden. Talk was still dominated by Hillsborough. I remember I said to Bob “in a way, we’re all responsible” and he wanted me to explain myself.

Every violent song, every violent gesture helped stir the atmosphere at games and the language of hate was never far away in those days. And although I had never been in involved in football violence, I – like many – enjoyed the banter and badinage that went with football hooliganism in that era. It was part of the scene, part of the culture, part of football.

There had even been moments when I had shouted “go on Chelsea” as it kicked off at a game. We had all been ambivalent to it. But Hillsborough was an eye-opener for me and a few of us. It made me question myself and the part I had played, however miniscule, in the erecting of those fences at Hillsborough which had, ultimately, caused the death of ninety-six football fans.

And it really could have been me. If Hillsborough hadn’t happened in 1989, it may have happened at Highbury in 1990, Old Trafford in 1991 or Stamford Bridge in 1992. I can well remember a game at Chelsea in 1988. We played Charlton Athletic in a real relegation dogfight. My parents arrived late and, intending to get seat tickets, were forced to sit on a part of the crumbling Shed terrace which had been sectioned off as unsafe under the Safety of Sports Grounds Act. Thankfully, only around three hundred were sat on this terrace, but the point is that Chelsea Football Club broke all the rules about crowd safety that day. They were lucky nobody was hurt. They were also lucky that nobody was hurt when the same thing happened against Middlesbrough a few weeks later. My photos from that day show the central part of The Shed heavily over-populated to the point of danger.

Ring any bells?

Big John, who sits near me at HQ, posted on Facebook on Thursday about Hillsborough. He mentioned that in that game against Leeds United in 1989, the spectators raised £15,000 for the Hillsborough disaster fund. In today’s climate, today’s money, today’s 41,000 full house, that equates to around £75,000.

I think this evidence illustrates that most football fans’ view back in 1989 was of sadness and solidarity with the Liverpool fans.

Even Chelsea.

Since then, there is no doubt that perceptions have changed, presumably triggered by our on-going unhealthy spat with Liverpool Football Club. Blame Luis Garcia, blame “that” song about history. However, my own view – though not widely expressed – has always been that the emergency services were to blame for the deaths of the ninety six in 1989. I certainly never believed those scurrilous lies which were peddled by The Sun newspaper, but which became “fact” as the years passed, about fans stealing from the dead and urinating on the police.

And I abhorred my fellow fans’ chant about “killing your own fans.”

I never joined in. It always felt so wrong.

For the reasons mentioned, I’m not a fan of the “Chelsea – hooligans” chant either.

There is, however, one black mark against Liverpool Football Club. It was always seen as the “done thing” amongst their support (and more so than any other team’s fan base) to try to “jib in” – or find a way to get in without paying, sometimes by the most ingenious ways – and this is one part of the Hillsborough tragedy that they have been shamefully quiet about.

Not even I could have expected such an exoneration of the Liverpool fans, not even I could have expected the scale of the cover-up by the emergency services and the government alike. I found it quite incomprehensible that Hillsborough, seen at the time to be one of the best stadia in the country, did not have a valid safety certificate at the time of the game on 15 April 1989. For this, the Football Association and Sheffield Wednesday should be held accountable.

I learned this week that each of the pens at the Leppings Lane end was fitted with small gates at the front, which were locked. When the crush started to occur, a simple unlocking of those gates would have eased the pressure on those fans at the front and the disaster could have been averted. I’d suggest that the keys to those gates were not within easy reach of anyone at Hillsborough. I’d even suggest that nobody even knew where those keys were kept.

One final image.

While the Liverpool supporters ferried the injured and the dead away from the pitch, using advertising hoardings as impromptu stretchers, a line of policemen – with Alsatian dogs – stood across the entire width of the pitch. They were there to stop the Liverpool and Forest fans – in their eyes – from fighting each other.

It all beggars belief.

The past week has been a sobering time.

It has provided me with a very sombre reminder of how we, as football fans, were regarded back in the late ‘eighties.

And it was too important topic for me not to mention.

It was the old familiar route in to London. I rarely travel in via the “southern route” these days; straight in on the M3 which then took me hurtling past Twickenham’s towering stands and all of the way through to Chiswick, then Hammersmith, then Fulham. I turned the radio on at midday in order to catch a sniff of the football chatter on “Five Live.” It was all about “the handshake.”

I quickly uttered a “FFS” to myself and turned it off. After the events of Hillsborough this past week, it seemed ludicrous that a handshake was getting so much attention.

Although we were playing at Loftus Road, I first had an appointment at Stamford Bridge. I quickly trotted down to the little shop outside the main forecourt and collected a couple of photographs of myself – smiling like a fool – with the twin trophies from last May. I aim to frame one of them along with a couple of photographs from Munich and the ten match tickets that are evidence of my attendance throughout last season’s maniacal assault on the Champions League trophy. I also purchased the double-disc DVD of the same Champions League campaign. As I stepped out into the surprisingly warm September sun, the players’ coach slowly drive past. I tried to peer in, but the windows were tinted. I just stood there, smiling, again like a fool.

When it comes to Chelsea, there will always be part of me that is an awestruck eight year old at my first ever game.

I returned to my car and it only took me fifteen minutes to reach my familiar parking spot off Askew Road. It even surprised me how quick I was able to traverse the borough; from Stamford Bridge to Loftus Road in a heartbeat. If there had been no traffic, I expect I could have driven it in around eight minutes flat.

I spotted a few QPR fans in their hooped shirts, but there was no over-riding feeling that there was a “big match” in the vicinity. Loftus Road now barely holds 18,000. Our biggest ever game at this compact stadium took place during the march to the 1970 F.A. Cup Final when around 30,000 attended. No doubt the streets would have been swarming with fans on that particular day.

In 2012, there was a hush around the immediate environs. We had read on the internet that the Rangers fans were aiming to recreate “hell” for our visit.

“Mmm – let’s see how that pans out.”

I dipped into a cosy café for a bite to eat. There were a few home supporters there too. I didn’t let on I was Chelsea; why would I? There were no negative comments about us, nor no reason to believe that they regarded us as the beasts with horns that sections of their support would have us believe. Talk was of QPR players, past and present, their recent form and general football chat.

I was soon outside the entrance to the away end. I spotted the habitually morose Zac (“I’m still worried about the manager, Chris”) and then the cheerier Long Tall Pete and Liz. I didn’t fancy bringing my “proper” camera to this game; with the heightened frisson between our clubs, I didn’t want an overly keen steward to stop me entering the ground with my long lens. Instead, I opted for my small “pub camera.” I took a few shots of the cramped approach into the stands, all corrugated iron and narrow passageways, and then had a quick chat with the contingent from Bristol who I often speak about.

We all agreed that the gap between games was unwanted. It felt – it really did – like the first game of the season again.

The School End at Loftus Road – or Rangers Stadium as they like to call it – houses the away support in two tiers. The upper tier is only thirteen rows deep. The lower tier possibly smaller. The seats are cramped. The Loft at the other end is larger, but only slightly. It took a while for the place to fill up. To my left, there were a few empty seats in both tiers of the main stand. I spotted the idiot with the sombrero; we all remembered him from last season. To my right, the dark shadows of the single tier stand, home to some of the QPR’s more boisterous support.

Above, signage stated “QPR, Loftus Road, 1882.”

This is a clear lie.

Sure, Rangers were formed as long ago as 1882. They have played at a large variety of locations in west London, but only at Loftus Road since 1917. The deep corrugated fascia on the stand roofs appeared to have been given a lick of paint over the summer; a darker blue, a royal blue.

“Mmm.”

To be fair, Loftus is a neat stadium, but oh-so small.

Alan and Gary arrived with five minutes to spare. We stood the entire game. I only slouched into my seat at half-time when I gave my feet a rest.

The teams were announced and then we awaited the arrival of the teams on the pitch. With a blink of an eye, the teams had lined up and the pre-game ceremonies took place. I squinted to see what Anton Ferdinand decided to do, but – to be truthful – nobody could tell. The Chelsea players were warmly applauded by the loyal 2,500 in the School End. Three songs dominated the day.

“We are the champions – the champions of Europe.”

“John Terry – Ashley Cole – John Terry – Ashley Cole.”

“We don’t hate – ‘cus you’re shit.”

After the coin toss, the teams changed ends and so we were treated to Anton Ferdinand sprinting deep into his half, all by himself, to within a few yards of the Chelsea fans in the corner. He turned to acknowledge the home fans but – of course – his intentions were clear; to wind up the away fans, to maybe illicit some abusive reactions, to maybe get a Chelsea fan arrested. According to Alan, he did exactly the same in the home game last season.

A lad next to me had to be reassured that, yes, the QPR goalkeeper was indeed Julio Cesar, the same Julio Cesar who had stood between the posts for Internazionale of Milan. There are strange things happening on Planet Football these days and no transfer is weirder than that. From 80,000 screaming Milanese to 18,000 dreaming West Londoners. It mirrors the absurd move, some thirty years ago, of Allan Simonsen from Barcelona of the Primera Liga to Charlton Athletic of the second division.

In truth, it was a poor game.

I thought that Fernando Torres began brightly and seemed to be full of confidence. Little things; the confident touch as the ball was played to him, the step-over, the impudent flick, the consummate ease with which he spun a ball out to the wing with the outside of his foot. This was promising stuff.

An early passage of play found Eden Hazard bearing down on the goal down below me. The shot was at the ‘keeper and the save drew groans from us. Then, Torres did well to turn inside the box under pressure, but his shot was weak.

And then the referee played his part. I thought that a high foot on Ashley Cole, inside the box, warranted a penalty, but the play wasn’t even halted. Andre Marriner then annoyed us all when he called a foul back when we were breaking through with the ball. Then a free-kick and John Terry ended up on the floor. Then a delicate run by Eden Hazard deep into the box and a tangle with Shaun Wright-Phillips. I didn’t get a clear view, but the appeal by my fellow School Enders was loud and sincere.

The sun was casting clear shadows on the green rectangle below. Above the tall spindles of the floodlight pylons at the Loft End, jet flumes were creating patterns in the sky. Down below, the huff and puff of a typical London derby was producing few clear chances, few passages of entertaining play.

At the break, I said that the game “had 0-0 written all over it.”

Long Tall Pete, a few rows in front, agreed.

After the initial flurry of songs in support of both teams, the atmosphere was pretty lame. An illustration of how low Chelsea really regards QPR is that no mention was made of our 6-1 win against them last Spring.

As the second-half progressed, we seemed to go into our shell. For the first twenty-five minutes, it was the home team who were edging it. They had a few half-chances. At last, the home fans were in the game: they urged on their beloved hoops with the slightly pornographic “Come on you Rs.”

It was all frustrating stuff from us. Fernando Torres, all alone at the pinnacle of our 2-3-1, was hardly given any service. When he did have the ball at his feet, his tendency was to dribble through the defence single-handedly. He was clearly getting frustrated. On more than one occasion, Marriner did not see fit to give a free-kick in his favour. Elsewhere, our method of play was oh-so familiar…pass, pass, pass.

I am one of Mikel’s supporters, but his tendency for a back-pass was winding me up. His most annoying trait is not looking up to see his options available before receiving the ball. His mind is often made up. And it’s usually to pass back to JT or Luiz. I’m sure that if Mikel is ever asked to take part in a penalty shoot-out, he will pass the ball back.

QPR carved a few chances. Jose Bosingwa – given only the briefest round of applause by the away fans at the start – was testing our defence, but the other Chelsea old-boy SWP was not so great. After a couple of shots missed the target, we duly serenaded him –

“Shaun Wright-Phillips – we’ve seen that before.”

However, our own players were hardly shining. JT – typically – was solid, but most other players were struggling. Frank looked tired. Ramires was drawing a few negative comments too. For most of the second period, things were dire.

Two late chances gave us ample opportunity to scramble a win, but wayward shots from Hazard and then Lampard blazed over the bar.

It was one of those days. It was clearly one of those games. There was palpable dismay as we sloped out of the ground. The home fans were chirpy, the Chelsea fans were less so. I suppose that the pragmatic view is that we didn’t lose, we didn’t concede, we are still top of the table. Obviously, Juventus on Wednesday will be far more of a test.

I’m sure I speak for many when I say that I can’t wait to hear that Champions League anthem once again.

CHELSEA/esque

A Blue World In Black And White

Category Archives: Season 2012-2013.

Tales From Jack City

Tales From Roger’s Big Night Out

Tales From The Sloaney Pony

Tales From The North Circular

Tales From The Team At The Top

Tales From Gillespie Road

Tales From A Night Of Capital Punishment

Tales From The League Leaders

Tales From A Visit Of Old Friends

Tales From A Sobering Week